Taming This Tyke's Voice Since 2007

garden

Invaluable

 

Thoughts race past cobblestones.

Shadow trails behind

Unnoticed

In the green of day,

Rapture-tinged with blooms.

invaluable bloom

 

Gloom conceded.

The once empty lamp post

Now lighted.

 

Images popped

And dissolved in the air ~

Faces passed me by swiftly ~

Acquaintances sealed loosely

With fluffy smile,

Unsure hellos

And unsaid goodbyes.

 

There were no street lamps

To mark those encounters

(Forgotten)

Like the dandelions’

Worthless beauty

Here now in brilliant yellow

Tomorrow but fluffy seeds

Blown by the winds

To uncertainty grounds

That may welcome

Or uproot them as weeds.

fluffy smile

 

Walking past cobblestones of life,

I found you in the corner

Of the road I travel

And took a single fluffy seed

Of smile from your fleeting presence

And planted it in the garden

Of my heart

Where there’s no wind

To blow your memories away,

For you are priceless.

 

lamp post

You are the lamp

That brought light

To the once empty post

That casted shadows

In the corner of the road

I walked every day.

 

For others,

You are but a dandelion.

For me,

You are an invaluable

Bloom.

“Weeds are flowers too, once you get to know them.”
~ A. A. Milne
 

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

 

 


While You Are Away

Suddenly, a dike that held the ideas I searched for more than a year now, just burst open and flooded me with inspirations I was caught by the current of the gentle streams, and found myself stranded in front my easel painting again.

memories-from-home-004

(“Our Eden” Oil On Canvas 24X30 By: Jeques B. Jamora, 022709)

I stopped painting in November, 2007. That was when my father was hospitalized for the last and the longest time before he died in January, 2008.  My painting with the working title,”Pending Life,” is still unfinished and I decided to just leave it that way. When I went home to the Philippines for his funeral, I have planned in my head that when I return to Chicago, I will continue where I have left off but things didn’t turn out easy for me. There was a long drought of ideas, and I was just demotivated returning in front my easel.

I came back with a heap of image materials I collected from home I planned to use for my paintings, but I let them sleep in my computer. It was a year of dormancy, of distance from my arts, but I have written rich poetry and prose. The leave of absence of one passion, the working season for the other.

And then it returned, images suddenly haunt me. I tried to capture them in words at first mistaking them for poetry but they are so vivid they are tangible, I can almost touch the colors. Winter was the season of courtship with the ideas. One by one I befriend them, I tried to capture the hue, the contrasts, the idea, the images that formed in the canvas of my imagination and I listened to what it is telling me.

And then came the title, WHILE YOU ARE AWAY: Memories From Home. This is a collection of painting ideas I conceived since I was a kid, but didn’t have the resources to put them on canvas. The collection is the union of the rich ideas from childhood with my present state of mind. They use to be just dreams, and time had given me power to give them forms and shapes and colors.

This is my journey, a walk back to my art path I strayed many times.

This is the new beginning, my new frontier to my passion that appears to be new, but the road is strangely familiar like I have been here before, in my dreams, as a lost young artist, before you found me.

Have I finally stepped into our eden that I created long ago?  

For us ~

While you are away.


While I Was Waiting

Waiting, I sit on the city’s park-bench

And observe the busy pedestrian

Like a parade, as time moves in a cinch.

.

Some images conjure up memories

Bringing pain back that feels like heart pinch.

Reminding me of sad journal entries.

.

Some happy thoughts, too, unreel in my mind

As strangers traverse the concrete walk ways.

Evoking flashbacks like films in rewind.

.

People swarm the makeshift stalls of flowers

Picking colorful blooms in varied kinds.

Their petal droppings are lovely litters.

But I doubt it would be conspicuous

To the eyes of a city street sweeper

Whose life a routine and contenuous.

.

A grain of sweat trickles on my forehead.

My body reaction is congruous

To summer heat ~ it shines like precious bead.

.

The sounds of busy traffic in the street

Subdue the past’s bells ringing in my head.

Years go on, but things hasn’t changed a bit.

.

And then, I feel light pats on my shoulder.

I see your face, my waiting is over.

When was the last time you paid attention to the details of life? ~ Jeques


Lovely Droppings

Now that my petals

Are starting to fall,

I fear

If you would still think

Of my colors

When I am gone.

Would you still recall

My sun-kissed hue

If winter

Would cover me

With its freezing blankets

Of snow?

Would you hold me

In my sleep

And keep

My warm thoughts

In your memory?

At spring time,

Would you wait

For my re-birth

To start life anew?

To welcome you.

We’ll bathe

In love

Under the sun.

To grow

Bunch of buds

Of cherished moments.

But soon,

The summer sun

Would be ending.

Before it sets,

Let me leave you

With lovely droppings.

May my colors

Would sustain us

‘Til next spring.

