I understand the books in the shelf,

Untouched. Covers gathering dusts

Pages turn yellow, words unread,

Wisdom unhearkened.

Banquet prepared by writers

Wasted to termites

Leaving disinterested heads unfed,

Hearts failed, voices neglected.

I understand the bud in the wild

That awakens at dawn, 

But nobody drops a visit til midday,

Not a single butterfly, not a bee,

And wilts unnoticed at the end of day.

I understand the tree along the river

Bearing fruits all summer;

Realeases sweet odor filling the air

Inviting reapers, but nobody came.

Fruits dropping in the stream like tears,

Wasting her gifts again this year.

I understand the green patch of meadow

Hedged by dense forests, bordered by a cliff

Pruned by gazelles and deers

Year after year,

But nobody ever arrives with a mat to picnic;

Not a single soul carrying an easel reaches to paint.

Picturesque view wasted to the wilds.

I understand the sea-shells stranded

In a far-flung coast, unfrequented,

That the surf polish

And washed white by the brines

But no one comes to pick them for souvenir.

Encapsuled songs of the ocean

No one hears.

I understand the fate of weeds that grow

In the unwanted crevices

Of the concrete pavements of the city, 

Sprouting to embellish her flaws

Cruelly treated, uprooted, tossed.

Seemingly, life undeserved.

I understand the child begging for mercy

Strayed in the maze of life

Without the guidance of a father.

Growing without a map to follow

With promising tomorrow to give,

But dreams wasted in the streets.

I understand the logs decaying in the forests,

The treasures lost in the ocean,

The shipwreck forming rusts in the harbor.

A bench awaits in the park,

Pews empty on sundays.

Envelopes not opened,

Letters left unread, unanswered.

I understand the purity of intentions,

Unrequited.

I feel for every little things

With great things to give

But are never given the chance.

Unanswered beaconing of the church bells.

When are you going to pick up

My heart’s calls?

—

Jeques, 2009. From his “Traveler’s Soliloquies” poetry collection.

What is there left to write,

When my sense of home has faded.

Fallen souvenirs pirouette in the air ~

Leaves dancing downwards ~ like specter.

The ink must wait, and rest til winter is over

(My spirit retires to quiescent under the covers)

Things freeze like the trees, even the lake dozes.

As wakeful hours become less and less,

Mind loses its bluntness,

The page speechless.

Distance drained my veins bloodless

Even the pulse of my pen ceases.

I’m losing grip of the eidolon of home, 

It’s warmth I can’t even recall.

Like the trees losing their leaves to autumn,

The hands of memories that used to lift me,

For a time, fail to save my spirit to fall.

I let the cruel wanton winds to take me;

I trust the higher will would be kind.

I write my thoughts in the palms of the season,

I trust them to come back in time.

When my sense of home fills me up again;

When revenant of home,

Like eidolon,

Returns.

—

Jeques, 2009. From his “A Traveler’s Soliloquies” poetry collection.

Fate dropped me

Bewildered in this forest,

Untamed,

Hazed with drapes of vines ~

Trying to find the answers

From this tangled passages 

Resolving the maze

To find my pathway

To you.

I stand before a forked path,

My head loaded

With question-filled sack

Keeping my balance,

Avoiding pitfalls:

To my right are hedges

Of thorn-filled,

Truth-concealing,

Tendril-climbing vines.

A single wrong move

Through their bowers 

Would cost me stings

From their spines of truth.

To my left, an inviting path

Strewn with petals,

Promising comfort

From gossamer of lies

Misleading me away

To dead ends,

To lost ways.

To my center is an easy way

To nowhere,

A direction that would lead me back

Here. To choose. Sooner or later.

If only your hand would reach out

From the bower of thorns,

If only heavens would send signal.

If only I could hear your heartbeats

Pounding from the other side.

If only, but . . .

