Taming This Tyke's Voice Since 2007

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Waiting For The Sign

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Eyes  lie in wait ~

Day and night ~

Skies in surveillance

Waiting for the sign

That might be sent

From the future,

As the gentle streams of life,

And the rough currents

Of circumstances

That ever oppose

Mold the pebbles

In the bed of stones

By the river

Adorned by some weeds

Unimportant

Unknown.

"pebbles" pencil, pen and ink on paper by Jeques 2011

Awaiting for some hands

To pick them up.

 

Awaiting for some great minds

To give them names.

 

Unaccounted for ~

Remaining like a worthless bead

In the infinities ~

Awaiting for some gifted hands

To weave him

In the precious thread

Of chance, to adorn

Like a pendant

To rest forever

Closest to your chest.

 

Pick me from the infinities

And carve my fingers

With marks to define my distiction.

Paint my blank facade

With a face

And buy me a name.

 

Find me in the dunes.

You’d easily recognize me

Among the pebbles.

Look closely

And find in my eyes

Your own reflection:

 

Waiting for the sign.

 

 

 

 


The Morning After

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The snow fall frenzy of yesterday rolled to a halt. The clouds reduced to thin layers partially covering the sun; the morning after promises a clear day.  The weather seem to illustrate my present state of mind. Yesterday, I presented myself, my works and everything that I dreamed about since I was three to the right audience that understands the artist Jeques and share my passion. Yesterday was an overload of activities I tried to digest – fast-paced – clogging my system and clouding my thoughts unabsorbed but are now starting to make sense. As I gather myself together today, there are things I wanted to write to right things about what I said yesterday, to bring my thoughts to clarity on the page.

Introduction and Art Presentation

About the “Waif”

 Let me invite you to a place where a waif resides, in the land that gives his artworks a sense of place.

I am Jesus B. Jamora. My Artist name is Jeques, I am the “Waif.”

This painting best represents me as an artist. The image is a self-portrait of a kid from memory, back in my country where he continue to hover giving this painting a sense of home. The image may look peculiar to most of you, so let me tell you the story behind the painting.

If you’ve ever been to the Philippines or read about it, you would know that my country is an archipelago of more than 7,100 islands. We are literally embraced by the sea. During summer, many tourists flock to our beautiful islands where you would see these children waiting in the ports for foreigners to drop some coins from the ships and they would dive in the waters to claim their prize. I haven’t done that exactly, but I felt a certain connection to these children as an artist, for just like them, I’ve also been waiting, longing, seeking for  somebody to give me a chance, for a prize of home like an orphan waiting for his adoption.

Why do I feel like a waif?

I was an artist before I became a seminarian at 12, a nurse at 20, a pharmaceutical medical representative at 22, a boutique manager at 28, and an immigrant nurse at 34. I was an artist, I am. But circumstances left me lost, and strayed. I’ve been to many different fields working many different jobs but I’ve not really had the chance to do the one thing that my heart have always been longing to do. It is my faith that guided me to this path. It is my tenacity that brought me here knocking, hoping The School of the Art Institute of Chicago would open me the door of the chance I seek, to welcome me home so I could finally claim the prize I searched and offer my sense of purpose  as an artist.  

If I as a nurse could care for physically ill people back to health, I believe the Artist and would-be Art Therapist Jeques could touch lives to bring the tired spirits back to life.

And like a desolate soul, a lonely waif,

I wait for you to find me.

May your travels not take you long,

Come fast and love me.

It was wonderful to have the chance to mingle with many artists of differents ages, coming from different backgrounds, and races and culture; expressing arts in different forms to be one with them, to breath the same air and be a kindred spirit to other beautiful souls wanting to make the difference through our gifts. Each one of us have our individual stories we brought  to tell and are our contribution as artists that created the bigger than life work of art event that was. How wonderful it was to have the opportunity to belong, like a single thread with my own unique contribution to the whole creating the colorful tapestry of the moment. For a day, I was home.

Two of the SAIC students made a sample thesis presentation and posted a question: “What do you want to be when you grow up?” and the other asked, : What is your dream. In silence, in my corner of the 122 S Michigan ballroom, my heart answered in whisper:

“THIS IS WHAT I’VE WANTED TO BE AND I’VE ALWAYS DREAMED ABOUT.”

I wish you well, everyone.

~ Jeques


The Day After Tomorrow

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To Dream is one thing, to do something for the fruition of a dream is another.

The day after tomorrow, I shall wake up and be able to tell myself I did something. And for whatever this dream may come, I shall not grow old and regret for not trying. I could face my creator head high and tell Him I never wasted the gift for I tried.

Tomorrow.

An Attempt will be made.

I am ready.


Bait

 

You are always ripples away,

The tides ever

Between us.

 

Series of hurdles

As it appears in the surface

That this meek soul

Secretly transcends beneath;

Away from the prying eyes

Of predation.

 

You are designed

For cruel intentions,

That is how the world sees you.

But for the many years

That I followed your lead,

I learned to give your purpose

A different meaning.

 

I am grateful

To the hands that keep my safety

Disguised in undulation ~

Of the sudden swell of  waves between us.

Oftentimes your absence disheartens me,

Scared of losing you to the crest of tides, 

But reassured to see you still there

When the morning after 

Calms the bubbling surfs,

That in many occasions pushed us apart.

 

I praise the hands that hold

The mysterious fishing pole

And for chosing you the bait,

And thank time, too,

For helping me understand.

You are the reason

Why I swim the extra laps;

Take another stroke,

No matter how helpless

My frail attempts ~

Against the raging currents ~

Just to be near you.

 

Reason that I doubt,

The world’s shallow definition

Of predator and prey 

Would ever come to comprehend.

 

Your lead brought me to the deeps,

You are the pivot that draws me to the blue;

A hope that keeps my buoyancy,

And not sink in the ocean,

In the heart of possibilities.

 

When are you going to consume me?

 

~

(Follow the lead of your dream, trust the hands that hold the fishing pole and His design where the bait is going to take you. ~ Jeques)

The dragonfly is always been my metaphor in following the lead of my dreams. I used to chase them in the green fileds when I was a kid, like my dreams that I continue to chase as grown up.

—–

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


Into The Woods

~

I advance onwards

Deeper, deeper into the woods.

A search for, an escape from.

To chase, or to run away.

 

To seek

Deeper, deeper into the woods

To try to understand. Perhaps.

 

I leave the familiar landscapes

Of my every day roads ~

The street signs,

The white marks, and yellow.

The lamp posts in the corner of the street,

The structures that lined my way

Like the waving of your hands 

That used to beacon me home

In my every day travels,

Now fading in the background

After I let go of your grip

That changed gestures driving me away.

 

Tears clouded my vision

But I need to move forth

Deeper, deeper into the woods.

No turning back.

 

I left the compass, and the map behind,

Safe in a chest where I keep the memories.

I brought only, an empty pouch

To stock things I would collect

From places unknown,

And strings to bind together

The twigs, and pieces of woods

I come to gather,

As I journey to the territories untamed

Deeper, deeper into the woods.

 

I am here to forget,

And also to  find a place to re-call the past clearly.

To connect the fragmented pieces

Of the quilt of the story

And to toss away what’s not needed.

To find time to sew  the vignettes together.

