Weaving Memories

Every ‘lil joy you give

I place inside

This empty chamber.

Every glance you throw

My direction

Transforms to million memories.

Every ‘lil time 

I spend with you

I bring to my sweet slumber.

For all the ’lil memories

We weave together 

Become our everlasting stories.  

My Poem

Between the humdrums

Of my routines

I come to you

To give me colors.

Between the monotones

Of my existence

You come

To sing me songs.

Between hazed terrains 

Of my journey

You send me signals

To guide me home.

Between the highs and lows

Of life’s tides

There’s you

To keep me anchored.

Between the infinity

Of things around me

I cling to you

And I feel safe.

Between fears and doubts

In everything I do

My poem

I run to you

For you are the true meaning of my being.

Waiting For The Morning

 

 

Under the cotton sheets

Face hiding ~

Beneath soft fabric shadow ~

Body contained

Sleepless mind traveling

Beneath soft fabric dreams.

 

Under the cotton sheets

Soul finds refuge ~

Beneath soft fabric shadow ~

Heart in restraints

Set free in dreams

Beneath soft fabric window.

 

Under the cotton sheets

Lost soul found love ~

Beneath soft fabric memories ~

Tamed Heart awake

Waiting for the morning

Beneath soft fabric dawn.

 

 

How’s Your Life Going?

How would your life read if it is written as a book? How was the prologue, the early pages were written? How’s each chapter progressing, do you know where it is going? If you’re given the chance to write the epilogue of your life story, how do you want it to end, and how do you want to be remembered?

 

~

‘Tis true, I’m like a book to your fine taste

My tale could top the world bestsellers’ list,

Or I shall vanish from your thoughts in haste.

But life’s circles give mine appealing twist.

.

There are moments when I would con this, too.

I’m oft tempted to change the clumsy parts

For sometimes I regret the things I do.

That’s pointless though, ’cause fresh chance each day starts.

.

My life, like a novel, ’tis in progress.

Every day’s like a page I celebrate

Weaving my colorful yarns of stories.

Always forward I go, at any rate.

.

I am making peace with the great author,

Getting good reviews from my creator.

(My Best Seller Story, By: Jeques B. Jamora, 2005)

—————

How would your life appear on the silver screen if it’s a movie? Would you like what you’ll see when you watch your film. When did life started for you, where do you want the film to start to roll? How’s your character, the cinematography, the plot? If you watch your movie would you smile, or laugh, or cry. How would you feel? Are you making an impact, would your life make a blockbuster film?

If it rolls to a sudden halt now, have you already done something in the script of your life that made the difference?

How many more rolls of celluloid would you need for a happy ending?

Would your life story become an immortal film?

 

Guestbook Of Thoughts

~

Rest mind

Rest.

But keep a guestbook

In the  entrance door,

For this special

Guest.

 

For thoughts

Are Like visitors

dropping by

In silence.

So keep

A written proof

Of their visit,

Of their presence.

~

 

Retrospection

“Faced with uncertainties, I’ve learned to let things be, because I know that there’s somebody powerful above me who knows the way. So I let his light guide me through this journey.

And promise to give my best shot should he send apportunities along my way.”

                                                                    ~  Jeques 032005

—

I wrote this entry in my scrapbook-journal, march 10, 2005. Reading it now, it still give me the same empowering force like when I first sketch my thoughts and wrote the words of this entry in one of the lowest point of my life. I have gone far from that point, I have given my best shot that brought me to where I am today.

Chances favor a prepared mind.

I always have an open heart.

And The Rain Stopped

It is raining. The noise disturbs the quiet afternoon awaking me from my shallow sleep. I look outside as I lay still on my bed watching the rain pours slanting on my window. In the many rainy days of life this is the only time that I really paid attention to the cleansing elements of rain washing my senses in a drowsy afternoon.

 

 

It is turbulent outside; I am motionless inside.

I delight to the sight of the sparkling waters confined on the tips of the leaves and that magical moment when the gentle breeze shake the lucid liquid beads off the trees. Below are streams of rain water collected into small pools in the concrete pavement that drain to the gutter, to the directions I wouldn’t know. I listen closely to the refreshing sound of waters rushing down the spout near my window as I block my ears from the much louder and annoying noise of the down pours hitting the roofs and the grounds that now release that sweet scent of the earth when it rains.

The chilly feel, the soothing sights, and sounds, and smell of the rain calm my senses.

The heavens bathe the trees again. Quenching the thirst in our hearts and bring our wilted souls back to life so our petals could display their rich colors once more.

The heavens wash the pavements and the gutters and flush the arteries of the city from the clotted debris draining them to rivers, and lakes, and oceans and the filthy sins of the city desolves and forgotten in nature’s forgiving heart. 

