Taming This Tyke's Voice Since 2007

Dream

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.

 

 

 

 

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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


Sweet Surrender

How did you know I’m here?

And you send me the same sunrise

That woke my many childhood mornings.

Only now it greets me every day here

In the other side of the world.

"Our Load" oil on canvas 30x24 by Jeques B. Jamora, 2009

How did you know I went here?

And you secretly filled my luggage with memories

To last me the many years that I’m away.

You equipt me with fuel,

Enough to survive me a lifetime.

 

How did you know I’m longing?

And you send me short notes that keep me sane

Messages brought here by the winds,

Postcards in the blossoms of flowers,

Your hand written letters in the night skies.

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

How did you know the things I need?

You read my heart like the open pages

You keep me in the right direction,

And when at times I drift away

You send me signals, I am safe.

 

How did you know about my dreams?

You give my wishes a sense of place,

All the elements  in order at the right time.

You taught me to see the beauty in waiting

And hand me the key to the doors of being.

 

If you know all these how could I doubt you?

You made the arrangements beforetime.

I throw myself to the morrow in sweet surrender,

For I trust the guarantee of predestined schemes ~

Where the cushion of your will awaits.

Impending sunset captured snapshot by Jeques B. Jamora, Philippines 2010

 

If you have leafed through the pages of my soul,

Then there’s no reason for me to fear.

You know exactly this wanting I keep inside me,

Soon a name will fill the space I left blank.

The word I searched to complete my sentences is in your hand.

 

I welcome the impending sunset,

Knowing you would be there to sit beside me.

For now, I gather the rich harvest of my midday

Getting ready in anticipation

For the sunrise of your arrival.

 

I trust the will of time this way,

In sweet,  sweet surrender.

Jeques awaiting sunset in the makeshift hut by the river

~

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

 

 

 

 

 


Mind Games and Coloring Books

 

Soar with me to heights unbounded,

Dreams go on and on

Defying concrete fences

Built by customs’

Narrow bounderies.

 

We can fly high and re-arrange stars

Put them to places we want them

Or take them home if we should,

Linger for awhile if we would

We are the law

In the mind games

I would play with you.

 

We’ll assign the stars colors

Give the comets names

Like we did in coloring books as kids

And for a moment we were  the gods

Controlling the the courses of the universe

As we please.

 

I’d like to wake you up

Where the lashes of the forests

Grew unruly,

Where litters are beautiful,

Orderly not good,

And neatness is not known

Under my decorated skies.

"our mirths" oil on canvas 36x36 by Jeques B. Jamora, 2009

I’d swim with you in the ocean

Where nobody drowns

And the raindrops swim with us,

Crown our heads 

Bejeweled with brilliant wreaths

As we emerge in the surface

Sharing mirths.

 

Let me invite you in a repast

From the bounty of my harvest

Where beverages flow no end.

We don’t have to worry

For the banquet replenishes,

And we don’t have to gain weight

For the body regulates itself.

 

Stroll with me in a leisurely walk

Where time freezes to four o’clock

When the sun is friendly,

The wind acquiesce as the crowd consenting,

And the perfumed path we chose

Under the canopy of greens and blooms

Ends in the sea where the sunset

Prepared us a breath-taking show

In the altar of the gods.

 

Let us hold hands

In the silence of the songs

That our hearts sing in unison,

Promising vows of forever

Witnessed by the dances of the dolphins

Recorded  by the ears of the ocean

Encapsulated by the infinite seashells

Strewn in the bed of sands

Of the seashore where our feet

Are planted in the grounds

Of a home we found in each other.

 

If I could have things my way

I would play mind games

And spend coloring books with you,

But if not,

Would you still love me?

 

Jeques, 2010


Unrequited

 

 

I understand the books in the shelf,

Untouched. Covers gathering dusts

Pages turn yellow, words unread,

Wisdom unhearkened.

Banquet prepared by writers

Wasted to termites

Leaving disinterested heads unfed,

Hearts failed, voices neglected.

 

I understand the bud in the wild

That awakens at dawn, 

But nobody drops a visit til midday,

Not a single butterfly, not a bee,

And wilts unnoticed at the end of day.

 

I understand the tree along the river

Bearing fruits all summer;

Realeases sweet odor filling the air

Inviting reapers, but nobody came.

Fruits dropping in the stream like tears,

Wasting her gifts again this year.

 

I understand the green patch of meadow

Hedged by dense forests, bordered by a cliff

Pruned by gazelles and deers

Year after year,

But nobody ever arrives with a mat to picnic;

Not a single soul carrying an easel reaches to paint.

Picturesque view wasted on the wilds.

 

I understand the sea-shells stranded

In a far-flung coast, unfrequented,

That the surf polish

And washed white by the brines

But no one comes to pick them for souvenir.

Encapsuled songs of the ocean

No one hears.

 

I understand the fate of weeds that grow

In the unwanted crevices

Of the concrete pavements of the city, 

Sprouting to embellish her flaws

Cruelly treated, uprooted, tossed.

Seemingly, life undeserved.

 

I understand the child begging for mercy

Strayed in the maze of life

Without the guidance of a father.

Growing without a map to follow

With promising tomorrow to give,

But dreams wasted on vagabond.

 

I feel for the logs decaying in the forests;

Treasures lost in the ocean;

Shipwrecks forming rusts in the harbor.

 

I feel sorry for a bench 

That awaits in the park

Comes sunshine or rain;

Pews empty on sundays.

Envelopes not opened,

Letters left unread, unanswered.

 

I understand the purity of intentions,

Unrequited.

 

I feel for every little things

With so much to offer,

But are never given the chance.

 

Unanswered beaconing of the church bells.

 

When are you going to pick up

My heart’s calls?

 

 

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


Always The Right Cup

 

Some days,

Like now,

I turn the faucet on

But nothing comes out.

I stare,

Turns it back off

And wait.

 

There’s this thirst inside.

Sometimes I thought,

Perhaps I picked the wrong cup

To catch the down pour

That would not come.

 

I waited too long

To quench this wanting.

But still waited.

Waited

And forgot about my thirst.

 

Some other times,

I slide the sill open

Needing the sun

That’s hidden behind the walls

Of clouds

Portending storm.

But what would I need rain

Those times when my heart is flooded?

 

Often I thought,

I should have shut it close,

But still kept the sill open

And waited.

Waited

Until I slept waiting

For things

That would not be there

When needed.

In waiting

I forget. And still

Wake up to another day

With hopes

Renewed.

 

The water runs

From the faucet most days.

There’s rain when it’s the season.

Not all days,

But there’s the sun ~

They happen in succession

For a reason.

 

Dreams – nights, days – and reveries.

In your absence,

And in waiting

I understood:

 

There’s no such thing

As a wrong cup.

It’s in how I fill it up

And with what.