To find out how the complete picture appears

With new eyes, how the story goes

From a different perspective. Perhaps.

 

Here I am, a woodsman in a modern world,

A hermit in the jungle of people,

Wandering around the untamed highways;

Lost in the towering reeds of concrete and steel

Finding refuge in the man-made caves

That cost me my savings

To pay an over-night stay ~

Even the kindly service tagged with a price. Sigh.

 

The discomforts I paid to purchase comfort

In my entry to the lush forest of new discoveries

Where some keys are scattered

That would open me new doors of understanding

Deeper, deeper into the woods.

 

In the grounds of the forest are small packages

Of  seeds that encapsule wisdom.

They are gifts of the towering trees

From their fruits that mellowed with time.

They have seen both

The wider view of the lowlands,

And the best view of the heavens.

 

I am here to collect the seeds

To fill the pouch I carried for that purpose.

From these seeds I wanted to grow another forest

Where another wanderer from onother time

Would collect and sow them again, on and on

 

I trod deeper,

Deeper into the woods

Picking remnants of beauty of the past

Blending with the modern aesthetics,

Like an architecture

Built along the shore.

The reflection of its glass structure

Captured by the placid lake

At noon time

Create such a lovely contrast ~

 

Like a bird perched on a metal pole,

The blooms against the skyline,

A fountain in the middle of a busy street,

Like me, a waif in this streets away from home

Trying to blend in the landscape

Gathering woods in the not so common place

For a woodgatherer,

But I have used up my strings

In the bundles of woods of ideas

I gathered, enough to fuel my creations

From here

 

For you

 

It is time to return home.

~

Jeques, Milwaukee. July 30 to August 1, 2010. From his “Traveler’s Soliloquies” poetry collection.


Fortitude

~
Let me bring you to a place
In the nook of my mind,
Where silence is a sound,
Quietude is music;
Where the slightest of movement
Ripples to waves like the tide
That rise and recedes.
.
Tag-along with my mind thriving,
Walking this winding paths
Down hills, up slopes, climbing
Grassy, sandy, rocky tracks
And cobblestone alleys.
.
Come with me as my thoughts
Traverse this zigzag roads
Of sudden sharp turns and curves
In my descend down the highways,
And climbs up the mountains;
Following the voice calling my name
Always some hundreds steps ahead ~
Leaving me dainty signals to trail
Not knowing what comes in the end,
But still I abide.

"Leaf" pen, ink and pencil on paper by Jeques B. Jamora, 2010

Stay beside me as I try to understand
The faint signs and traces
That would bring me where I am headed
Keep me awake when the body gives up
And lassitude put me in a trance ~
Hold my hand ~
Help me keep the wheels on the road.
.
Wipe my tears when the storm pours
So I could see clearly my way
Even when the rainfalls cloud the windshield
Of my thoughts, blocked to zero visibility.
.
Share the silence in my reconnaissance
As the sun creeps back ahead
Lighting the terrains of the morrow
Where my home awaits.

"Leaf 2" pen, ink and pencil on paper by Jeques B. Jamora

Disembark with me when I reach a summet.
Sit with me for awhile on the green beds of grass
On a cliff over-seeing the world bordered with white fences
That give me a picture of what has been.
The reasons for winding roads now making sense
As I look back to see the marks I left
On the pages forming definite meaning.
.
Hope with me as I look forward
To the map marked by the stars
That reveal sheer preview of the journeys to come.
.
Here we are in a stop over,
Be my witness as I ready myself to jump ~
My faith as my parachute,
Trusting your hands to catch me in my leap
As I paint my way to the roads
Until I find my way home
With you.
~
Jeques, 2010. From his “Traveler’s Soliloquies” poetry collection.
Jeques is reading the book of one of his favorite authors, Robert Fulghum’s “Third Wish,” a 5 volume novel – he’s currently on the first volume.
~

My Genesis

~

I delight watching things from their outset,

I am soothe to see the genesis of things.

They remind me of the child, the curious eyes

Ever sparkling within.

 

I see beauty in simpleness of anything even at their lowly outset,

For they possess the genuine truth of precious purity.

They remind me of my beginnings

Like the water glorybinds(kangkong) growing wild in the marshes,

They bring back memories of the backyards

Of some houses I lived as a child.

Water glorybind, river spinach,swamp cabbage, whatever name you call it, for me its "Tangkong" Pencil, pen and ink on paper by Jeques B. Jamora, 2010

In some quiet afternoons during my untamed moments,

I would sit motionless in a corner facing the swamp in our backyard

Listening to the soothing sounds, the slightest of movements

In the still water at one o’clock

When the world in my young mind

Takes a nap with my mother on her siesta.

I would sneak out of the house through the backdoor

To celebrate the joy of my earliest  found solitude

In the company of nature ~

 

Befriending the dragonflies hovering over my head,

The birds nestling in the reeds,

The snails petiently taking thier journeys from one rock to the next,

While my mind quietly travels to the unknown future

Interrupted by occasional sightings of the gourami

That stir the still water creating tiny ripples on the surface.

 

But the highlight of the afternoon is the rare sighting of the mudfish(dalag)

Making that splash and swashing sound and wild movements

In the dense growth of the water glorybinds as it swims back to the bushes of reeds,

Where the water of the marshes is knee deep and the herons(tagak) nest.

That magical moment of brief beautiful chaos tickles purest joy of childhood madness.

 

Cherished memories from my genesis ~

My earliest form of entertainment: my humble version of television,

Or a theatre; watching a movie or a concert ~ my idea of a grand show

Happening in our backyard in an atypic stage, in a silverscreen of water glorybinds

Where the dragonflies, the frogs, the birds, the gourami, the snails, the herons, the mudfish

Are the stars, and I, their sole audience.

 

The show ends with the voice of my mother calling my name at four o’clock.

That’s when the curtains drop,

The world wakes up,

As I walk back home to the door of my genesis.

"The Dragonfly and I"

 

 —

Jeques, 2010. From his “Traveler’s Soliloquies poetry collection.

 


Underneath Your Sheltering Canopy

~  

Under your sheltering canopy  

In the safety of your embrace  

Beneath your reassuring grip  

Certainty returns.  

Like the shadow of the clouds  

Passing by on a midday.  

Such fleeting moments  

Of alternating shadow and light:  

Long absence,  

Brief presence,  

And the silent anticipations in between  

Fuel hope, keep the heart pounding  

To reach another waiting shade  

Along the way  

To rest  

Underneath your sheltering canopy.  

"Ethan" is my Bonsai tree I planted when I was 13, he is now 24 years old.

"Portrait of Ethan" Pencil, ink and pen on paper by Jeques B. Jamora, 2010 ("Ethan" is my Bonsai tree I planted when I was 13, he is now 24 years old).

His Name Is Ethan

 His name is Ethan Yes, I gave him a name and his name is Ethan. 

I was called once to priesthood when I was in highschool, but I was expelled from the seminary after a year. Many are called, they said, but only a few are chosen; I was not. It was my first taste of rejection, and it was how my story with Ethan started. 

 His name is ethan I mentioned the seminary because I planted Ethan the summer after I was kicked out. I was 13 years old with wings broken. Nobody really cared to listen to my side of the story especially my father. My mother, as always, was there to console me ~ in silence. I was left alone in the corner to leak my own wound to heal. At that lowest point of my life, for a reason that I’m just beginning to understand now, God sent me Ethan to care. I always had some loner tendencies as a kid. That summer and years after that I became withdrawn, misunderstood. Gone was the child full of life, I fell down so low I never thought I could ever rise again. 