Armoured only with longing,

I don’t know if it could shield me

To last the stings of truths

I would discover (I need to reveal),

To straighten the tangled pathway

That would bring you

And me, together.

Smothered with veil of tears,

I take the path to truth,

Taking chances

In the hazed bowers,

Following bloody hints

You left in the thorns,

Like trails of breadcrumbs,

As I soothe your pains in return

With balms of found answer

To our sacks of questions

I slowly unload from my head

Leaving them to mark the blind alleys

That would lead you

To me.

From separate spheres

In a labyrinth,

We clear a single 

Entangled passage

(Closer than we thought),

Daring to defy the easy way.

If that’s what it cost

To find our way,

I surrender to my fate.

To find my egress

To you.

—-

Jeques, 2009. From his poetry collection, “A Traveler’s Soliloquies”

It is not what I intended,

But it’s what the moment

Calls for.

I have great reverence

For the higher laws;

I humbly surrender myself

In acceptance

To this moment of recluse.

With epenness and faith,

I trust the will

Of the greater power.

I will come out

From this passage

Equally enriched,

Like my efflorescence

Amid the bunch.

Chicago. 15th October, 2009

When I’m absent minded, please remind me. I’m sorry that I’m here but my mind is somewhere hovering in a place never known to you. Forgive me for not making you feel my presence, or if you’re ever aware I arrived. Perhaps to you, I’m just another head to add number to your  dwellers. In case you don’t, it’s been three years now.

Three years of traversing your grounds trying to belong, but still get that same cold look in the eyes of your locals, like when I arrived, every time I try to find familiarity – still but a stranger struggling to blend to your intricacy, too complex for someone like me who grew up in a place where everyone I meet in the streets are relatives or at least somebody else’s I would surely know. But if you live that life too long, it’s tiring. It’s easier to get to know other people, than to delve with the person that resides in the confines of your ribs. I longed for anonymity, but when you gave it to me, I’m not sure if I would have still wanted it.

Here I am a dweller in your patch of the earth taking you in, but like the air, I just breath you to exhale again, unable to entirely assimilate you into my system. Every day remains to be like fast-moving scenes just passing, slipping my hands leaving me detached no matter how hard I try to take hold of the moment. I’m like a guest attending an event but not formally introduced to the host, if you would ever understand my kind of uneasiness being here. But I have to admit I should take much of the blame for our estrangement. You took me as a tenant, but still  think of myself just a transient tourist taking snapshots that I would eventually bring home. I have to confess, I didn’t find the home I look for in your manicured fields. Your towering reeds of spires are just too much for me, I shrink to a muted element that would not fit to your structured collage and forever scares to be left out in the fast lanes of your speeding races, like a peculiar yarn in a loom afraid that your unforgiving modern living would soon prey on me and isolate me from the weave. This fear comes from my job caring for the casualties and losers in the races of your city. I can sense raw defeat in their eyes every day. I don’t want to be counted when I’m useless in a shelter awaiting for your mercy, God forbid I would be wheeled there one day against my will, like a dotard with nothing to share about my past and forgotten, leaving no signs - not even a frass - to prove that one time I walked this path to conclude my story. I asked for anonymity, but not that kind of ending.  I need this brief anonymous moment to cast off some misleading marks I allowed time to grow like moss in my fecade so I could resurface defined and genuine like a gem from the dunes of myth. In that way you will not count me as just another head to add number to your dwellers, but a valued yarn in your loom that would add an interesting pattern to the elaborate colors of your city.

I have issues I need to come to terms with for my hesitance to permanently rest my anchor in your celebrated grounds, for I remain a dreamy oar sailing  above your surface finding my way like in the misty lake in the morning. I think about another place. Soon I will sing to you his songs, tell you his stories. I will be showing you his doodled images I bind in the pages of my heart while I was awaiting for that day when I have to leave the same arms that pushed my frail vessel that brought me here. But for the moment, let me enjoy this while I prepare the things that I brought from home that I wanted you to see. My maker is aware I longed for anonymity, he searched a place for me and find you to conspire with - this is the fruition from that conspiracy. Forgive my torpid response when you fold your cold arms around me on my arrival, I faked my smile for I was overwhelmed, even thought of sailing back and retreat. But I am here. I should be here.  

