Taming This Tyke's Voice Since 2007

Chicago

The Year I got Two Summers

Summer, again.

Last february and march, I bathed in the sweetest summer sunshine in my country during my home-coming. It was the beginning of summer in the Philippines and my way of cutting short – to escape – the Chicago winter. When I came back last April, it was springtime and the flowers were in bloom.

This year’s seasons came in such a peculiar cycle for me. I had a short cut of winter, had an early summer that came before springtime and now, it’s summer, again! The precious gift of travelling: it could alter time and the seasons. It did for me.

I am spending most of my summer time outdoors. I’m like a beaver gathering woods building dams to enrich myself with the tools I need for my next writings and paintings or like the old adage said, saving for the rainydays. I thought I need a change of landscape in my works. I need to widen my perspective in both my writing and art and the best way to do that is to spend more time outdoors exploring, gathering woods to build new forms in my creations.

I am afflicted once more of the itch to travel. I don’t really need to go far. A simple walk in the lakeshore, or go further in some corners of the park I have not seen, or discovering some green patch in the city where the fresh air is free, or picking wild flowers along the railroad, or driving through the narrow alleys of the city,  or going to exotic markets of other immigrants like me, or driving interstate, or exploring and viewing the city from a different angle like I did yesterday going for the breath-taking River and Lake architectural tour of Chicago.

We can’t just sit and write poetry or create arts all the time, sometimes we need to go out and live it, too.

Breath-taking river and lake architectural tour of Chicago.

(formerly)Sears Tower, now Willis Tower.

Closer view of the Willis Tower

The bridges we see in movies that give way to ships.

Water gateway to the great Lake Michigan

Short break at the boat’s cafeteria

The Trump tower and hotel

Jeques, July 26, 2010. Wendella River and Lake Architectural Tour of Chicago.


Transient Anonymity

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.

"child-like" oil on canvas, 30x40 by Jeques B. Jamora, 2009

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.


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


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.


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.

memories-from-home-008

"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.

2009-paintings-015

"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. 

 


A Prelude To A Million Dreams

My creative muse prompts me to begin writing on a fresh page as I start a new process of knowing. This is the time of my life when I do things because I feel like doing them. Like, I write because I would like to read my thoughts tangible in words taking form written on pages, so I would get a better grasp of them.

to-the-deeps-0151

Like the damselflies of my childhood, I don’t chase my thoughts anymore now that I’m grown up. My mind, like my palms to the damdelflies, I will open so dreams and thoughts could freely alight to show me their beauty. I will befriend this elusive guests instead of running after them like I did during my reckless youth. Perhaps this way, I could encourage their frequent visits.

"to the deeps" #1, oil on canvas by : Jeques B. Jamora, 2009

To The Deeps

At midnight

When half the world is asleep,

The prying eyes of the nocturnal owl

Stay alert for mice dozing undergrownds.

."to the deeps" #2, oil on canvas by : Jeques B. Jamora, 2009

A turtle slowly prowls in a swamp

Disturbing the resting fishes

On the shallow waters.

."to the deeps" #3, oil on canvas, 20x20 by : Jeques B. Jamora, 2009

Somewhere, you are confined

Asleep in your room dreaming.

While I stay awake questioning.

.#to the deeps" #4, oil on canvas, 20x20, by : Jeques B. Jamora, 2009

Am I part of your dreams tonight?

Would I take part in your life

When you awake in the morning?

.to-the-deeps-010

The night ends

With the owl catching no mice.

The fishes has gone to The deeps,

But the turtle hasn’t reach where ’tis going.

Just like me with my doubts never fading.

."to-the-deeps" #2 and 3

But nevertheless always wishing

That one day I’d stop questioning

And to The deeps I’d just let the fishes

Swim.

"to-the-deeps" #3 and 4

Unhurried thoughts and dreams come pellucid like the reflection of the summer skies on a placid river. I aim to write my thoughts that way: to achieve such clarity. These thoughts, my dreams reflected on pages as I allow the readers to grasp them like viewing the river and the skies on a clear summer day.