For more about “Ethan,” please click image below >>>

 

His name is Ethan

Hi name is Ethan, 24.

   

   

 


Deciphered

.
I once carefully picked
Pieces of letters from my tool box
And put them together
To form words,
Unintelligible.
.
I colored them dabs of meaning
Recollecting from lines
Of misty memories
Playing sad soundtracks
In pastel blues.
.
I put aside
Letters left unused.
They don’t strum
A single cord of sentiments
For now, there meaningless colors
Belonged to the empty space
Of the narratives,
Unintelligible,
That I left pending.

bougainvillea, unfinished drawing from home. Pencil, pen and ink on paper by Jeques B. Jamora, 2010

.
In my return,
I carefully uncover
Scribblings left unfinished
That I kept in my tool box,
To search for meaning
In the marks that brought back
Misty memories of sadness,
Unfathomed.
.
I traced back the lines
And re-called the thoughts
Behind the colors,
unraveled each pigment
Of the blue-tinged page,
Understood.
.
I carefully re-arranged the words,
Blend the dabs of colors
To find concealed happy hues awaiting to burst
Obscured by my limited understanding,
Emancipated.
.

Bougainvillea, completed drawing in Chicago. Pencil, pen and ink on paper by Jeques B. Jamora, 2010

.
You are a gift of my careful pursuits,
Transfiguring on the page 
That I patiently waited.
You are the produce from my labor~
.
Like a child to a mother
Hearing the child’s first cry,
Laid on her breast
Feeling the fragile life
Breathing, throbbing pulses
Of veins carrying pieces of her.
.
.
Like you,
Each word,
Each dab of colors,
A reflection of my soul ~
.
A tribute to my mother ~
 .
Deciphered.

"Mamang" and us, her Children(L-R): Nene Irene, Nong Jhuls, Nang Thez, Mamang and me(Jeques)

—–

Happy Mother’s Day to Mamang, my Sisters and all the mothers in the world!

For all the lines that I have written,

And every word that I have spoken,

A piece of me is taken.

For every time I send my greetings,

It is my heart that I am sending.

—–

Jeques, 2010. From his “Traveler’s Soliloquies” poetry collection.


“Amistad”(Friendship)

 

"Amistad" Pen and ink on paper by Jeques(drawing and poem started while waiting for his flight to the Philippines, 02082010 and was completed and polished in his return to Chicago)

I searched your eyes

Amid the souls

That flock the streets

I travel.

 

Where were you?

 

Among the lips

That sipped the juice

Of simple joy

I offer

 

How would I single out

Your smile?

 

I ride the tides

To ambiguous blue

With hopes

To find you

 

Where were you?

 

The isles dissolved,

And lost my hope

To see you

 

Where would I find

Your waiting arms?

 

I climb the mountains

But the fogs had seized you;

I reached the summit

And you’re not there

 

Where were you?

 

When the rains

Washed away everything

Down the mountains

 

Would you catch my tears

In the streams?

 

I left the stars

And slept in the cradle

Of the waning moon

 

Where were you?

 

In dark nights

When dreams didn’t visit

My sleep

 

Would I catch a glimpse

Of you at daybreak?

 

I search your eyes

Amid the souls

That flock the streets

I travel.

 

I guess I’d be forever this way

Til the day I catch true friendship

In the eyes

 

Until the day

When fate lay on my empty hands

The gift of ‘Amistad’

 

Where were you?

 

Jeques, 2010. From his “Traveler’s Soliloquies” poetry collection.

 


Watch Me Fly

pencil and ink on paper by Jeques

A flyer

Perched, quiet

And resigned,

Watching you coquet

With the winds

And winged-deities

Flaunting.

 

I’ve Lost you in the skies

Countless times

For reasons unknown

And I don’t question.

Content of the little attention

Of few moments,

And gone.

Leaving me

For long days

Of cold hours,

And troubling dreams

In colorless nights, awake

Waiting.

 

A flyer

Perched, quiet

And resigned

Looking at the clouds 

And beyond

For signs

Of your return,

Anticipating

 

awkward starts

 

Timid stares

 

Chats in spontaneity

 

Endings that come swiftly

 

Shy divergence

 

Brief goodbyes

 

Parting touches that hesitate.

 

A flyer

Perched, quiet

And resigned

Content in the company

Of sheltering Canopy

That consoles.

Hanging on

To fibers of memories

Finding comfort

In tiny blooms;

Their lingering fragrance soothes

The aches of longing.

Vines that bridge

The absence

‘Til you’re back

To perch beside me;

Love abiding.

pencil and ink on paper, by Jeques

A flyer

Winged to soar

And suited

Daring heights ~

 

It is time.

 

In your return,

If you don’t find me

Perched as usual,

Look up to heavens

Where I belong ~

The flyer’s gone home.

 

Watch me fly.

 

Jeques, 2010. From his “Traveler’s soliloquies” poetry and artworks collection.

Postscripts:

I will be coming home to my country this month until April 2, 2010 for a vacation. I need this time to be in-touch with the navel of my journey to get hold of the loose end of entangling thoughts I struggle to find meaning. Perhaps in coming home I would find relevance in every tangled threads of thoughts, so I could move forth climbing mountains, daring heights with found clarity. I can’t wait February 10 to be home .

I wish you well.

 

~ Jeques

 

 

 

 


New York: What You Mean To Me

 

The places we visit are like peepholes we take a peek, revealing parts of a bigger picture of the journeys we take. This is what New York showed me. I visited the place for the first time last year, but it felt like I was there forever.

 

Land of childhood dreams

                                  Hedged in by enormous seas

                                                                           Damselfly alights

 

Have you ever had thought so strong it follows you all through life? I have. It is incessant and tarry as the  waves to the shore that come, and go, and come back in erratic intensity of currents taking me back, up, down and forth.

Years back, I wrote this haiku piece included in my Filipino Immigration collection and  New York, I have to confess, was the place in mind when I wrote it. I had a strong feeling even then, though I didn’t know exactly when, that one day I’m going alight on to its grounds like the damselfly and walk its streets where my dream arrived ahead of me. For somebody who lived in the other side of the world, it was a dream that for years I half-believed, but after January 17, 2009, with all my heart, I now do.

i-love-new-york-134

I first saw America in a postcard, in a picture of a snowy Time Square, New York and visited the place countless times in my thoughts. I’m not sure who owned that card, or who sent it to whom and from where, but I think of it now an invitation sent by my fate from the future to come to a place. An enticement I ignored, or perhaps I turned down at some point doubting possibilities, but the invitation ever haunting.

Years after, I arrived in Chicago and saw snow for the first time. I walked the streets in many snowy days, and my thought of the christmas card would return, unreeling in waves and waves of flashback  like an old film but the picture always incomplete, not until last year, when fate put me exactly in that old picture of the postcard I once viewed as a child. My dream and I converged in Time Square where all the elements conspired, and felt the snow the way the child thought it should feel melting on my face when I  arrive to answer that long time invitation.

i-love-new-york-012

I really thought my many years of incessant thoughts of New York ended when I finally answered its invitation. But I fear, No! I left many stones unturned with my brief weekend visit last year that continue to frequent my reveries, courting me with new angles of possibility. This is what New York mean to me now. For many years, it’s something impossible and far away, and when I reached to touch its grounds, it remained mystical and distant. I felt ignored during my visit. I even wonder it  noticed my presence. Perhaps it’s my fault for ignoring the invitation too long that fate have forgotten about the christmas card and didn’t recognize me when I finally stepped into the picture to answer its long time invitation.