When I’m absent minded, please remind me. Forgive my shortcomings, I take the blame for my willful alienation that kept me withdrawn this past three years. I didn’t really gave you the chance. I stayed remote for my need to reconcile my past with the present to resolve internal turbulence for a dreamt smooth sailing  journey ahead. I need this moment to delve with the person that resides within my ribs that took many masks imposed for him to wear to please people that made him altogether forget who he really is. I need to peel the layered superficialities accumulated over the years to uncover and pick myself out of the half-truth heaps, if I have to start it right with you.

And when I’m done with this transient anonymity, I will wear my true skin, flaws included, walk your streets and find kindred spirits in the eyes of your people I meet, because I belong. 

—

This piece marks my 3rd year in America, my 3rd year struggling as a foreigner trying to fit in the molds of Chicago and not forgetting my roots.

Jeques, 2009. From his “Traveler’s Soliloquies” collection.

The heart knows another way.

If I should, I will.

I will circumvent  the distance,

I will bear the pain of longing.

Let it fuel me to endure

Long, excruciating voyages

Of this rescue operation.

Be my precious reward that awaits

In a rapturous morrow

I will build for us

With the muscles of my heart -

Only my heart – for that’s the ransom 

I promise to bring,

To buy your freedom.

I will circumnavigate

Desolate terrains.

Let your picture in my mind

Be the stars at night

So I would not falter

Even when darkness strips

The coat of my courage.

Let the memory of your smile

Melt me when solitude is freezing.

Let the songs of your touch

Bring back my equanimity

When I become anhydrous from your absence.

Let the echoing sound of your laughter

Be my beaconing light

To safeguard me from the mirage

And its deceitful promises.

Let me drink from the cup of your abundance,

Satiate my thirst with the precious

Liquid beads

We weaved together

In the festoon that ties us

In an invisible knot.

Before I leave,

Memorize this face,

But anticipate wrinkles when you see it again

For time will paint my empty fecade

With wisdom I will collect from my journey.

Hold my hands for the last time

And trace the creases of my palms.

My travel will harden them,

But know that its direction is defined

And points to a definite end.

Keep still,

Fear not the metal bars that separate us.

Trust the oil of our will, combined

To desolve this cage.

Stay where I leave you,

Hold the promise of my return.

And if distance is the only road

To the altar ~

 I will take the chance, If I should.

I will circumvent the earth,

Chase the elusive chance of our union,

To arrive where you are.

Be sentient of the genial whisks

When my breathing blows your nape,

And when my hand rests on your shoulder

They will hint my arrival.

Hands clasped,

Barriers desolved,

Together we will claim our piece of the skies

To our enraptured flight

We are free.

—-

In reference to my poem “Caged,” I thought the conflict was unresolved in that poem. “I will Circumvent” is the sequel to the poem.

Jeques, 2009. From his Traveler’s Soliloquies poetry collection.

A course to tread,

A path laid

For my limp strides

For my newfangled mind to measure.

To re-invent purpose,

Build destinations.

To carve uncharted frontiers

With my feet, like a chisel

To leave enduring marks.

Let my trodden tracks

Be my sculptural gift to the morrow,

My immortal artwork

In praise of my maker

Who engineered my body

With feet to explore,

Hands to do,

Fecund imagination

Skilled to create worlds

To conquer,

And a heart

Ingrained with flames,

Unyielding

To ferocious weathers

Of traveling.

The road stretches,

It doesn’t stop

Where my eyesight ends

It goes far beyond the borders

Of the map I need to dump

If I am to leave a legacy

With my chiseled tracks

In the bereft grounds

Of dreaming.