‘Til I see you again.


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)

 

 

 

 

 


His Name Is Ethan

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 ethanI would like to tell you about my first bonsai tree, 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 His name is Ethansummer 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.

I found Ethan still a seedling just starting to grow wild under the coconut tree in our backyard. He is a rare specie from the Balete(Rubber tree) family often found only in the forests. He must be a seed from those trees brought here by birds’ droppings. My natural liking for plants His name is Ethaninstantly draw me to his 5 verdant leaves. I replanted him and his first home was an empty tin can of milk.

Quietly, I spent my summer wondering where to go, reaching the end of my road, while I watch Ethan grow new leaves. To him, I was a broken guardian; and him a soothing green that healed my broken soul.

~

What now with my broken wings?

I wonder now if I could fly again.

Will the winds of time save me from falling?

Tell me, where will I go from here?

~

What now with my wounded spirit?

I wonder now if I could rise from here.

Is there a pill that can mend this pain,

Would I ever have the courage to fight again?

~

His name is EthanMy highschool years was a mess. I lost interest in everything. Like a seedling uprooted, I drifted with the uncertain currents of my young life. I slept my way through highschool, I was in section F of our batch,  a picture of defeat at 15. Looking back now, I feel I only did one thing right those years ~ I planted Ethan. 

God always have his way to pull our strings and bring us back to shores when we lost our ways His name is Ethanin the ocean. He did and he put me in a nursing school. The least I thought I would become for a profession, but the course served me double purpose: I got a degree while I nursed my heart’s scars through college. Ethan grew into a maniature tree with dense leaves and 2 main branches by now. We practically grew up together. I trimmed his roots and leaves year after year, trained his trunk to lean to the direction it would look best, molding him into a lovely tree in a pot that he had become. While I became a nurse.

His name is EthanIt was sad to leave him home when it was time for me to go to find my place in the real world after college. But I had to do what I needed to do. And for the first time he was out of my life. I have risen and had moved on from my previous defeat. I never saw him for 5 long years. When I went home, we already moved to a new house in the city and then I remembered Ethan.

It was a sad reunion for us. He lost his beautiful form the last time I saw him. My mother cut His name is Ethanone of his main branches the previous year not knowing what to do with his uncontrolled growth. He was like an old friend with over grown mustache and beard unrecognizable when I saw him during my home-coming. He has a scar in the heart of his trunk from the branch that was cut off. I bleed inside seeing this friend who was once there for me  to soothe my pain with his green silence.

His name is Ethan I started trimming, grooming, molding him again making the best out of the one branch that was left. His cecatrix added beauty to his new form. 3 years after he surprised me with abundant fruits in his branches to show me that he is a full grown tree now. He inspired me to grow more bonsai trees and he became a big brother to all of them. I was home for 8 years spending every day moments with him sitted in that quiet side of our garden with the pond under.

His name is EthanWhen I moved to Chicago in 2006, he’s one thing in my life back home that’s hard to let go. He is part of our conversations over the phone whenever I call home. I made sure my nephews and nieces are taking care of him. I left him to their care for I know it is time for him to touch their young life like he did to me.

During my home-coming, I always have a blast reunioniting with family. But in my His name is Ethansolitude, I have a silent reunion with Ethan. I spend quiet moments in the garden with him  towering over me when I’m sitted ~ God, how he has grown sturdy like a seasoned tree. I  took shelter in his canopy of green leaves, I felt the cool breeze of his breath in the wind ~ he has grown to become the guardian of my once broken soul. 

It is when the seed is almost destroyed that it is about to grow. I understand that better now with Ethan. I went through the lowest point in my life and manage to rise like a seed. Yes, our cicatrix add beauty to our forms.

Ethan and I ~ time healed our wounds and left us marks adding beauty to our forms ~ we stand firm and sturdy.


“1sts” (#3 Plant)

Some live to hunt; I came to life to plant.”

~

The first living thing I planted is a stem cutting from a “Camote”(sweet potato). My mother uses the shoot tips for her fish stew. I observe her while she’s preparing the food, when my child-like curiosity made me ask her how the vegetable is grown?

“The cuttings,” she replied.

What happened next, she picked and handed me one cutting from the waste box and there I was, 3 years old, planting my first farm of potato in a pot. I would visit my new potted friend each morning patiently waiting for any sign of life from the stem partly covered with earth. I can still recall my surprise one morning finding some changes during my regular check. It was magical to my young eyes seeing tiny greens sprouting from a seem lifeless piece of stem. The sprig grew long with the passing of day, as new leaves replaced the pared parts my mother used for her stew.

The progress are exciting source of story I told my sibling everytime they arrive from school. I have learned from them later on that the  steamed“camote” (sweet potato) we ate for snacks are “over-grown” roots of the plant. My curiousity of the leaves waned as I become more interested with the roots, observing the soil closely, digging its roots to check for any growth thinking of the sweetest potato produce from my potted farm.