But sometimes, words are just ain’t enough. There are thoughts and dreams conceived that come in defined shapes, definite forms and rich colors. So I capture them in sketches. Such thoughts and dreams come alive on pads as my pen and pencil give them skin and the ink give them blood and the images from my mind come throbbing alive in sketches.

But then again, oftentimes, I am haunted by vivid dreams and thoughts that not my pen and the pencil nor the ink are enough to breath them life, to bring them the colors like the coquettish fishes flirting my mind with their exotic dance moves in the river where my mind often hovers. They demand to be born and inhabit the canvas, and only my brush strokes could give them soul, only the pallette could bring to life their hued reflections flickering in my imagination ~

Conspicuous in light and shadows.

This is the time of my life when I am fully in touched with my creative muse and the river of my mind is on its calmest state, where any minute movements are reflected that could stir ripples of dreams, and rapture of colors like the blossoms in springtime. The pages and the pads and the canvas are like the verdant fields where my dreams bloom. They are like the river in my mind where the fishes swim to the deeps in their coquettish dance moves that preludes to a million dreams.

The damselfly is within reach – I am taking time to appreciate his beauty as he hovers and I, motionless wishing the damselfly would soon alight in my palms.

Who says that dreams are black and white?

oil on canvas 20X20 by : Jeques B. Jamora


Ingrained

memories-from-home-022

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

“Childhood” oil on canvas, 24×30 by :  Jeques B. Jamora, 2009

 

Art museums and galleries are the places I often visit, and the Art Institute of Chicago is my favorite. It is like the secluded dusty paths I used to trod when I was a child pulling my carts to endless directions in circles that my young mind then imagined.

I am naturally solitary.

There are things that I grew up doing alone, and they are what I really love to do. Against all odds, I silently fought for these things and from where I stand now, I look back to claim my rewards from my little triumphs.

In one of my quiet strolls in the museum communing with the spirits of the artists gone and living, I observed young students in a group sketch session. I was deeply moved, I felt envious and sad. Some thoughts dawned in me: I always do my arts alone, closed doors, dettached from the world. My father was highly critical of my early works, he is the first battle I fought to shield my natural gift from the many forces that discouraged me and my early pursuits in finding my voice as an artist and my soul in my works. 

Watching this young students brought me back to my sketching sessions as a kid. Any empty paper and writing tools are my art materials then – give me anything I could sketch on and I could survive long hours alone away from people. I envy these kids doing there arts in the company of their classmates, enjoying art moments with their friends. When they are my age years from now, and they would stroll through this quiet room, these paintings in the wall would remind them of this moment, but more than that, the walls would echo their whispered giggles that would bring back happy memories. 

As they weave their memories unaware, I went back to my own. I visited my solitary self struggling to find meaning in what seemed to be senseless dots and lines I put together to create images that was so insignificant then. Little did I know that those dots and lines would bring me to this point, to look back and find the trails I left to guide me back to how and where my journey started.

I started sketching when I was about 3 years old before I learned how to write, when my grip was strong enough to control a pencil or a pen. The moment I first held a pencil, I knew it in my heart that this is something that I would love to do for a lifetime. And that is how my romance with the arts started, like a-love-at-first-grip kind of thing. I remember my mother was my first teacher and our first subject were flowers. She stopped teaching me when my flower sketches look nicer than the ones she taught me. I outgrew the art lessons my mother gave me quick. And then she became my first admirer, my first fan, my first follower and collector of my works. My first art exhibit was in her store as she show my drawings in the pages of her record notebook to friends. That was my version of an art institute.

flowers #1 -0182

“flowers” #1 pen and pencil on paper by : Jeques B. Jamora, 2009

But there was a negative energy, too, my first critic: my father. He thought my works were insignificant and told me to do other things. I think the hardest thing he did was when he forced me to use my right hand ~ I was born left handed ~ and at 16, when I was so sure of my decission to take up fine arts, he put me to a nursing school.

I was caught in the middle trying to keep my balance early on: between my encouraging, nourishing, consenting mother and my highly critical, discouraging, tormenting father.