(Jeques, 2009. from his poetry collection, “Travelers Soliloquies”)

And it’s as if some hands

Just suddenly

Switch the whites

The blues,

The lights off,

And everything else,

All the other colors 

Blend with black,

Dissolve to darkness;

Blue and white vanish

To shadows of memory.

Like white and blue

Of summer fun

Kite flying in my mind,

And then a raging storm came

To claim it

Paper kite dissolves

Never to return.

Like paper boats

Sent off to blue ocean,

Wilting to uncertainties.

Cotton soft clouds,

Pristine white

Smudge on blue 

Like powder

On cheeks of youth,

On the calm face of heaven.

And then came

Some turmoil to claim

Pristine mirths

Lost to time.

Like some hands

Just suddenly let go

Of their grips,

Leaves falling from the trees.

Canopies losing their verdant color

Green is naught,

Belonging to distant

Summer dreams

As green concedes

To the will of the season.

Like some hands

Switch all the street lamps off

Just like that,

And the once lighted alleys

Dimmed to fears of uncertainties.

White and blue

And all the vibrant colors

Dissolve to melancholy.

Would it be nice

To walk the dark alleys unafraid,

Holding hands with someone ~

To catch the falling leaves,

To feel warm around each other’s presence

In the midst of rain;

To watch the kite dissolve to skies of memories,

To sail the seas on paper boats,

Re-live mirths,

Summon lost colors

Celebrate white and blue

And to feel safe

Even in black.

—

The poem is written in memory of my white sony vaio computer, the only thing that stayed and gave me company for the last 3 years, just suddenly went black, and all files gone to untangible memories. My lost made me retrospective of things I lost that I could never re-claim, but my heart is large enough to contain all the memories.

It was total darkness for the past few days, and the leaves are falling outside my window as autumn claims vibrant life from the trees, to give my lost such a gloomy backdrop.

I found company in my new computer, it’s still our getting to know each other stage for now. And oh by the way, my new pc notebook, his color is black.

Some days,

Like now,

I turn the faucet on

But nothing comes out.

I stare,

Turns it back off

And wait.

There’s this thirst inside.

Sometimes I thought,

Perhaps I picked the wrong cup

To catch the down pour

That would not come.

I waited too long

To quench this wanting.

But still waited.

Waited

And forgot about my thirst.

Some other times,

I slide the sill open

Needing the sun

That’s hidden behind the walls

Of clouds

Portending storm.

But what would I need rain

Those times when my heart is flooded?

Often I thought,

I should have shut it close,

But still kept the sill open

And waited.

Waited

Until I slept waiting

For things

That would not be there

When needed.

In waiting

I forget. And still

Wake up to another day

With hopes

Renewed.

The water runs

From the faucet most days.

There’s rain when it’s the season.

Not all days,

But there’s the sun ~

They happen in succession

For a reason.

Dreams - nights, days - and reveries.

In your absence,

And in waiting

I understood:

There’s no such thing

As a wrong cup.

It’s in how I fill it up

And with what.

It’s my first drive interstate,

His first claim of the skies.

 Me, cruising country roads,

Him, embarking on a flight.

This summer,

Our paths interlaced

In Wisconsin

Like unlikely threads on a loom

Woven to a peculiar story:

The Whooping Crane

And I.

Their natural wildlife refuge,

My birthday weekend  getaway.

Overhead,

I can hear the flocks’ hooting cries

While alone in the car, I drive

Holding a quiet cry.

The mother crane

Trains his wings for migratory flights.

My mother nurtured me then

To arrive here.

How far love,

Of  mothers,

Could send their offsprings

To boundless possibilities?

The migratory crane

And I.

Claiming our corners

Of the world,

In the skies of infinite chances

On parallel flights

For different reasons

Aiming dissimilar destinations.

Loved by our mothers.

(Jeques, 2009. From his A Traveler’s Soliloquies poetry collection)