My childhood curiosity killed my first plant – that same curiosity that once breath life to it. I woke up one morning finding my wilted plant, and no amount of water can bring it back to life – or perhaps I over watered it – and for the first time, I grieved for the first living thing I lost.

“You have touched its roots prematurely,” my mother told me. I know better about plants since then..

This is where my love for plants started. The garden brings back beautiful childhood memories. The passion remains in me to these days, the roots has grown deep in me. I have to mention that at thirteen, I planted my first bonsai tree, I gave it a name: Ethan. I am 35 now, which makes Ethan my 22-year old potted friend. My story with Ethan is still on going. It is crazy, but I miss my plants back home.

~

Shepherds Of Life (Senryu)

Hunters live to take

While planters exist to give

They’re shepherds of life.

~Ethan, my 22-year-old bonsai

Ethan, my 22-year-old bonsai. I’ll write about him next time.

 


Lavish Summer Inspirations

It is summer morning,

Armed with note pads, a pen

And a mind ready for take off,

I fasten my seatbelt

In a corner

underneath the bower of trees

At our home’s secret garden.

 

The dainty sunshine lights my face,

And the spider webs

On the twigs in front of me.

There’s really nothing in my head to write,

So I opened the windows of my mind

And the door of my heart

To weave glossy web of thoughts

To invite and capture

Lavish summer inspirations.

 

I listen to the rustling sounds

Of leaves as the winds blow

Through the garden’s green roofs ~

Their reflections move on the pads

Like mystic shadows tracing my writings,

Flirting with my thoughts.

Scents of ilang-ilang flowers wafting in the air.

Enticing incessant winged bystanders ~

Bees, butterflies, grasshoppers ~

They signal summer!

 

Random summer thoughts swarm my mind,

So I open the draperies of my heart

And tie the curtains apart

To welcome showers of summer inspirations

Bathing my fiery soul with cool emotions.

 

The birds’ repertoire are unusually merry.

They seem to rejoice with my company,

Or perhaps ’tis my heart I’m hearing

In tune with the beats of summer.

 

Outrageous blooms of bougainvilleas

Against the white wooden verandas

Festive contrasting colors

Treat the eyes with priceless raptures

Make one crave for summer flavors ~

Buko juice, fruit shake, iced cola

Water melon, pineapple, mangoes, papaya

Garnished with flowers of gumamela.

 

‘Tis the season for lavish summer fiesta!

 

The writers island invites us to write on the prompt this week: “Outrageous,” I thought of using the word in a more positive note. Please visit http://writersisland.wordpress.com to be inspired.


Be The Best That You Could Be

tree
~
If you are a tree
Be the best tree that you could be
Allow the hands of time
To mold your body
Be a sturdy seasoned tree
That you could be.

 

 If you’re not a tree

But a shrub only,

Be the best shrub that flourish

Your sight people will cherish.

 

herb

If you’re not a shrub

But a herb only,

Be the best herb that heals

So people may live.

weeds

If you’re not a herb

But a weed only,

Be the best grass that’s green.

To console the people in pain.

The Best

And If fate would not make you any,

Then be just the soil maybe.

A fertile soil where seeds

Of herbs and weeds

And shrubs and trees would grow.

              .

 Somehow, you would live in them;

You will bring them life ~

Becoming the best that you could be.

~

If a man is called to be a street sweeper, he should sweep streets even as Michaelangelo painted or Beethoven posed music or shakespeare wrote poetry. He should sweep streets so well that all the hosts of heaven and earth will pause to say, here live a great street sweeper who did his job so well. ~ Martin Luther King

~

And when I die strew my dust-remains in the earth so trees may grow.

This week, the http://writersisland.wordpress.com prompts us to write about Persistence. I think this is how it should be.


Rising: Welcoming The Light

~

As I draw the curtains open ~

Welcoming the lights to my room ~ in the morning,

I’m warmly greeted by ethereal scenery

From my window of the garden.

.

Velv’ty petals, captivating.

Ferns’ fronds waving, pruned bonsai trees, green leaves sparkling.

The morning dew trickles on the leaves, like pearls dripping.

My secret treasures, my blessings.

.

Along, a light soundtrack playing

Of winds whistling and birds in the background chirping.

Close eyes, I inhaled the eucalyptus essence

Wafting the air of the morning.

.

A breeze steals me a tender kiss

In my mind, I draw someone’s face, and lips, and wished.

Evanescence, with open eyes my wish vanished.

‘Tis gone, like a dream, leaves no trace.

.

Fruits mellow as I wake today.

Seeds sprout, birds perch and nestle in the mango tree.

Fishes swim in the pond, confined yet feeling free.

Tendrils cling, vines rising, like me.

~