 

I love New York

But it didn’t love me back

 

A love that endured

Years of dreaming

And wake up

To walk its streets

For fleeting moment

And temporary bliss

That dissolves

With its rushing time.

 

I chased you

In the fast lanes

Of my recurring dreams.

I run after your affection

In the weekend

I spent with you,

Unnoticed.

 

I love New York

But it didn’t love me back.

 

I contented myself

With passing glances

A vagabond

A tourist

A spectator

A stranger

A passerby

An audience

Until the curtains dropped

And the show ended

When day light shied away

From your night lights.

But that’s when I start to dream,

Again, where you become real.

 

Only in dreams

That I belong to you

And when I trully walk your streets

And leave marks

Of my footsteps

In your heart.

 

Tomorrow,

When you wake up,

I hope you recognize

My footprints

Among the many vagabond

That walked the paths

That meet in the intersection

Where dreams alight

And don’t dissolve

With the fumes

Of your heavy traffic.

 

Only then that my dream

Would really come alive.

New York is one of the places I visited that intrigued me to fathom its relevance to my journey. It is like a hole in a lock where a key would fit one day awaiting to be turned to reveal me many things behind the shut door. I doubt the possibilities no more when fate put me in that picture and walked the streets of the postcard of long ago that gave me the preview of what was to come and in fleeting moments became a surreal reality that weekend. I know I need to come back to complete the story and when I do, I would not leave a single stone unturned.

Our dreams may reside in many different places. Places that would speak to us in many different languages, giving us messages, revealing to us secret codes that would help decipher the mysteries of our journeys.  I wish my pictures would work like the old postcard did to me and reach the eyes and hearts of dreamers to invite, to entice and reassure that dreams still come alive if we believe. And I hope you would answer that invitation soon.

 Don’t make your dreams wait too long.

i-love-new-york-0671

Jeques at Stairway to heaven. Time Square, New York, January 2009

 

 

 

 

 


Tamed

 

A free-spirited cub

Laid on the holy slab

Donned by my mother white.

A willing sacrificial lamb

To get the approval of my father.

 

He offered me to the altar

In fulfillment of a promise

To pay his dues,

And left me waif outside a shut door

Of a dome I din’t belong.

He dropped me off the road, unknown,

To a journey never understood.

A life he ordered me to live,

Without a map to follow

And lost myself along the way.

 

I strayed into the wilderness,

Cruel and unforgiving,

Like a vulnerable cub

Bullied by laughing hyenas.

There was no armor

To shield me in the battles

I didn’t expect exist

Inside the dome

That I thought was holy.

I was an easy prey

To predators in school

And the obloquies of my father

When I returned home.

 

The life raft

I thought I could cling on

In times of storm

Pushed me away,

Drifting, hitting rocks in the shores

That would not welcome me.

I sustained wounds

That bleed inside me

Nobody understood

I leaked many years in silence

To healing ~

Nursed the white cub inside me

And made myself whole again.

 

I was a reject at 13,

A loser at such a young age.

A picture of defeat,

Expelled from the dome

That many thought

Would determine my future.

The once free-spirited cub

Suddenly became a pariah

Retiring to his digged burrows

Leaving behind no egress,

Descending farther

To a different kind of confinement.

 

I tried to mimic the hyenas

For awhile to earn my protection

From the harsh world.

A symbiosis I welcomed

Like the anemone

To a clownfish taking shelter

In its stinging tentacled folds

While I build my backbone,

Training my fins to swim

And find the lost me again.

nagpangita ko nemo  25 ginpangita man ko nemo

 It was a moment

I’m not proud about,  and remorseful.

I feel for the souls I stung with words,

For who could understand them better

But me who once was a dartboard

Of ridicules of the hyenas.

I learned to sound like their laughter

But never become them,

For caged within me was a crying cub

I  heard clearly

When I chose solitude.

 

I didn’t belong to any herd

And refused to take their colors,

For I chose to become a new breed 

That grows its claws

Not to harm, but to protect.

To weave words not to distroy,

But to re-build the broken spirits. 

 

It took me years

To understand my purpose,

Like the clownfish to survive

Free of my imaginary anemone.

It took me awhile to recognize

The true sound of my laughter

Muted by the loud hyenas.

In solitude I redeemed my voice

I once lost in my desperate attempts

To seek the approval of my father.

 

I swam the ocean, arrived in the shore 

That my creator intended me to be

And found the white cub still clad in white

His mother once donned him,

But now grown

And tamed.

 tamed original

—–

HAVE A WONDERFUL YEAR OF THE WHITE TIGER, EVERYONE!

I wish you well.

 

~ Jeques 

 

 

 


Recluse

 

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.

 

 

 


The Road Stretches

 

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”)


Biennial

2nd Year of Taming This Tyke’s Voice

August 16, 2009

Jeques Web Nook, Year 2

"prologue" oil on canvas 48x48 by Jeques B. Jamora

"Prologue" oil on canvas 48x48 the finale to Jeques's recent painting collection and the prologue to the next.

Today marks the second year of taming my voice as a writer and as an artist in general, in public. My web nook serves as my creative venue where I synthesize life’s inspirations, my journey, random thoughts, dreams, desperations, my share of pains in living, simple joys, bliss, life’s mirths, ponderings ~

My every day celebration for knowing that I breath and my existense is in tune with the universe’s rhymes.

It’s been two years and this nook gifted me with rich produce that I never realized I have inside me, had I not listen closely to the fragile voice that told me stories, recited me poetry, painted my life with colors.

In commemoration with Jeques web nook biennial celebration, I am proud to formally launch my bountiful harvest as an artist in My Art Portfolio. This is the produce from my continuous reconnaissance of my gift.

Follow the tracks of the waif’s journey. And may you whisper a prayer in every turn and  trail, for the waif to find his home.

Through my works, I would like to represent the displaced artists in different fields for some reasons, becoming like waifs, that I am, searching for home. I share the sentiments of artists unable to do their arts, caged in the jobs that are far from what their hearts purely desire to do. I aim as an artist to speak to that audience, to inspire them through my works and to make a statement that it is possible. Every art piece I finish is a struggle, but each is a step closer to home.  (an excerpt from “Self Portrait Of The Artist In Words” by Jeques. Complete story is found in the last page of the of the portfolio). 

PLEASE CLICK IMAGE TO FOLLOW THE TRAILS OF THE WAIF >>>

 

"waif" oil on canvas 30x30(close up view) by Jeques B. Jamora


Weekend, Unforgettable!

 

We travel to open our eyes,

Our minds

Our hearts

To the world

Different from our own . . .