I never had formal education in the arts. The gift is ingrained, I was born with the passion, not even my father was able to control from florishing. So in my room, close doors, alone, I had my sketching session as a kid. It was lonely. There was only one person I would seek every time I finish a piece: my mother. Her sincere appreciation of my works nourished me to keep going. But I have to admit all these years, I seek for the approval of my father which he never gave. After my father died in 2008, I thought I’m free now. I always was!

“The mind and the heart and the soul, like the birds, are meant to soar, set it free. Allow your spirit to fly!”

I walk fast many more group of young kids in drawing sessions while I brouse through the paintings on the walls that flood me with mulititude of thoughts from the past, present and future. Nothing has changed in me much, I still am the kid and art is still a solitary life for me and perhaps I would spend it that way for the rest of my life. I have come to terms with myself and solitude has become a bliss.

I, too, am still that kid who would seek my mother’s appreciation everytime I finish an art piece to get her nod and nourishing words of encouragement for me to go on. Only now I seek that appreciation from people who would chance upon my works, like my mother’s friend in the store she would show my drawings of flowers as a kid.

I still am that kid who fear the criticism of my father that made me rip many pages of my sketches, and toss away many works unfinished. Deep in my heart, I have to admit I still seek for his approval that he was so selfish to give.

I see my father’s image in people who thought my works are insignificant, I find courage in people who tell me otherwise. I still am struggling to find that balance from this opposing forces.

Deep inside this heart, ingrained, is a gift that I’m entrusted to nurture alone, close doors, away from people. I remain that waif inside my room as a child connecting senseless dots and lines to create images hoping that people would find them significant, so I could finally find my grown up version of an art institute, my home, your heart.

and like a desolate soul a lonely waif

I await for you to find me.

May your travels not take you long,

Come fast and love me ~

memories-from-home-001

“Waif” oil on canvas 18×18 by : Jeques B. Jamora


Lessons From Autumn

~

Lessons From Autumn

BY: Jeques B. Jamora, fall, 2008

The earth calls the leaves to come home

My crying couldn’t stop the changing season.

Like my tears falling on my chest,

The autumn leaves return to the earth’s breast.

The winds of fall sing lonely tunes

The shy smile of dawn turns the day to gloom.

The heavens weep soaking the trees with rain,

As I watch you leave and endure the pain.

Destiny’s taking back my joys of spring,

My crying couldn’t stop you from leaving.

Like the leaves falling to the earth’s bossom,

I’ll await in silence ’til you come home.

The trees and the leaves taught me acceptance;

The earth taught me to wait for second chance.

 

Note: for background music, please click and play this >>> If I could be where you are


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 Don’t Want To Scare You

~

I have seen you before,

Many times,

In countless encounters,

Crossing my path

As I walk

To the many directions

That this life

Is taking me.

.

But I’m not really sure about you.

.

I thought

You’re just a dream

Appearing to me

Now and then 

In a trance,

Like a hazed mirage

Flirting with my imagination

As I travel on:

 

In the deserts,

And plains,

And valleys,

And hills,

And mountains,

And steep cliffs,

And shores,

And autumn leaves-strewn sidewalks,

And snow-carpeted pavements,

And cobblestone alleys,

And floral-scented streets,

And verdant meadows

And prairies

Of my life’s journey.

.

In those many instances

It was this morning

That I saw your very soul

When I sit 

To watch you closely

In the eyes

And you glanced back

To meet my soul.

.

In our too brief commune,

The busy streets

Rolled to a halt,

The clock stopped,

Time freezed ~

.

There was only

You and me

In an ackward state :

.

You,

Barely hidden

In the small forest

Of weeds and grasses and herbs

That grow their way

In a pavement’s

Widening crevice.

.

And I,

Scrouched down

On my knees

Wanting to touch you

And make a tangible memory

Of this rare encounter ~

.

But I don’t want to scare you.

.

I content myself

Recording in my heart

Everything that this chance,

This moment

Offers us to have

And to hold.

.

I didn’t even gave in

To the thoughts

Of taking you pictures.

.

