The Mother’s Lullaby

I love you my precious child, my bliss. You carry the sweetest juice of my veins. My costliest joys come from you. You deserve the fullness of my affection. The brightest and the loveliest of all the fruits I bear in my womb and grew on my branches season after season.

Even when you were just about to bloom out of the bud I conceived from a leaf I shed in october, I knew by maternal instinct, that your fate would be different. You attracted a bizarre mob of insects: bees, bugs, ants, butterflies. They all feasted on your sweet nectar. The wind stole you kisses morning and night, and along carried your fragrance too distant. Perhaps, your spirit had reached faraway lands and shores even as a tyke. You were destined to travel, you will go places.

I cling to you the longest. You mellow in my nourishement. I wanted to embrace you forever, but I know, I could not. The hardest of all my tasks is knowing that I have to let you go when I’m done with my duty with you. I fear that that day, I dread the thought. I stayed awake day and night to guard you. I loath the winds for they might snatch you out of my grip. I curse the insects for they are taking too much of you. I resent their carelessand harsh advances. Because I know, being your mother, that you would live a life far more than all that.

But you are already sturdy as the tree that you would become early on. I am relieve from all my anxieties as you surpass, surviving your initial tribulations. I am proud watching you metamorphose into a tiny precious fruit. I cherished our moments together.

We danced and flirted with the winds. At night, we counted and wished upon every stars. We revered the beauty of wild flowers and sniff their exotic perfumes that permeate the gardens and the fields. I welcome the birds that serenade you on my branches. I nourish you with crystal clear water of springs that my roots sip from the nearby streams. I catch and gathered the dew in my leaves to bathe you in the morning. We are cleansed by the cool ppristine showers of the rain. The sun keeps us warmth and dry. I ask the sun to smile at you, but at noon, I leaned over a canopy of my leaves to shield you from the scorching heat of midday rays.

We marvel at the gifts of every sunrise. The sunset blesses us with tranquility and peace. On quiet moonlit nights, I rock you on my cradle to sleep. I watch you close in you slumber, as I sung you lullabies. My soul feels glad at your existence, my heart leaps. I caress your face tenderly with my leaves. One touch, and I felt bliss.

You’re more than everything I asked for,

More than anything I need.

You are my son, my beloved.

Her lullaby fades as she kiss her angel goodnight. She closes her eyes wanting to freeze the moment, but then she, too, falls into a deep blissful sleep.

You breathe me life, so I may live,

You’re the reason that I exist.

You are my mother,

My life, to you I am indebted.

—–

To my mother and all the mothers of writers island and the world.

Happy Mothers Day!

For Writers Island prompt: “Fantasy”

http://writersisland.wordpress.com

Color Of My Heart

—

Kleig Lights

.

When the show is over

And the crowds are gone.

After the applause has faded

And alone you stand,

Remember that I would be backstage ~

Waiting.

After the blinding

Kleig lights

Are gone.

—–

 

 

Prayers, Unsaid

.

I pray that you’d never learn to forget,

Even if spaces take away your heart.

I hope tomorrow you would not regret,

When distant places would take us apart.

.

Listen to our melodies, they’re inside your core,

Remember the sweet fragrance of passion.

They will bring back the mirths we shared before,

Like hued photographs in our souls’ vision.

.

I pray that you would always remember,

Even if time erases memories.

I hope tomorrow you’d still keep me dear,

‘Til the time we both conclude our stories.

.

Feel the fine sands in the soles of your feet.

Their tender touch would remind you of me.

Like seawaves to the shores we would soon meet.

To kiss through the salty breeze of the sea.

.

I pray God’s hands would keep us together,

Even if moments pass us by swiftly.

I hope tomorrow would bring forever,

And God’s pure love would bind us endlessly.

—–

Tenacious Heart

.

Tenacity of heart, that’s how I’ve loved you.

Until you are gone, ’til you’re gone. . .

.

Things are sometimes better understood when left

Unwritten, or left undone and remain unspoken.

.

They are immortal not in pages, not in words,

Not in works of my hands . . .

.

They are engraved forever ~

In my heart.

~

“A friend is someone who knows the song in your heart and sings it back to you when you have long forgotten how it goes.”