@Ramada hotel, Racine WI

to arrive

at kenosha, WI

in the temporary dwelling place

bday @ kenosha, WI

under a roof where many dwellers took shelter 

relaxing @ the harbor, kenosha

to innhale the earth’s fresh breath, of whissling winds and singing lake.

rendezvous with native amrican community

to commune with the locals

with native americans

to be part of her inhabitants

rendezvous with native american community

to belong to her community

inside tepee camp

to reside in her home

tepee camp, kenosha

to feel safe

rendezvous with native american family

to become part of her family

lighthouse, kenosha, WI

to go back in time following the signals of the earth’s light house

18th century canoe at rendezvous

to dock ashore

 pike river rendezvous at kensha

 to anchor in her harbor

 at the lobby, ramada

to find comfort in her warm embrace

taste of wisconsin

to walk her streets

wisconsin's famous cheese products

to taste her produce

 

lunch at down town, racine

to dine on her table

harbor market

to shop in her market

with a great artist in the fair

to buy her products

with young artist bros at the fair, racine

to met up with young artists

young artist with his mom

to befriend her vendors

horse carriage

to ride on life’s carriage

with 18th century americans

to blend with the commuters

train joy ride

take a train ride around town

with the juggler bros

to be amused by performing artists, jugglers

with the juggler bro and nephew

to be child-like again

18th century war

to find that quietude in spite of the turmoil

attack of the pirates

to find internal peace in the midst of the present and ancients wars battling in our heads

kenosha museumto be enriched by the heritage

@lakeshore kenosha, WI

to feel refreshed and renewed

@lakeshore, kenosha

to be reinvigorated body and soul

lovely racine, WI

to thank the heavens for the gracesracine park

to seize the moment

ramada patio

to bless the day

funtaine at racine park

to bathe in the earth’s fountains

racine park

to be reassured we are part of the streams of the universe

racine

to be ready for our next  trips

tryin to row

to sail forth

leaving ramada

to embark in life’s new journey again

on and on.

The destination ever beaconing in the distance

 

We are part of heavens’ immense plans

each one of us is a special thread

that makes up the universe’s colorful tapestries.

 

. . . Their part of the world and mine are no different afterall,

We take shelter in the same roof

Under the same arched skies.

 

(Kenosha and Racine, Wisconsin, July 31 to August 2, 2009)


Message From A Wreck(Prose Poem)

Message From A Wreck , A Prose Poem by Jeques for summer poetry workshop at Evanston, Week 4

message from a wreck for poetry workshop

message from a wreck for poetry workshop

My greatest fear is to lose the photographs I neatly arrange in the pages of my heart, and ultimately drop myself in the dark chasm of oblivion, soaking the memories’ negatives like a wrecked ship watching it’s own decay reflected on the steady waters of some unknown harbor, in some nameless deserted island. But that’s exactly what’s left of me, a wrecked soul, after my head on collision with reality, finding the photographs of memories we keep together stained with lies ~ here I am marooned, watching the grayed horizon, unsure if the sun would ever rise again for us. Frail and  crawling, I pick each grain of precious thoughts strewn in the shore and scribble them in the blank pages of heaven, slowly taken away from my sight by the twilight. Perhaps you will forget, and against my will, perhaps I would, too. but the heaven never will. So I send this letter to the lone witness of what we had, I send these words to heaven for her keeping.

Our story begun in the young hours of our life when the flower has not yet seen the rays of the sun that would pierce the delicate fabric of the pastel skies. We met in the eyes without really seeing each other’s souls in those brief glances, our vision hazed by the sea of strangers criss-crossing the cold space between us ~ together, but we’ve never really been. I look up to watch the flocks of birds criss-crossing the skies and I go back to the days when the closest moments we’ve really been is the touching of our palms in the conversations of whispered soliloquies we never told each other, and that only the heaven heard. For how would you call a rendezvous without even just a single picture to prove it happaned. It is nothing but a fancied romance, a fictional story, a hollowed dream that vanishes at daybreak. Why should I continue to weave a love-tale with someone so afraid to pause for a portrait with me, or to even cherish my company. But don’t feel guilty, my father could not even love me.

The fabrics of our horizon in the past, hand painted by God, were washed empty by the rain and we never really saw the sunrise that morning when our story begun, just like now that the gray clouds dance in the blue void above me threatening a heavy down pour, and just like our sunrise, I’m afraid again that we’ll have to content ending this story not seeing the sunset, not bading goodbye. 

The sound of the soft touch of drizzles in the shore, along the threnody of the winds and the rumbling of breakers are the repertoire of goodbye we never said. The scent of the first few raindrops mixing with the brine permeates in the air, this is the smell of our unnoticed parting. The liquid beads from heaven conceal my shy tears hidden in the corners of my eyes, their union caused a genial trickle of loneliness inside me that I poured down the ocean where the immensity of humanity’s sadness are emptied and purified in the heart of the earth for hopes to be born again out from the ruins, out from the many wrecks stranded in this island of loneliness where I am, where you left me watching the twilight in the grayed horizon devoid of color ~ where our story ends.

I don’t hope you to read this, but the heavens will. Some morning, this scribbling will float ashore, some soul from  some coast would pick this message from a wreck to rescue my memories from the dark chasm of oblivion. The photographs I neatly arrange in the pages of my heart will be safe. I’m ready to embrace the fate of the nightfall, I close my eyes to an ending, or is it the beginning?  

I fear no more my greatest fear.

This week is our 4th in the poetry workshop, and we are doing Prose Poetry. This week, let me bring you to a deserted island and let me whisper words from a wreck heart. The poem is inspired by the classic tale of the message in the bottle. I wrote, prepared and presented my prose poem from the inspiration and yes, it perfectly fits the idea of telling something you wouldn’t want to tell anybody unless you’re stranded, lost, nameless, dying.

message from a wreck 2

 


Morning Panes(tanka/painting series)

  “Morning Panes”(Tanka and painting) series #1 of 3
   
Dreams sojourn ~
 Whimsy reflections
 On morning panes ~
 
Coquetting the mind
Crooning dormant soul.
 
"morning panes" #1 oil on canvas 30x40, by Jeques B. Jamora “morning panes” #1 oil on canvas 30×40, by Jeques B. Jamora

 

"morning panes" series #1 to 3 “morning panes” series #1 to 3
“Morning Panes” (Tanka and Painting) series #2 of 3 
  
Dormant soul
Hatching, awaiting
Dawn’s misty kiss ~
 
Artist awakens
Broods nestle on trees.
 
"morning panes" #2 oil on canvas 30x40, by Jeques B. Jamora, 2009 “morning panes” #2 oil on canvas 30×40, by Jeques B. Jamora, 2009

 

 
morning panes
 
“Morning Panes” (Tanka and Painting) series #3 of 3
 
  
Courage ingrained
Inside broken soul’s
Callus chest ~
  
Anticipating sunrise
Awaiting to exhale.
"morning panes" #3 oil on canvas 38x48, by Jeques B. Jamora “morning panes” #3 oil on canvas 38×48, by Jeques B. Jamora
.
I have paintings conceived from poems.
 
The images of these paintings initially presented themselves to me in words. Morning Panes, a painting series of 3(at least for now, there is more to it) is one of them. It first came to me in a poem I composed in 2003. The poem visited me in a peculiar dream of a dream within a dream. I believe many of us had experienced that, dreaming in our dream, waking up still asleep. Or is it only me?
 