And then

You gallop away

To the bushes

In a man-made garden

Of the city park,

Concealing yourself

From my sight

By taking the colors

Of life

In the place

We both inhabit ~

In a parallel universe ~

Albeit in separate spheres:

.

You and I

Together,

But not quite. 

.

I didn’t attempt

To run after you.

You are free,

Yes, you are.

But In my heart,

You are always home.

.

I don’t know,

I am not sure,

If there would be

Another chance,

Another moment

In my paths ahead

Of another encounter

With you ~

.

Would there be

Another forest

Of weeds and grasses and herbs

Growing in this city

Pavements’ widening crevices?

.

Would there be

Another morning

When time would freeze,

And there would only be

You and me

Meeting in the eyes,

As our souls commune

In the parallel universe

We inhabit?

.

Until then,

But for now,

I content myself

Holding on

To our intangible

Memories,

As I continue

To celebrate

Your presence ~

.

Somewhere,

In the lush bushes

Reappearing

Now and then,

Coquetting,

Galloping,

Untamed

In my imagination,

.

In my heart.

~

(A poem written about my brief encounter with an untamed rabbit, in the most unusual place in the City. Chicago, 2008)

 

 

 

 

 


Sunrise On The Ridges Of Concrete And Steel

I search for signs of home

In the arched-sky.

What I see are walls of concrete and steel.

I long for the warmth of a humid dawn

What I got is the chillly wind of the city.

I miss the morning laughter of home,

The cries of the iron birds taking off

From their concrete nest is what I hear,

Along the sleepless noise in the streets.

My nostrils take in whatever scent

That would bring me wave of nostalgia

What I have are the fumes of the busy traffic.

I need a single soul to remind me of home,

But he’s fast asleep in his room.

This is my saddest daybreak.

Watching a different horizon away from home.

And then it happened.

The sun slowly crawls behind those walls

And rises on the ridges of concrete and steel.

Its first ray catches the tears in my eyes ~

I see dazzling bright lights magnified.

And then I am enlightened.

Somewhere in southeast asia,

In one of the ‘lil isles of the Philippines,

This sun, in the same sky, in different horizon

Rises every morning at home.

And I carries the memories of those sunbreaks

For they are etched inside my chest.

Today turns out to be my happiest morning.

For I know now that the sun

I watch rising on the ridges of concrete and steel

Is the same sun that will rise tomorrow

In the home of my heart.

Only it will rise

On the mountain ridges.


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 continue 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.


Taking Form

coming and goingsolitude1

My earlier paintings displayed on the walls at home in the Philippines

There is no doubt now in my heart that what I’ve been through were essential in shaping me. I feel like a stone in a river molded by its currents, its rushing waters caress me like a passionate sculptor meticulously shaping me as I take form ~

God’s masterful hands leave imprints all over me.

Yes I’m taking form, for God molds me.

I’ve been drawing since I could remember. When I was a kid, I remember it was the most comforting thing for me to do alone. Everytime I visit my earliest memories, I would always see a child with a pencil and a paper drawing. I thought I was born to do arts and I’m naturally born with the gift.

But nobody really took notice of those earliest signs, nobody in the family took my gift seriously. I was left alone to find out for myself the reasons why I draw at such a young age and to understand that there’s such a thing as passion, that there is such a thing as a gift. It is not easy growing up feeling this itch inside you and not knowing how to cure or what to do with it. I feel the craving to feed my passion, I just don’t know how, no body taught me, I don’t have the resources and I didn’t really understood.

I was born left handed, but when my father forced me to become right handed, it was also a subtle way to supress my artistry. And so I grew up the convetional way, a normal kid but inside is an itch, a craving, my soul hungry for something that it took me years to find out.

pedia

Pencil on Paper, by Jeques B. Jamora, 1998

I continue to draw, sketch, and progressed to water colors in my own slow pace. I learned them myself as if they’re the most natural thing for me to do. The arts really didn’t leave me completely even if I was in a far away field of nursing ~ it was like being exiled in a territory not your own and your soul painfully longs for something you don’t really understand. The side spaces of my class notebooks are filled with sketches and they were instrumental for the most unexpected person to discover my gift and do something about it. He was not even my friend then, we were already 4th year college in Nursing. My closest friends knew that I draw, but it took years and for this one person that I didn’t even consider my friend to believe in what I do, to prod me to join a painting contest which I did, and to make me realize my potentials and with that, to him I am forever indebted.