—

For Writers Island: “Faithful”

http://writersisland.wordpress.com

April Rain

My senses tell me it’s about to rain,

I run and take refuge in a cavern.

Paying attention, I sooth all the pain,

And allow the rain to heal  me again.

I smell the earth’s intoxicating scents

Brought by the swift pouring of april rain.

I seize the boon after the solemn lent,

The earth exults, now my re-birth will reign.

~

Brilliant drizzles of crystal clear raindrops

Quench the the thirst of the fruit trees of summer.

The rain showers refill the plants’ sweet saps

That would make season’s harvest juicier.

~

A damselfly alight on the reed’s blade.

Pellucid mist caught on its net-veined wings.

Raindrops form pools in the forest’s glade

The earth’s bosom bears the heaven’s blessings.

~

The rain stops and winds blow the clouds away

To bathe other grounds with april shower.

I’m enriched by my silent reverie.

‘Tis time I bequeath the cavern’s shelter.

I wish when april rain reaches your place,

You would pay attention and seize its grace.

~

 

 

 

Lavish Summer Inspirations

It is summer morning,

Armed with note pads, a pen

And a mind ready for take off,

I fasten my seatbelt

In a corner

underneath the bower of trees

At our home’s secret garden.

 

The dainty sunshine lights my face,

And the spider webs

On the twigs in front of me.

There’s really nothing in my head to write,

So I opened the windows of my mind

And the door of my heart

To weave glossy web of thoughts

To invite and capture

Lavish summer inspirations.

 

I listen to the rustling sounds

Of leaves as the winds blow

Through the garden’s green roofs ~

Their reflections move on the pads

Like mystic shadows tracing my writings,

Flirting with my thoughts.

Scents of ilang-ilang flowers wafting in the air.

Enticing incessant winged bystanders ~

Bees, butterflies, grasshoppers ~

They signal summer!

 

Random summer thoughts swarm my mind,

So I open the draperies of my heart

And tie the curtains apart

To welcome showers of summer inspirations

Bathing my fiery soul with cool emotions.

 

The birds’ repertoire are unusually merry.

They seem to rejoice with my company,

Or perhaps ’tis my heart I’m hearing

In tune with the beats of summer.

 

Outrageous blooms of bougainvilleas

Against the white wooden verandas

Festive contrasting colors

Treat the eyes with priceless raptures

Make one crave for summer flavors ~

Buko juice, fruit shake, iced cola

Water melon, pineapple, mangoes, papaya

Garnished with flowers of gumamela.

 

‘Tis the season for lavish summer fiesta!

 

—

The writers island invites us to write on the prompt this week: ”Outrageous,” I thought of using the word in a more positive note. Please visit http://writersisland.wordpress.com to be inspired.

Sweet Rewards

           Vagrant birds fly west

                                     Chasing sunset’s subdued light

                                                                       Dense clouds clear behind.

       Waiting is one the toughest passages of life. I feel confined and stranded being neither here nor there. I am not anymore what I used to be, but not yet also what I would become. I’m like a hatching egg on a hanged nest, and what I am tasked to do for now is to wait.

       In 2004, I left the safety of my harbour - resigned from my job - and plunged into an ocean of uncertainties to answer the beckoning of a better life promised for nurses in the US. I never thought I would go back to the profession I deserted 10 years earlier. After all, I was contented living one of my childhood dreams working as a store manager. But in life, there are things that we have to do not because we want to, but because we need to. That explains my unpopular decision and the risk I took then, which surprised my peers and against the advise of my superiors. And so, just like other nurses chasing their fate overseas, or worse, like most filipinos dreaming to live anywhere but here, I became part of our country’s version of modern-day exodus: The alarming problem of Filipino Immigration - or is this the solution to our ailing economy?

Clear shallow puddles

                                   Fishes feed in the harbor

                                                                  Off seas, the fleet goes.

       I found the enlightenment I seek for my action while treading the narrow passage of my life’s transition. The clues are revealed in the fleeting moments while I wait. I capture them by writing, and it is amazing how they take shape on paper as I move forth. Heedful to the unfolding of each day, I trusted God’s time to take me where I am headed. Books opened my mind to look at things in a pellucid perspective that mostly I didn’t fathom initially.