That dream is a tiny drop of inspiration that created ripples of poetry series. I used to write a lot, I had the freedom of time back home and I can afford to really sit down and study my thougths and dreams in my morning pages. In 2003 I wrote the poem, Images Of You. . . 

 
In my dream
I watch you in your sleep.
My heart feels glad,
My heart leaps.
  
Images of you haunt me ~
  
From the time I wake,
‘Til my sleep.

 

That dream was so vivid I immediately wrote a poem when I awake. The imagery from the dream and the words in the poem lingered in my thoughts which I first expressed visually in a drawing, My Morning Pane, Februay, 2005. It is a self-sketch of myself on bed in my room back home in the Philippines which is the original setting of the dream, the poem, the painting.
"my morning panes" pencil on paper by Jeques, 2005 
“my morning panes” pencil on paper by Jeques, 2005
 
In 2006, I wrote another poem from the same inspiration, Evanescent Romance, this poem fits well in series #2 of the painting. Note the change of the window from the previous, it represents the many rooms we sleep and the multitude of window panes we wake up with in our lifetime yet dreaming the same dreams. Here’s the poem: 
 

We are joined by our hearts’ seeking radars.
 Our souls converge at midnight’s deep blue skies.
 We talk, our words are the infinite stars.
 We feel so intimate with our closed eyes.
 Our unions are chronicled by my pen.
 The winds’ soft whistles signal your presence.
 Your image flickers through my window pane ~
 Silhouette of my dream-lover’s essence.
 In my mind I touch the face of heaven,
 When you croon to me lovesongs of silence.
   Bliss is what my thoughts of you has given.
 You illumined my lonely existence. 
Romance confined in shadows of the night. 
 ‘Tis evanescent with the morning light.

 

These are some of the few poems I wrote that ended up on canvas, in visual form, in paintings.
 
But there are also inspirations that presented themselves to me first in visual arts. They become drawings, or sketches, or paintings instantly. In these instances, my brushstrokes are my words to create imageries that frequent my thoughts.
  
To complete the circle of poems becoming paintings and paintings becoming poems, I used the painting series, “Morning Panes” as subject and inspiration to my poems for this week’s workshop on the ancient poetry form: the Tanka. It dates back to the 7th century. A poem of five lines of 5/7/5/7/7 syllable count respectively. I strictly followed this rules in the previous Tanka’s I composed but in the workshop I attend, I learned the freedom from the Tanka minimalists, and the modern american tanka which is less restricting as to the syllable count and rather focusing on the importance of expressing an emotion or deep thought in a concise manner in the five lines which is the true beauty of writing a Tanka. Shorter syllable count in each line when achieved in 19-24 or even shorter in 15 counts at the very least instead of 31 is preferred in the modern tanka.
  
Using the Tanka structure, I took out pictures of my paintings and from the deepest recesses of my core extract words that would best express the brushstrokes. Series #3 of the painting fully express my sentiments as a dormant artist awaiting to exhale, an egg hatching, a seed awaiting for springtime, a child awaiting to be born.
And when I come to think of it, this circle of paintings becoming poems, and the poems’ metamorphosis becoming paintings, I come to realize that there’s really no single strand or line that separates them. When I paint, the brushstrokes are my words. When I write, the words are my brushstrokes to create imageries. Sketches and drawings are my scribbles, my drafts.
  
It is my commitment to my craft to achieve such seamless fusion of my paintings and poetry for both are conceived and born from my heart.
 
  
 *For more of my paintings, please click image to navigate to my art portfolio >>> 
 
 waif

  


Where Hearts Converge

Where Hearts Converge 

 

This sad ending would be our beginning ~

Face to face, you and me, aboard the train.

Together, albeit our roads parting:

Mine bounds north, yours south. Then it starts to rain.

Would time and space bring us happy ending?

Would we converge in this station again?

 

 

 

"where hearts converge" pencil, pen and ink on drawing paper by Jeques

"where hearts converge" pencil, pen and ink on drawing paper by Jeques

 

 

 

And just like that, we’re on our own again ~

Watching the blankness of our beginning

Through the panes of an uncertain ending

Like errant souls on board the express train

Listening to the sad notes of the rain

Heaven’s soundtrack to our fateful parting.

 

Time slips our palms like the daylights parting ~

‘Tis dark, and gloom embraces us again.

But our sorrows will be washed by the rain.

This railroads meet to a fresh beginning.

We will get there, let us allow the train.

And then we’ll entomb these woes to ending.

 

We travel through this passage’s ending ~

The railroads fork and we see hearts parting.

Tons of broken souls carried by the train.

But rails would weave them together again.

To debark in frontiers of beginning,

Like seed sprouting, bathed by the springtime rain.

 

As pains’ dusts settle soaked by the rain,

The turmoil alights to a graceful ending.

The heart learns to hum tunes of beginning,

And understands that even the parting

Is part of it all, then we smile again ~

As we weave our stories inside the train.

 

I get off, now enlightened, from the train ~

Mind’s pellucid like skies after the rain.

Heart’s calm awaiting to see you again.

May you look forward to the same ending,

May your thoughts not be hazed by this parting.

‘Til we reach our station of beginning.

 

Last night’s rain crooned our sorrows to ending.

Trains meet again in our point of parting ~

Where hearts converge to a new beginning.

 

(Where Hearts Converge  a Sestina I wrote for the poetry workshop I attend every wednesday. Jeques, 2009)

Have I told you I started attending a weekly poetry workshop last wednesday? I think not. The workshop will run for 6 weeks this summer. I chanced upon the Ad when I got me some books for my painting studies in Evanston, IL public libruary. I missed one session but I was able to submit a poem for the first poetry form : Cento, a poetry made up of lines borrowed from a combination of established authors, usually resulting in a change in meaning. For me, the beauty of composing a Cento is it makes you read poetry and appreciate more the lines. This poetry would be very helpful to beginners, it could be a starting point because to write poetry, a poet needs and should read first the works of other poets and Cento just  help you do that, it makes you appreaciate the work of others, makes you compose from their inspirations and perhaps help you find your voice along the way.

I was cramming when I put this cento poem together. I called tuesday(July 7) afternoon if it was possible for me to catch up since I missed the first week. Joshua, the moderator, said yes and told me about the Cento which was discussed the previous week and that I have to bring a piece the next day if I’m interested to attend. I work night shift, but I brought with me one of my favorite poetry books to work that night, and during dead hours read poems of great authors and line by line composed a Cento. The first line I got from the song, “Eversince the world begun,” the soundtrack of the 1989 movie: Lock up.  Here is the piece I put together and I read during the first session(July 8).

 

This Wanting

 

I never knew what brought me here

You entered my life in a casual way.

The dream we dream together here,

All paths lead to you where e’er I stray.

 

There is nothing that last, not one.

Yet still the story and the meaning stay.

Somebody said that it couldn’t be done.

Yet it well might be that never for me.

 

I need so much the quiet of your love.

A love like this can know no death.

I need your calm all other things above.

Your precious presence is the air I breath.

 

I want you through every changing season

If not, then let me live this life alone.