I was a first timer in a painting contest, I was not really sure what I was doing but there was one voice in my head telling me I could paint – I could never forget Ronald – and that was enough to inspire me. I was 3rd place, not bad for a first timer, huh?

I thought it was just a beginners luck or something, that achievement wasn’t enough to convince me. I was just a 3rd placer anyway. But I didn’t know that that one-time thing could stir a rivalry that empowered me to fight a silent battle. The first placer from that contest(that’s his 3rd year win – unbeatable!) commented something about my work, and that I was not deserving. I was hurt in silence but I was challenged. And then there was another contest, which Ronald recommended me again to join, and I did. It was different this time, I became more competitive knowing that my rival was in that same contest. I was first place in “on the spot painting contest” category, while he won the “on the spot drawing contest” – I didn’t know we joined different categories but we were side by side during the awarding of prizes. I could sense a silent rivalry. At least now, I have proven my worth.

And then came the final battle, our school sponsored an inter-school poster making contest, with water color as medium and the only category. We both joined and the heat of the rivalry reached its peak. I was determined to win, but I was not sure how to do it. So I just painted my heart out. Our works was on display for 3 days before a decission was made for the winners. I viewed closely all the works, and study each against my piece and my rival’s. Days after, I received my treasured gold medal in a painting contest – I won first place. He got the bronze, a third placer, the spot I humbly took the first time I joined.

I won the silent battle. 

showroom2

My apartment is becoming the showroom for my paintings.

That was many years ago, I was just more than a child then. But that childish rivalry served as catalyst for me to take my gift seriously. If nobody does, then at least I should be and that is my obligation, my way of paying tribute to the true source of the gift: my creator and my God.

I didn’t stop. I continue to enrich myself, I am a self-taught artist. I remember when I arrived here, one of the first places I searched and visited was the Art Institute Of Chicago. I can’t stop my tears, I was crying watching all the artworks – now I understand what my soul is hungry for.

I started painting again, July 2007. And the first person I gave a painting many years after, is the person who unselfishly believe I could win a painting competition back in college – We are grown ups now, away from home. But I always remember that at one point in my life there was Ronald who convinced me I could do wonders with my gift.

latest-001.jpg

Fish Of Mind” Oil On Canvas 30×38, By: Jeques B. Jamora, Oct. 31, 2007. (The first painting I gave away here in Chicago to payback the first person who believed I can paint and made me join the first painting competition I joined and won).

 

 Little by little, in my own slow pace I am feeding my hunger to cure my itch. Now more than ever, I am thankful I am a nurse, this profession I loathed at first for it took me away from my arts, brought me here and made me afford the materials I need to continue my self study. 

Every now and then I visit that child that draw in his loneliness and pat him on his back to reassure him he would be fine. I look back to that childish rivalry, to that contests. I treasure the medal, the achievement of winning that silent battle, but more than all that, I think the experience empowered me more than the prize.

showroom

I feel good viewing my paintings as they transform my apartment to the place I was dreaming as a child.

For more of my paintings, please click links to MY PAINTING PAGES

https://jeques.wordpress.com/while-you-are-away-2/

https://jeques.wordpress.com/my-paintings/

This week the writers island promts us to write about being “Empowered” and “Rivalry” this is my contribution.

Please visit the island, click link below to navigate to the writers island:

http://writersisland.wordpress.com/2008/02/29/prompt-link-empowered/


Meeting Of The Minds

moon2

A view of the moon from the Philippines

Kindred Spirits

Separated by time and space

From different corners of the world

Gaze at the same moon

In the same sky,

Though from different angles.

.

Their minds’ eyes meet

Their souls commune

Collaborating poetry.

moon1

A view of the moon from Chicago


The Flickering Lights (Over The Horizon)

Three things that relax me:

Morning walks,

the sea

and dreaming.