       Perhaps it was providential that I chanced upon a haiku piece from a book I am reading that started it all.  Basho’s most famous verse, the old pond, stirred my interest on his works and the Haiku. I found a perfect form and pattern to inscape my ideas and present state of mind. It inspired me to compose my Filipino Immigration series : a collection of poems that helped me explore my sentiments about this journey.

Land of Childhood Dreams

                                  Hedged in by enormous seas

                                                                           Butterfly alights. 

       Haiku is a poem that depends on images for its effect. Suggestiveness and brevity are the soul and life of a Haiku. It is the shortest of the Japanese poems consisting of 17 syllables in three lines of 5, 7, 5 syllables respectively. Almost always, a Haiku makes some reference to the seasons. Although contemporary Haiku writers maintain that such is not a necessary element. They infused human affairs and variety of subject matters such as love, journey, and the uncertainties of life in their works. Like other Japanese poetry forms, it has no meter and rhyme.

Cool winds from the west

                             Carrying the scents of pines,

                                                             Entice the palm’s fronds.

       Matsuo Bashu (1644-1694), is the greatest Japanese Haiku poet. His style contenues to exercise great influence on the works of his followers upto the present day. His Haiku are finished art giving expression to actual life he calls, a life of poetical refinement. His themes mainly are natural beauties. He has deep insights on the essence of things and the advantage for powerful impressiveness. Here is my attempt to becoming his would-be follower:

Rare pearl of south sea

                             Strewn on far off foreign shores

                                                                        Conspicuous gems.

       One of Basho’s follower I admire is Taniguchi Buson(1715-1783), Buson’s style retains natural beauties, an influence by Basho, but differs the master in some respects. He infused romantic themes and interesting incidents in history on his works, giving free play to fantasy and imagination. Many of his verses are sketches in words with wonderful realism and vivid descriptive power derived from his style of painting. Buson exercised his strong influence in these 2 verses of my series:

Odd drizzling showers

                                 Frozen waters on brown skin

                                                              Drenched soul, shivering.

                                           ~o0o~

Sweet tropical fruits

                                  Food for migratory birds

                                                                New trees in new lands.

       Another disciple of Basho that added fresh touch on his style is Issa(1762-1827). His verses are essentially pathetic. They are poems in human affairs dressed in haiku. His tragic art is the apt pattern to cloth my own pathetic insights on immigration.

Foreign busy streets

                              Teeming with nameless faces

                                                                        Alone in the crowd.

       There is confusion among some western writers calling Haiku the japanese epigram on the ground that in length it resembles the short european epigrams. Asaturo Miyamori cleared this issue sighting that epigrams rather bear great resemblance to Senryu or witty poems. Senryu is another Japanese verse of the 17th century originated by Karai Hachiemon who uses senryu(the river willow) for his pen name. Though it resembles Haiku’s syllable count, they differ much in manner, contents and subject matter. Senryu is more biting, witty, welcomes humor and is often vulgar. Humor is considered bad taste in a Haiku, which is a serious verse. Here’s my senryu verse that fits to this series:

Fingers rolled on ink

                            Black mark streaks on documents

                                                                                   Flying to US.

       I encountered many setbacks along the process of my US  immigrant visa application: false promises from agencies, retrogression, delays, delays, delays! The agony of waiting I silently suffer had shaken my optimism, but I realize now that all these, too, are part of my journey’s itenerary.

       Waiting help build a person’s character: it did a successful overhaul job in mine. I appreciate better now the true meaning of the line: never save anything for the swim back. No matter how hazed the horizon in the morning, or how narrow the roads may seem, or how uncertain the ocean may be, we should always thrive to take that one more step forward. Because we would never know how close we are to the shore unless we try to take that one more stroke.

He is my life raft in the rough sea;

My compass when terrains are hazy.

I fear no more my journey’s dark alley,

For God lights a candle inside me.

       I got my approved Visa in 2006; left the country and arrived here Chicago, October last year. It is my ticket to this current phase of my life’s journey.  I thought before that my ultimate prize was to get here. I know now that I already claimed bits of my rewards with the wisdom I gained along the way. I dreamed of setting my feet on the american soil. I was enthused to have the chance to show them what Filipinos are made of. Perhaps, that waiting phase was God’s way of giving me time for self-appraisal before I leave, so I would know what I could offer the world.

