in your last shortest days
we’ve poured our love the longest
though that time was our darkest
it was our best
-For Papa
June 14, 2016
5:52 PM Sunset
Libingan ng mga Bayani (Heroes’ Cemetery)
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Author: Viviene Retumban
Viviene writes to immortalize her thoughts. In her twenties, she realized that solitude and quietness are two simple beautiful things. She hears more from herself when she stops talking and begins writing. She turns into an old grateful soul when she sips a cup of coffee or tea, sniffs (and reads) lovely books, watches the sunset, listens to the guitar, stays close to nature and writes her dreams in the night sky.
Her heart for dreams and gratefulness is like a cup that runs over. There is an exquisite sparkle in her beauty when when she 'dances upon the water' with Jesus, her Savior. And then, she laughs without the fear of the future.
Come, sit with her!
Almost Qarah
She turned her head to her right
She caught your eyes in sight
You smiled to her delight
One, two, three, four, five
She’s locked in gaze alive
Swiftly hypnotic,
Beautifully chaotic
Five-ish, afternoon before sunset
You met but never met
Graveyard of the brave hearts
An unknown story departs
A pair of wheels
A pair of strangers
Gaze exchangers
Let It Rain
Real Neat Blogging Award
I have been nominated for this award by 4 Year old Adult from Taiwan. Thank you so much!
The rules of the award are as follow:
Insert the award logo onto your post.
Answer the seven questions they asked you.
Thank the blogger who nominated you.
Nominate other bloggers and ask them seven questions (let them know you’ve nominated them!)
The questions and my answers:
1.What’s your favorite movie?
Choosing is hard but here’s my top 4. In no particular order: A Beautiful Mind, Jose Rizal, Les Miserables, A Walk to Remember, Heaven is for Real
2. What made you start blogging?
It started out as a breather from all those academic writing I needed to comply for graduate school. Since academic papers would require you to squeeze thoughts from your head, I missed writing what’s really in my heart. Soulful writing is just a thing I love to do when I’m quiet. It’s like listening to yourself. After taking them to WordPress, I’ve also realized blogging is a neater and a more organized way of keeping my written musings instead of having them just hidden in my little black journal or in some writing them on random papers, tissue papers, receipts and the like 🙂 And then there goes my first liker and follower from another part of the world. I kind of freaked out like a child because I couldn’t believe that a stranger from another country reads my work just a minute after posting it:) Meeting and interacting with fellow writers virtually are the perks.
3. Do you prefer reading fiction or non-fiction?
I like reading both but that would depend on the plot.
4. Are you a morning person or a night person?
I can be a night owl or an early bird. It depends. haha I would need the companion of a cup of coffee at night though.
5.What musical instrument would you love to master?
I have two in my bucketlist: guitar and violin. When I watch people who can play them or any musical instrument, I feel like I’m listening to a magical creation each time.
6. What’s your favorite color?
Blue. I never get tired of the sky and the sea.
7. What’s your favorite childhood memory?
The most vivid perhaps would be when my mom was just teaching me to read before I even started school. Because of that I had an early interest for reading. And then when I was 5 or 6, my dad brought me to shops to look for dresses. I still remember his face while asking me, “Which color do you like?” It was joy to me.
The nominees:
Congratulations! 🙂
This is how the writer writes
How does her mind meet a thought?
Sometimes it is that magical coincidence of words crossing ways
like serendipity
— finding something good she didn’t even look or ask for
But at times, too, it’s just one smelly ‘spell’
when her mind meets (or never meets) a thought
like constipation
— ‘laboring’ so hard
or feel
like waiting a decade
before something ‘glorious’ comes out
This is how the writer writes.
Midnight Musings
This is night life, she speaks. To no one but herself and her virtual pen.
Over cups of milk tea, she drinks drop by drop.
The cool wind that blankets her skin, the sensible pages and the momentary silence in between. There is an odd, yet pleasant chemistry along her Clementine, his ragged old guitar and those papers that ‘sing’.
She sips again. And again. And yearns for the mysteries of the hours between the nightfall and the dawn.
She captures a thought.
The flavor is called nostalgia. It tastes like a tension between joy and tears.
When Life Asks
What is a miracle without the impossible?
What is Grace without the undeserved?
What is a rainbow without the rain?
What is a sunrise without the darkest night?
Sa Bawat Pagtingala/ As She Looks Up
Sa bawat pagtingala
sa buwan at mga tala
naghahabi ng wika,
awit at tula
ang puso ng makatangnagkukulang sa salita
Buntong hininga.
Sasambit na lamang ang kanyang dila,
“Isang himala”
English Translation: As She Looks Up
As she looks up each time
to the moon and the stars
she weaves a language,
a song or a poetry
this heart of a poet
who runs out of words
Sigh.
And all that her tongue could utter,
“A miracle”
Versatile Liebster Blogger Award
She Remembers
Is he a million footsteps away,
or just a face she crossed today?
She remembers a smile,
a voice for a while,
from hours and a mile.
That Day
that day when we brought
melancholy to love songs
nostalgia to rainy days
our faces faded
She Bleeds, She Queries
Is it the wound of her soul
that grieves,
for the universe has swallowed
her courage to gamble
what might have been?
Is it the wound of her soul
that paints
the shades of fear
of suffering
from surrendering?
Again, she queries,
“Which pain is greater?”
(September ___, 2014)
(September __, 2014)
Now
now, the sky is bluer than blue
now, the grass is greener than green
now, twilight is brighter than bright
now, the night is closer than the day
but still my heart gropes for words
now, to you I have to say
Painting Diaries
she wipes her cheeks,
grabs the paintbrushes,
strikes some streaks,
an empty space that gushes
colors, beautiful colors.
“Are they my tears?”
she stains her collars,
smiles,
forever wonders.