I used to walk every day before sunrise when I was still in the Philippines, and my morning walks would usually end in the beach that opens to the sea where I conceive my dreams. ‘Tis my daily pilgrimage and like any pilgrims, my walks, my short journey to the sea enriches me. There is much more wisdom gained in becoming than in being. It is in my daily walks that I composed many of my poetry, that I conceived many new and sometimes crazy ideas. I feel connected to the streams of inspirations, creativity over flows, I commune with nature, I am in-touch with my creator. 

I walk to understand life, I walk to find me.

 A Traveler’s Soliloquy (Prologue)

.

On the steep cliff at the edge of the coast,

Lies a vine that bears a rare white flower ~

Hanging in wait like a forlorn soul, lost.

.

The sirens of the calm ocean whisper;

Echoing with the mountains’ dirge like ghost.

These plangent cries pervade the dawn’s zephyr:

.

 “Let go of your clinging grip; it is time.

Your fate beacons from the unknown distance.

Hear the ringing of your destiny’s chime,

Answer the summons of this tenuous chance!”

.

 

The flower’s ineffable faith in life

Propels its heart to will to face its fears;

To transcend many generations’ strife,

And to fulfill the tales oft told by seers.

.

 

So, in the young hours of the morning,

Along the threnody crooned by the wind

The flower cut its thin fiber clinging.

To seize its future, this passage’s end ~

 

I arrive in the beach just before the sun appears over the horizon. I look at that boundary where the skies kiss the sea, you could not  tell where the earth ends and the heavens begin. It is one of the calmest scene one could ever see. I feel so small before the ocean and the arched skies. I am humbled by God’s genius painting the skies with colors that no artist could ever duplicate. And then slowly, some flashes of lights burst over the horizon that astounish me everytime. I am silenced. What comes next is a magical moment when the sun takes flight completely leaving its last kiss to the sea, the magical moment happens when the flickering lights appear like glitters strewn over the ocean.

The hepnotic flickering lights over the horizon inspire my reveries, promising endless possibilities. My dreams lie beyond the horizon: where the sea birds fly, where I saw the airplanes disappear, where the glitters are more brilliant.

Years later, I have crossed the sea. I soared in the skies higher than the sea birds, I went where the airplanes disappear, I alight in the land of endless possibilities to live my dreams. I arrived in the blank space over the horizon that I only used to watch in my morning walks, in the sea, in my dreams.

It was a journey that started with my morning walks, look where my dreams brought me. It is an enriching journey. the wisdom I gained along the way are the glitters I gathered that are now part of me. I am miles away from home – that’s the warm glow I watch over the horizon now. Somewhere behind that glow where the sun kiss the sea is my home, my reasons for coming here and where all these glitters I collect some day would belong.

Three things I wish I will have forever in my life:

Morning walks,

the sea

and dreams.

I could not tell where this three would bring me from where I am now. The flickering lights over the horizon beacon endless possibilities. New dreams are conceived, my heart is ready, I open my arms in acceptance.

A Traveler’s Soliloquy (Epilogue)

.

I reached the edge of the coast at twilight.

Walking back, I draw deep breaths of relief.

The sea is tinged with sunset’s crimson light.

On my path are flowers strewn on the reef.

I picked the salient flower in pure white,

When I looked up, I see vine-drapes on cliff.

 

 

 

 


Beneath Your Firm Grip

— 

2003, Philippines 

~ 

I am forever tracing in my mind

The creases in your palms,

When you pressed it close to mine ~

Your last strong grip,

Our last hand shake ~

Then we bade goodbye.

— 

2008, Chicago

We met again,

We said hello.

I anticiapated a hand shake

That never happened.

I waited.

And then,

In an unexpected moment

Your reach out your hand

For a hand shake.

I accepted.

In that brief moment

Beneath your usual firm grip

I trace the creases

In your palms I missed,

But they’re not there ~

.

We were wearing gloves.

‘Tis winter.