 

Silently I, too, let the rain carry my own sighs down the drain and I felt the cleansing of my heart. 

And the rain stopped.

I watch the faint reflection of twilight in my window  and let it in. The view gave my soul a certain peace.

I am a better me like a cleared window pane after the rain.

About Last Night

What happened between the silence, between the lights and shadows of last night? I’m back in a corner where I spent the night few days ago, still reading - a different book - caught in a semilar web of thoughts. There must be something in that corner, in that space why I need to return.  

Between reading and the silence, the memory of the fireworks return flaring in my mind with the fleckering headlights reflected on the walls. The frantic mood and sounds, the glowing faces and sparkling eyes of the crowd watching the colorful burst of light in the evening skies. A fleeting treat to the eyes that stayed only for a brief moment and then desolve with the smoke clouding the horizon. What’s left are memories that the crowd take as they slowly parade home. Often, I feel like the fireworks - things make me float in the air, seeing colors of temporary bliss and then gone desolving in the air like smoke clouding my hopes. What’s left are memories.

Between the silence, between the lights and shadows of last night, the memory of the flickering headlights of traffic returned. The sounds of vehicles’ coming and going, you could not tell the difference. The city never sleeps. It goes on no matter what, even if somewhere some souls are happy, or sad, or hurting. The traffic doesn’t roll to a halt even when you’re tired but can’t sleep. The city would not cease to move even when love opens or closes its door on you. It goes on even if you contenue to struggle to take grasp of life or find a sudden enlightenment from the brief reflection of headlights on the wall and then gone. What’s left is emptiness.

Between the silence, lights, and shadows of last night I awake - I’m not sure if I even slept - with the cries of the birds taking flight in the early morning skies where the fireworks desolve leaving only hints of memories in the thin clouds floating, in pastel colors signaling daybreak.

Between the silence, lights and shadows from above, the birds look down to the city that doesn’t sleep, they know the terrains below, much more above them. They know that the city lights and the fireworks are temporary, the birds know better. They have seen what we neglect to see.

Watching the sunrise that peered through the city skyline, I briefly saw what guide the birds’ flight every morning. Colorful than the flares of fireworks, brighter than the flickering headlights.

If we’ve stayed a little longer after the fireworks desolve with the smoke in the evening skies, like the birds, we would have seen the clouds clear in the horizon and above are the real fireworks that are constantly there.

Because if we stayed long enough, we would have seen the stars and they are there forever.

—

I will tell you about the rain next time.

Sunrise On My Pages

I turned off the light for awhile in my nook. My pages went to sleep as I allowed my soul a quiet rest watching the colors lurk in the shadows of my black and white dreams. I needed it. I need the time, I need the moment to clear myself from doubts, to free my heart of fears, to listen to what my soul wanted to say without the forbidding empty page and the blinking curser: Without me writing them.

My soul told me many stories. Inside me are heap of raw thoughts thrown in the junk shop of my heart waiting to be polished to become precious gems that they really are. So now, I allow the sunrise on my pages. It had slept long enough. I need to reconcile with my soul to clearly see its colors and paint the many facets of its hue. I need to listen closely to hear its music and write its songs. I have to give it time like I gave myself time for my worldly needs.

Because if I don’t, what would this life be?

~

Goodbye my eventide, the dawn’s now here.

Your clinging shadows are all behind me,

‘Tis time I face the light I use to fear

To welcome the promises of a new day!

~

I will now fold your comforting blanket,

Which has kept me warm and safe overnight.

‘Tis time I place it back in the casket,

My life’s streams will flow and I should not fight.

~

The morning knocks behind the window pane,

I am enthused to rise from my slumber.

To allow the breezes to ease the pain,

From the yesterdays I still remember.

~

I will open myself like the window.

My body yearns, my eyes long for the light.

I will miss the silence of your shadow,

But I can no longer stay in the night.

~

Farewell darkness my silent confidant.

You know my secrets and heard all my sighs.

Outdoors, my new grounds are turning verdant.

Hello sunrise, would you now end my cries?

~

—

The poem is an older piece I wrote: “My Silent Confidant” The photograph is a view of the sunrise in Bay-bay, Roxas City, Philippines.

Tomorrow, I will tell you about the fire works and the sleepless city. 

30’s And Still Single

“Una” (First), my initial attempt with oil on canvas, By Jeques B. Jamora, 2004

 —

When you’re still single at your 30’s

You’re apt to be asked with some questions.

Like I’m always asked during weddings by my Aunties:

“So, are you next in line?” (to get married)

I oft find this question so annoying,

But I don’t get mad, I just get even.

So during funerals When I meet them,

Please don’t dare me ask them that same question:

“So, are you next in line?” (to be burried)

For I’ll surely get a slap in my face.

 ”Solitude” oil on canvas, By: Jeques B. Jamora, 2005