                    Arriving sandals

                                         Carry specks of home

                                                           Brown shoe-tracks on snow.

       I value the wisdom that the school of life taught me in that oppressive confines of the classroom of waiting. I will forever treasure the Haiku lessons I am fortunate to learn in the side at that moment.  I have packed them with the memories in my luggage. As I re-opened the pages now, Flashback of thoughts flicker in my mind. I promised not to forget and this haiku collection will remind me to remember.

—

For Writers Island prompt: Triumph and Survivor

Soul In Flight

For the Writers Island prompt this week: Flight, I’m sharing pieces I wrote 3 summers ago when I was still in the Philippines and before my soul embarked and took off to an exciting flight. . .

 

 It is three hours before sunrise, three hours before I face again the humdrums of my impending day. I lie awake perspiring in my bed, enduring another night of summer  heat that exceeds normal body temperature level according to the weather forecast last night. The whistling of the electric fan only intensifies the oppressive heat of the air that circulates my room. The sheets are soaked with my sweat. This leaves me restless and incapable of sound thoughts.

       I am dehydrated body and mind.

       It’s been weeks now that I feel this way - my mind is seems empty - and it is weeks, too, of zero journal entry. How can an empty mind fill empty pages? I wake up with this question every day and sleep with it finding no answer. I’ve been through this and back, feeling defeated every time.

       But today is different!

       As though emerging from drought, I suddenly have a flood of thoughts. It feels as if a dike has burst and I feel like am drowning! I am confronted with overflowing bits and pieces of puzzling thoughts, voluminous and inarticulate, I am overwhelemed and confused.

       Thoughts clash inside my mind like boxers in a ring, nobody is giving up or losing except for me. I struggle to throw the boxers out, but they remain caged and battling inside my head. It is I who is knocked out black and blue instead. I need to toss them to save what sanity is left of me: I need to write! The pen and paper are my refuge. I use them like pincers to pick each inane thought out of my nutty mind, to find their meaning and to give it sense.

       I drag my self out of bed.

       The emerging light of day illuminate the window panes, which gives me a blurry vision of my room. The silhouettes of the chair and cabinet guide me to my writing table that stand facing the window that opens to the garden. I am seated for a moment doing nothing. I am not even sure if I am awake as I stare at the motionless darkness. But the tarry, tutti-frutti scent of the eraser filling my nostrils, and the sensation of my sweat trickling in my forehead and down my back confirms that I am. In a trance, I hear the deafening wails of my inner silence.

~ 

Lonely is a writer whose soul

Has nothing left to give.

.

Sweating hands, labored breathing.

Heart’s aching, and restless feeling.

Dehydrated thoughts, bloodless pen.

Lost for sound words to be written.

.

Dying spirit of a lonely artist;

Hope is out of sight.

There’s nothing left, but to embrace the light.

Death it is not, ’tis life.

~

       I also hear a strangely familiar voice between the throbbing sounds of my heart beats. In the stillness of dawn I hear my soul speak. Its voice echoes in my ears awakening the dormant artist in me waiting for inspiration. I hear it speaks to the still sleeping would-be poet chanting verses that rhyme with the whistling winds. I see it hand to the would-be painter a brush and colors, which will bring to life the perfect hue of dawn. I see clearly now those incessant images that haunted me in my sleep, and I write when I awake.

~ 

Happy is the artist whose soul

Has embraced the light.

.

Nimble hands, rhythmic breathing,

Agile heart, and soaring feeling.

Fertile thoughts, and blood-stained ink;

There’s no more words left unwritten.

.

Strew of colors inside a fecund mind,

Where a painter hides.

‘Tis where poems and vast ideas reside ~

This meek poet’s life.

. 

Keep the heart warm, satiate the eyes,

Feed the mind, embrace the light.

Set your spirit free!

Embark your soul to an exciting flight.

~

       I have filled pages with my thoughts, scribbling the draft in my mind, when the stimulating tutti-frutti scent of the eraser returns like spirit of ammonia, restoring me to conciousness. However, it is not able to efface the vivid images sketched in my head, nor can it quiet the lingering voice of my soul. I am back, seated at my table, sweating, staring at the empty walls again.