~


New Swimming Strokes

pensive-010.jpg

Life is becoming a routine for me lately. My moves are becoming mechanical. I am doing the things I did yesterday, but do I really have to do them again tomorrow? I look outside the window and some things align with my thoughts. I see the same faces walking the street by my window every day at a certain time going to, and coming back from work or to and from where life takes them. I do the same, is someone also watching me?

It’s 2008. This means completing another year cycle. The first few months I was here in Chicago were moments of surprises, seeing many new things. Would I still be amused looking at the colorful leaves falling just like I did when I saw it for the first time? Or would it become part of the boring cycle ~ unnoticed? Would I still look at the snow with amusement as I look at it now next year?

I am afraid to loss the curious child-like spark in my eyes. They made me paint and write poetry. I don’t want to loss the beauty in little things just because I don’t give them second glances anymore, as I allow myself to drift with the swirling stream of routines.  

It is 2008. I swim in the same pond of life, but I would like to learn different swimming strokes to keep me moving forward. 

Once in a while, I promise to jump, to sing, to smile and laugh and shout or to just swim against the tide. To be me. And just like a graceful fish jumping out of the water, I, too, could perhaps create new ripples to make the difference in the course of life.

I wish you well ~ Jeques


My First Snow(Re-posted for Writers Island)

Merry Christmas everyone!

The writing prompt this week at http://writersisland.wordpress.com/ is “This Season.” Thoughts battled in my mind on what to write and share to the islanders this week. I’m celebrating the holiday season this year in silence, work as usual and I’m intentionally ignoring the season being alone away from home, with my father in the hospital battling with cancer back in the Philippines ~ it’s quite depressing. But I don’t want to drag everyone to my own worries. I have so much to be grateful than to complain about. So I decided to re-post my entry about my first snow last year. “This season” is for kids, my first snow is the season that the child within me patiently waited. 

1st snow.

 My first snow, December, 2006.

Year 2006 

I feel restless unable to stay focused on my review class, there is that unsettling force of a child in me that could not wait. I tried to keep my eyes and ears to the lecture reminding myself that I need this review and I need to pass the NCLEX. But the longer I stay seated the more I become uncomfortable unable to absorb the lessons. My mind is somewhere outside. 

I excused myself out, taking the heat for a reason ~ it was turned high because of the anticipated snow storm tonight. I need a fresh air to breath. I went out of the building with only my sweater on to find out what makes this child-like unsettling force in me.

My eyes sparkle, I shiver from the mix cold and excitiement. I raise my head to the heavens, I opened my palms and my arms in acceptance ~ and for the first time, the snow touched my brown skin.

That is how I’m going to remember my first snow. You just don’t understand how that feels. I was 34 when I first saw and felt my first snow touching my brown skin. The child inside me waited for that moment. It was bliss.100_00631.JPG

My first snow, December, 2006 

~

The morning after.

I draw the curtain open and from the window I saw the world around me had turned white overnight. I view it wide-eyed like a child. The images of the lovely tracks of vehicles and shoes in the snow-covered grounds was captured in mind and printed in my heart forever.  

~

Today, already an RN, I walk fast the concrete side walk, cotton soft to my steps with 5 inches of snow that carpet my path. The icy winds brush my my face with frozen kisses carrying my thoughts to distant past. I watch a child viewing a christmas card of snow dreaming of white christmas.

The child has arrived.


Waif In Search Of Home

batch-93-037.jpg

Chicago, my initial attempts on Photography

Chicago
By: Jeques B. Jamora

You welcomed me with your cold embrace

Showered me with leaves, like confitti, from your trees.

Their dying colors doubled my sadness.

Your quick to console me with your snow flakes kisses.

I don’t see myself growing old in a place like this.

Even in your shelter I feel homeless.

~

 

Snow~1

snow#1, my initial attempts on photography

Filipino Immigration (Haiku series #6 & 10)

~

Odd drizzling showers

Frozen waters on brown skin

Drenched soul shivering.

~

~

Arriving Sandals

Carry cleaving specks of home

Brown shoe-tracks on snow.

~

latest-004.jpg

snow#2 my initial attempts on photography.