~

(This Wanting a Cento poem. Here are the poems and the authors I got the lines of this poem from: line #2 TO A FRIEND by Grace Stricker Dawson, #3 IN THE ROSE GARDEN byJohn Bennett, #4 ALL PATHS LEAD TO YOU by Blanch Shoemaker Wagrooff, #5 HER ANSWER by John Bennett, #6 THE RIGHT KIND OF PEOPLE by Edwin Markham, #7 SOMEBODY SAID THAT IT COULDN’T BE DONE by Edgar Guest, #8 OUR OWN by Margaret Sangster, #9 AT NIGHT FALL by Charles Hanson Towne, #10 AD FINEM by Ella Wheeler Wilcox, #11 AT NIGHT FALL by Charles Hanson Towne, #13 I WANT YOU by Arthur L. Gillom. Lines #12 and 14 are my original)

Last wednesday(July 8), we discussed the poetry form: Sestina. I have been always interested to try writing a poem in this form but the structure is too demanding thereby forbidding, so I always end up throwing first drafts. The reason why I’ve always longed to get myself into a workshop is to get the chance to be crafty again with poetry, and this just works that way for me. Since I’m now slowing down with painting nearing the completion of my collection, I find time to write again and the poem included here is my first produce when I finally got myself sitted again to study poetry structures and working the craft. The sentina we compose this week will be read and discussed on our next workshop this coming wednesday(July 15).

Let me share with you sestina’s definition from the Academy of American Poets

The sestina is a complex form that achieves its often spectacular effects through intricate repetition. The thirty-nine-line form is attributed to Arnaut Daniel, the provencal troubador of the 12th century. The name “troubadour” like comes from trobar, which means to invent or compose verse. The troubadours sang their verses accompanied by music and were quite competitive, each trying to top the next in wit, as well as complexity and difficulty of style.

The sestina follows a strict pattern of the repetition of the initial 6 end-words of the first stanza throught the remaining five six-line stanzas, culminating in a three-line envoi. The lines may be of any length, though in its initial incarnation, the sestina followed a syllabic restriction.

Note: I followed a 10-syllabic count in each line respectively in my poem.

The form is as follows, where each numeral indicates the stanza position and the letters represent end-words:

1. ABCDEF

2. FAEBDC

3. CFDABE

4. ECBFAD

5. DEACFB

6. BDFECA

7 (envoi) ECA or ACE ( I used ECA, please note that I also used all the 6 end-words in the last three lines)

The envoi, sometimes known as the tornada, must also include the remaining three-end words, BDF, in the course of the three lines so that all six recurring words appear in the final three lines. In place of a rhyme scheme, the sestina relies on end-word repetition to effect a sort of rhyme.

The poetry idea using the train and the train station as backdrop have been chasing me and been resurfacing my mind for more than a year now. I first got the idea when one time we took the subway here in chicago(hence, the reference to the north and south bound directions of the train), The place just poured me such an overwhelming poetry inspiration, but I did not act on it instantly for many reasons, and one of them is I’m still finding the right structure to give the poetry idea a body that it would need. Last year, I wrote the poem Summer, Gone. The poem contains some of the ideas that are infused in Where Hearts Converge. Here’s the poem Summer gone:

You came to bring me summer sunshine,

You left to leave me autumn gloom.

Like a speeding train,

Summer came

And Gone.

What happened to the vibrant days,

Where have my sunshine gone?

Why do the clouds just suddenly

Hid you?

My smile, don’t fade away

Please no!

Why do you have to give up

Your sunny yellow ~

Have I not brought

Your life some bright lights,

Why do we have to go apart

In blue?

Would the evening light

Sustain us

In this changing season,

Would it ease

The growing yearning

With its subdued

Glow?

I rest my heart

In this lonely season.

But I would keep our paths

Clear

Of grass growths.

May the railroad

That took you away

Would lead you

Back.

And when you’re tired

Chasing the changing seasons,

You could always return

To an endless

Summer ~

Here in my resolute

Heart.

I think it is also important to mention here that the heart of this poem and the sentiment I expressed here was originally conceived in the poem One Heart which I composed in 2003.

 

Two different people

 Living separate lives

Wanting different dreams

Going to opposite directions.

 

  But then they met.

 

And they become one

One heart in two different people

One in their thoughts

Going towards the same direction ~

 

  

Living the same dreams.

 

Where Hearts Converge is one of the poems I’ve written that really went through a very long process. The idea, the sentiments and the heart of the poem came and present itself  to me in fragments, but I believe I was able to gather the elements in a piece which I put together here and give it the perfect body in the sestina structure.

I already have a painting idea in mind for this poem which I conceived some few months back. The title is “Convergence,” a painting series of 4 pieces and I will be using the Kois and the elements of the railroads in the painting which I will post here when I finish the series. Until then, but for now, I included an illustration of the poem in pencil, pen and ink sketches on drawing paper.


Dreams Alight

The child had a vision he will arrive at this moment. He saw everything before all these happened, the images was clear in his reveries, the picture was complete in his imagination. His mind’s feet had walked this path, his mind’s senses had lived this moment. It was not easy for his young mind to understand the vision, It was not easy for his young heart to contain what he saw. All he knew then was to dream. There was a map engraved in his heart, the mind followed the direction that took him to the present.
 
The child grew up to be that man in his vision. Standing still, he look back, following the tracks of his journey back  to the child who told him many stories they weaved together: 
 
The child dreamt.
 
Him, lives. 

 

 I sketch a landscape in my mind’s canvas;
Tracing the figures using my child’s eyes.
Paint it with colors just the way it was.
I feel brimful of joy that my soul cries.

 "Rendezvous" series #1 oil on canvas 20x20, by Jeques B. Jamora, 2009   "Rendezvous" series #4 oil on canvas 20x20, by Jeques B. Jamora, 2009

"Rendezvous series #2 oil on canvas 20x20, by Jeques B. Jamora, 2009   "Rendezvous" series # 3 oil on canvas 20x20, by Jeques B. Jamora

(“Rendezvous” series 1 – 4 oil on canvas 20×20, by Jeques B. Jamora, 2009)

There’s the refulgent streams of the river
Flowing beneath the bamboos’ lush bowers.
Their drowsy whistles I still remember.
When winds blow through the leaves and the boulders.

 

There’s the rock that rests on the reef of stones,
Where the tyke sits when he would go fishing.
Silence croons him with nature’s pristine tones.
When a fish pulls his bait, his heart’s dashing.

 

There’s the lily that cupped the morn’s dewdrops.
Frogs stay motionless on their giant leaves,
Until an insect strays by their tongue traps.
Their prying eyes ever alert like thieves.

 

 There’s the damselfly that hovers above
My head and the tip of my fishing rod.
A scene I always remember with love,
It never fails to cheer me when I’m sad.

"Dreams Alight" study oil on canvas 30x30, by Jeques B. Jamora

"Dreams Alight" study oil on canvas 30x30, by Jeques B. Jamora

 

 There’s the sun peeping through the verdant trees;
Casting their shimmering hued reflections
On the running waters like pageantries.
Moving me to profound contemplations.

 

Ah, idyllic landscape, ethereal arts.
We always have that child’s nook in our hearts.

(“Childhood Nook, Revisited!” From the poetry collection by: Jesus B. Jamora, 04/21/06)

  "Dreams Alight" oil on canvas 36x36, by Jeques B. Jamora, 2009

“Dreams Alight” oil on canvas 36X36, by Jeques B. Jamora, 2009

I am now  beginning to slowly understand the child’s vision that used to scare me. I am now starting to polish the rough edges of the images and lay the pictures on the frames as I translate the vision to become my breathing, throbbing realities.