       The unfinished tale that took shape in my mind is nagging me to be completed. Stories are conceived in the heart, take shape in the mind. They belong to the pages and will find homes in the hearts of the readers. There the stories will evolve and begin a new cycle.

       I am enlightened and fully awake now. I hear the roar of traffic leaving the city on the nearby road, or is it arriving? Of this I am not quite sure, but I am aware and certain of the life slowly coming awake outside my window.

       The roosters are the earliest to rise; well, it seem that way for me. They wake people up with their annoying crowing at dawn, but the sound may also be idyllic depending on the ears that listen. The fowl just knows when and how to praise God for the new day. Perhaps they serve to remind the ungrateful, callous humans to do the same, but few take heed.

       It is so pathetic of us to let this moment pass by sleeping, unmindful of its beauty, missing every day the miracles that happen just outside our windows. When was the last time you saw the sun peek through the mountain ridges with its rays reaching out to every corner of the horizon? This is happening every day, but each moment is unique, unlike any other. The clouds of varied hues are tinged with different light each day. The birds always fly across the horizon, yet nobody can predict from which angle or to what direction they will rise. One morning you are lucky to wake up with the stars still sparkling in the sky to vanish with the daylight, but on other mornings you will see no trace of them in the gray heavens. In yet others you’ll catch the moon still in vigil waiting for the sun to come.

       These are only some of the many gifts of life we do not unwrap. Gifts which only the flowers, the trees, and the beasts - the roosters, frogs in the ponds, the four-legged and winged-creatures of earth and sky - constantly notice and praise.

~ 

Swaying vines like curtain drape the garden;

Hanging from the bough of a mango tree.

‘Tis my haven, my version of eden ~

A nook where I express my artistry.

Violet orchids and whites search the day-lights,

Like birds on flight, peep through the canopy.

Broods nestled up there, unafraid of heights,

Serenade my soul with sweet melody.

A bird perch on the twig near the pool;

Driving the fishes and the toads away,

While I stay still watching a wee ripple.

The elements are semingly showy.

I’m sated with ethereal scenery,

Seizing the subtle garden’s poetry.

~       

   

       I hear my mother’s voice calling me for breakfast. From my room, I can smell and tell that scrambled eggs, daing, sinigang, and a steaming cup of coffee are in the table. I am enlightened.

       

 http://writersisland.wordpress.com/

The Narrowed Road

~

Morning comes and off it goes,

Like people come and(ouch!) they go.

 

Some came and gone

Just passing my way.

But few are meant to stay.

The hard lessons of letting go

And holding on

Are left here with me.

~

 My first real bestfriend was a boy my age I met on my first day of school in grade one. I remember his name was “Hanibal,” but I am not sure how his name was spelled. As bleak as my memory of how he looks(I only have a blur image of him in my mind as a boy with a new haircut). So I am writing his name perhaps the way my seven-year-old mind then wrote his name.

Our friendship begun as soon as our first class in grade one started. We met in a classroom with mixed smell of fresh pads, newly plastic covered notebooks, scented erasers, freshly sharpened pencils, lunch boxes, bottled juices(mine was milk) encased in our new school bags. I remember I used safeguard soap when I took a bath that morning for my first day of school, I remember I was wearing a new shirt, I forgot the color, but I can still remember how it smells. The scents of these items always conjure nostalgic thoughts, reminding me of my first bestfriend I lost with the passing of time. We were about to build highways together as friends but we lost it too early in life. The places we reached and contenually explore widen the spaces between us, and narrowed the road that we briefly shared. But in my mind we are always back to that corner in our grade one classroom.

I was seated on a desk in the front row at the right side of the room next to him. A stranger just like all the other faces around me. It was fate that placed us seated next to each other, but it was our choice to become friends. The feeling of being left alone for the first time draw us together. I feel at ease with his presence the moment we first introduced our names. We became friends before our first recess, and by the end of our first day in school, we have found in each other’s company the joy of real friendship. I can not remember any other details of our days together, like I can not recall anything more about him. I just know that he made my first day in school less scarry to the surprise of my mother who anticipated the worse. I easily get over my separation anxieties and fear of strangers, I looked forward to being back in school and I always take home great stories at dinner time announcing to my family my newly found friend.