I awake to the present to write on the pages the stories that the child once told me. I alight to this moment where his dreams had landed long before I arrived.

I used to think I was chasing my dreams, I now understand I did not. Like  the damselflies that alight on my palm as a kid, dreams, too, alight when I learned to open myself and keep my heart still.

 

~ Jeques


Le coeur attend

If I strip off this mind and show you my thoughts, would you like what you will see?
If I open my heart to your view, would you like the pictures that you will see inside?
If I bare my soul naked to your eyes, would you ever learn to love me?
I clad myself with things that I thought you would like me wearing, but went home not recognizing my own reflection in the mirror, so I stripped myself off from the things that the world wanted me to be and view myself as I am.
I befriend my thoughts and got familiar with the terrains of my uncharted mind building my own empire in solitude.
I listen to the songs of my heart and memorized its lyrics as I study paeans of love that this heart dreams to sing for you.
I come to terms with myself, got to know the naked me, caressed the skin of my soul, accepted my flaws and learned to care for the lovely soul inside this body.
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"Le coeur attend" oil on canvas, 24x30 by Jeques B. Jamora, 2009

 ‘Tis when I fully understood the colors and the shapes and molds, and the forms, and the feel, and everything about my soul that I trully begun to learn to dress up. ‘Tis when I learned to listen to my heart’s songs that I was able to write his poetry. ‘Tis when I completely viewed my soul with all my senses that I was able to limn the images of the empire I inhabit in my mind reflected in the canvas like vignettes from the corners of my imagination.

 

Notice me.

For once,

Just be with me.

See my heart and soul

And let time

Stand still ~

 

Look at me.

Show me the spark

behind those eyes

That you would not

Reveal.

 

Talk to me.

Translate your silence

To words

So I would fathom

The tenderness

In your glances.

 

Write to me.

Send me letters

Of your heart

So you would fill

My empty page,

This void

In my chamber

That patiently

Awaits.

 

Visit me.

Anytime of day

While I’m awake

Or even in my dreams

In my hours

Of sleep.

 

Touch me.

Run your finger tips

On my longing cheeks;

Reach out

For my hands

Awaiting

For your reassuring

Grip.

 

Show me.

What’s behind

Those elusive eyes

So afraid

To stay still

Always looking away

From my direction.

 

Whisper to me.

I want to listen

To your heart

And hear

The language

Of your soul.

Let it speak.

 

Just for a brief moment,

Please look into my eyes,

Let time stand still ~

And be

With me.

(“Notice Me,” from the poetry collection of Jeques B. Jamora, 2008)

How do you like me wearing the fabrics of my soul and not the clothes that the world imposed on me to wear when I was younger?

If I tell you what’s inside this mind, would you like what you will hear?

If I tell you you’re part of the dots and lines I create, that you’re in my every brushstroke, each word, each line, in every piece of me would you even care to notice and listen?

If I tell you I weave my story around you, would you be interested to hear that story or buy the volumes of book I write in my mind about us?

 

Don’t be excited with what you now see,

Don’t love me for what I have so far shown.

Be excited with what else I could do ~

Love me for what more I can show you.

 

If I tell you that my thoughts of you reside with me in an empire, would you decide to live there ~

 

And if I tell you I build us home in my heart,

 

 

Would you come home with me?

 

 

 

~Jeques

.

.


L ‘homme qui J ‘aime

What If

By: Jeques B. Jamora

 

What if the poet in me dies,

What if my heart’s verses lose their rhymes?

What if my passion is gone,

And there’s nothing left undone?

.

What if my brush strokes cease to form my thoughts?

What if my paintings fail

Their colors fade

To worthless images?

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“L ‘homme qui J ‘aime” oil on canvas, 24×30 by : Jeques B. Jamora, 2009

 

“What if’s,” too many to hold on

Perhaps, I should just carry on.

.

What if you’ve got enough of me,

And get bored of me?

What if you shut me up, and oh God,

You would stop, just like that!

.

What if everything’s done,

You and me forever gone?

.

Let it be written then among the stars in heavens,

Painted in the infinite skies,

And here on earth engrave them on the marble 

Of my tombstone:

 

Once, there was love here ~

‘Tis pure~

Though ’tis human for a man.

~

I may sound narcissistic, but learning to love myself helped me define the amount of love I am capable of giving, and helped me define the kind of love I am capable of taking.

Our greatest fears in loving, and giving and taking come from our human mistake of fearing to love one’s self. We go out of our self, we go places, find and wanting things, obsessing people, chasing love, forgetting the true source of what we are looking to be just  here all along,

Inside our hearts.

It is everyone’s wish to find that one person that would complete our story. Mine, too.

I wish you well.

~ Jeques


My Oasis

There are times when we need to leave the safety of the harbor and answer the beaconing of the future in the horizon where the skies kiss the seas ~

The unfamiliar arched skies and the daunting blue of the ocean may appear uncertain, and there may be no written guarantee accross the seas but we take out our anchors from our sunctuaries, take the chance and sail anyway.

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"Our Sunctuary" oil on canvas 20x24 by : Jeques B. Jamora

There are moments in life when we have to leave the roads that are very familiar.

It is our human nature to explore uncharted terrietories.

There’s that part in us that needs and longs for the change of landscapes.

And so we leave the paths that are safe and take a detour, stray away from our every day roads, throw the maps and just go ahead and get thrilled with things new.

We all need to face our fates at a certain point and take that arduous trek in the desert to fulfill the only obligation we have in this life to reach our destinations.

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"Our Fate" oil on canvas, 18x18 by : Jeques B. Jamora

Such things happen many times in our lifetime. Sometimes we do it awake and aware, but often it just happens and we wake up one day in the middle of the desert, or in a new road, or sailing in the ocean’s uncertain blues like we are inside a dark hole and that only our presence could fill that void.

I chose to be aware and awake when I take a detour or sail – I don’t want to be thrown in the grounds unguarded. We can all control our destiny. We can all choose the kind of battle and our kind of journey.

Now for those who are wondering where I’ve been?

I’ve gone painting!

I feel like I need to leave the familiar roads, the safety of my harbor in writing and take a plunge into the uncertainty of the blue horizon that’s been beaconing me for the longest time. So I left the safety and the happy company of the language, of the friendly words that coquet my thoughts and the pages to answer another call of traveling alone in my journey with my art. 

It is important that even how far the distances we reach in our travels, we need to be in touch with the isles that once became our harbor, and the trails that would lead us back to the roads that we once took that brought us where we are at the moment.

"our trail" oil on canvas, 24x30 by : Jeques B. Jamora

"Our Trail" oil on canvas 24x30 by : Jeques B. Jamora, 2009

No matter how long we travelled in the deserts of this life, we need to be in touch with things and people that once became our oasis. Poetry and writing are the oasis of my soul. And I will always be back here, now and again, to drink and dine in the bounty of their  inspiration.

~

You are my daily dose of life,

My daily drop of hope.

You are the reason I’m moving on,

And why I need to cope.

~

You are my oasis

In this life’s desert

So I can stand up

And walk.

~

My love,  you are the oasis of my heart, and I will always be back in your sunctuary, in the comfort and warmth of your presence for it is you who makes my journey worthwhile.