Days passed. Our school activities progressed, school became my second home. But one day, I found myself unusually seated alone in our desk. “Hanibal” was absent when our teacher checked our attendance. There is that certain longing I understand early on. I waited for him until recess, but lunch and afternoon class came and gone without him. The same thing happened the next day and days after that. Our teacher later on changed our seating arrangement, making me vacate the desk we shared in our classroom where the emblems of our friendship vanished.

I later found out that their family moved to another place and he transfered to another school far, that my young mind is unable to reach.

I was assigned a desk in the second row at the center isle of the room after that. From time to time I would glace at our desk wishing he is back. My new seatmate is faceless in my memory now, like the friends that I had after we parted. I remember only one name from grade one: Hanibal, and he is my first real bestfriend.

I am not sure if he remembers or he also think of me this way. It doesn’t matter anymore. It is sad to think that the road where we first met has narrowed and we never ended up building highways together. He may forget, but as long as I still know how the desk smells, I will  always remember. 

~

You’re like a needle that pricked my heart

My heart, my friend, you rift.

.

Come closer, see the wound in my chest

My heart, my friend, bleeds.

.

Blood filled my pen like ink

My journals, my friend, are stained.

.

Years tinged with pain since you left

The void, my friend, still hurts.

.

Comeback someday and heal this broken heart

Come home, my friend, I’ll wait.

~

“Solitude” oil on canvas, by: Jeques B. Jamora, 2007

___

For Writers Island prompt

“Lost Highway”

visit the island for details

http://writersisland.wordpress.com/2008/04/04/prompt-link-lost-highway/

The Silent Spectator

I remain a silent spectator, a bystander watching love from the coast. I have not yet placed that last card in the table, I have not yet gambled my heart to anyone. I’m like a boat watching the ocean wanting to sail, but choose to remain in the harbor, in the seashore silently waiting. I’m known to be always in control, I’m independent minded. I maneuver my own life, never afraid to plunge into the ocean of uncertainties but when it comes to love, I chose to stay in the harbor. Love, like anything else, is a game of chance, you gamble and you put your heart at stake. It is not really fear that’s stopping me ~ that could be when I was younger. But now, that’s not really the reason.

This is the time of my life when I already know how to choose my battles  ~ so I don’t rush anymore into something that’s not worth it. That, I think, explains why I remain an observer, still unattached and why I choose to remain a silent spectator at this point of my life. I view a quite different side of love from this angle, not too many would understand me especially in this age when people get hooked to anything “instant.” I’m not coward, or jerk or something, don’t get me wrong. No. I’m a risk taker in other fields but not with love. I place love in the highest esteem, I vow not to play with it. If I find somebody who would share to view love this way from this angle, I would be glad to gamble. It is only then that I would finally place my last card on the table, it is only then that I would gamble my heart and take on sail.

It is for this reason that I haven’t written anything “Torrid.” For how could I write something that I haven’t really done. I have two poems written which used the word “torrid,” in quite unusual manner, I think they express that unconcious yearning inside. I thought these poems are the soft whispers of my heart, the silent spectator.

~

My Story begins in the morning, before sunrise;
Stars are nowhere to be seen in the gray morning skies;
The roads are wet from the rain that bathe the humid night.
A quiet place; shadows fade, giving in to the lights.

I closed my eyes briefly, and smelled the essence of dawn:
The scents from flower buds opening to greet the sun;
Ricefields smoldering with fog of morning after rain;
And the aroma of coffee from someone’s kitchen.

I heard the crickets’ noise behind the bushes fading,
And the frogs in nearby streams praising God for the rain.
My eyes sparkled to the lights of the fleeting moments;
The roasters’ cries awakened me from my reverie.

The sun peeks through the lush trees creeping up slowly;
In awe, I watched the drama unfolding before me.
The wild wanton wind blow my cheeks with torrid kisses;
I wished it came from the lips of a love I longed to have.

The day is bright; the flowers I can now see clearly;
The verdant fields, and azure skies in their hued glory.
I saw birds taking off the skies, soared, chasing the lights;
They streached their wings wider, as they fly higher today.

I feel like the birds embarking to a pristine day;
Like the fishes swimming toward the heart of the sea.
Travelling, I, too, am ready to conquer the day;
I tread the roads, and cross the sea; I am on my way.

(From the poe , “Traveling: Chasing The Lights,” By: Jeques B. Jamora, 2005) 

 ~

Wary of waking the isle that still sleeps,
I dress up sofly for my morning walk.
I sneak out to the hazed dawn in mild steps,
And resumed my mute traveler’s self talk.

I begin my strides keeping myself close
To the shorelines of the insomniac sea.
I savor the briny breeze through my nose,
With consent, the winds kiss me torridly.

I took off my sandals to feel the sand
That longs to touch the bare soles of my feet.
The cool rush of breakers reach where I stand ~
I commune with nature ~ our spirits meet.

My voids are replenished by the sea.
In return, I shed my life’s loads off me.

(From the series poem “A Traveler’s Soliloquy” By: Jeques B. Jamora, 2006)

 

—

For writer’s Island prompts: “Torrid and Gamble“

Déjà vu: Seeing My Reflections In Their Eyes

. 

I walk the same roads I trod at eighteen,

I stand on my hometown’s pavement again.

.

In life’s transits we’re merely passengers.

As I glance upon the streaming strangers,

I feel a certain familiarity

There’s strange kinship in the locality.

.

I take the same spot I took at sixteen,

I’m seated at the same station again.

.

I can’t move forward with my travels blind,

Flash backs of my past trips rush in my mind.

There are story-filled structures in the streets

We are commuters to life’s immense fleets.

.

I breath the same air I breathed at thirteen.

I’m home to the place of my youth again.

 

‘Tis a breath of fresh air ro be around kids, especially around my nephews and nieces. I enjoyed their company during my recent home-coming. Watching them is like seeing fragments of my reflections strewn in their eyes. I see myself in them, I see strangely familiar sounds in their voices and laughter, being with them is experiencing Déjà vu as I watch their every moves. A piece of me is somewhere in their genes, each of them are my little version ~ we are connected in that way.

It is fun to see familiar moves and be reminded of how I used to be when I was their age. My eldest niece is 18 and the youngest is 5. I cherish their company, it was like watching myself from age 5 to 18, like when we were together during mealtimes, or during games, in our chats, telling stories, laughing, roaming around, seeing things or even just in simple exchanges of smiles.

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They are one of the reasons for my coming to America. I want to open for them a better option in life, new possibilities, new frontiers. I would like to be an inspiration. I would like to plant in their hearts seeds of dreams. I would like to nourish what I have planted. For remnants of my dreams are ingrained somewhere in their genes, deep in their hearts. 

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And as I’ve mentioned in one of my previous posts: I would like to become somebody for them, that person I wish I had(but never had) when I was growing up. Please click link: http://jeques.wordpress.com/2007/12/14/becoming-somebody-i-wish-i-had/

 

Child Once, Too

By: Jesus B. Jamora, 2005

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Let the child run free, uphills or down plains

Like a gazelle that gallops in prairies.

Let him swim in lakes, bathe in rains

And coquette like the mystical fairies.

Censor him not for he is free from stains

Trust not the filthy mind of the gentries.

Free the child from the restraining chains

And from the customs’ narrow bounderies.

Let him be for his generations’ gains ~

Allow the children to weave their stories.

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For Writers Island: “Déjà vu”

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Be The Best That You Could Be

If you are a tree, be the best tree that you could be.

Let the hands of time mold your body

Endure the seasons ~ be sturdy.

If you’re not a tree

But a shrub only,

Be the best shrub that flourish

Your sight people will cherish.

If you’re not a shrub

But a herb only,

Be the best herb that heals

So people may live.

If you’re not a herb

But a weed only,

Be the best grass that’s green.

To console the people in pain.

~

And If fate will not make you any,

Then be just the soil maybe.

A fertile soil where seeds

Of herbs and weeds

And shrubs and trees grow.

              

 Somehow, in them you may live;

You will bring them life ~

Becoming the best that you could be.

~

If a man is called to be a street sweeper, he should sweep streets even as Michaelangelo painted or Beethoven composed music or shakespeare wrote poetry. He should sweep streets so well that all the hosts of heaven and earth will pause to say, here live a great street sweeper who did his job so well. ~ Martin Luther King

~

And when I die strew my dust-remains in the earth so trees may grow.

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This week, the http://writersisland.wordpress.com prompts us to write about Persistence. I think this is how it should be.