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
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 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 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
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,
I love New York
But it didn’t love me back.
I contented myself
With passing glances
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.
When you wake up,
I hope you recognize
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.
Jeques at Stairway to heaven. Time Square, New York, January 2009
Darkness slowly fades
Daylights gradually emerge
Year two thousand eight.
Happy New Year Bloggers of the World!
On reeds, birds’ broods are nestled
Fishes swim beneath.
Farmer’s makeshift hut
Hedged in by verdant paddies
What’s that noise I hear?
Ah, frogs in the pond croaking
Praise God for the rain.
Chicago, my initial attempts on Photography
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, my initial attempts on photography
Filipino Immigration (Haiku series #6 & 10)
Odd drizzling showers
Frozen waters on brown skin
Drenched soul shivering.
Carry cleaving specks of home
Brown shoe-tracks on snow.
snow#2 my initial attempts on photography.
(A corner in my apartment where some of my paintings are displayed, space for my readings, and home to my lifeless companion click here for my other paintings: http://www.flickr.com/photos/16275015@N04/ )
It was my day off from work yesterday so I cleaned my apartment. Cleaning my space means renewal to me ~ I just don’t rearrange the furnitures, I’m rearranging my life.
Clearing my space from clutters and throwing objects that are not working takes so much of my time when cleaning. It’s just so hard to decide and let go of something that worked well for awhile. So I have this area for objects I can’t let go for now. But once this part of the cleaning is done, everything else are easier to do.
Next, I blow or should I say kiss the cosmic dusts out of my place, and off they go to reunite with the stars. Dusts are once part of our bodies that we scrub off. They unite with other particles to become cosmic dusts and one day find its way to the stars. We all once belong to the stars, we are cosmic dusts and to the stars we will all return. Cleaning my room, cosmic dusts ~ look where it brought me?
Tiny long-legged spiders weave their webs in the ceiling and secluded corners of my apartment. If I don’t clean regularly, I’m afraid they would put up a village in my apartment and they’re my most unwelcomed guests. But somehow, these little creatures serve their purpose of reminding me to clean up.
Woven insect traps
On window of misty dawn
Catch the slant sunlight.
Cleaning makes me find lost objects. It is surprising how things get into some corners and find them when I’m not even looking. I remember my frustrations not finding it when needed, only to discover that it was here all along.
The closet is the most interesting space to clean and arrange, there’s poetry in its every corner like my heart, my closet.
I need to clear my closet of my past.
‘Tis muddled like a clumsy poetry.
Emancipation frees my self at last.
A closet cleaned is like a heart that’s free.
While cleaning out my closet’s shelves today,
I found some things too good for me to toss.
I’ll keep them, they might be of use some day.
My reveries veer and back to my muse.
It’s hard for me to let go and forget you,
For I am like a ship, you anchored me.
I know that you are always good as new,
So in my core I place your memory.
You are safe here, though I don’t know how long.
You are my home, my heart’s where you belong.
Rearranging furnitures is what I like best. It makes the significant mark in the cleaning. It is amusing to think that when I finish arranging things, I always thought that everything are in place. But a week later, some objects just seem off and out of place in the total look of my space: could be the color, the shape, the angle. I always find faults in my own making. This explains that nothing really remains constant in life. However perfect we perceived something at one point, time changes things and so is the way we look at them.
Something has changed in me in every passing of time. I move forward, I let go, leave something behind and take something with me everytime. I accept freshness, I’m still me, but renewed. It occurs to me just now, cleaning my apartment could also mean cleaning my self from clutters of unwanted thoughts, clearing my mind from cobwebs of worries, rearranging my life and letting go of obsolute ideas to embrace a fresh and better perspective.
Cleaning my apartment and becoming a cosmic dust ~ I’m with the stars. I’m home.
Smoky scent of woods
Slowly burning at sunbreak
Of my childhood lost.
Scents of morning after rain
The sun is rising.
Salty ocean breeze
Caressing the hair and face
Of the grown up boy.
Sweet smell of cut grass
Brings the boy back to school grounds ~
Mirths of used to be.
I forgot to post this here, It’s from the thread I once created in another site.
Now, What scents remind you of childhood?
Fish peers through heavens,
Sky revere her own image
On the placid lake
I would be working long hours this weekend. I will be back sunday afternoon, American time.
I wish you well.
I write because I feel that something inside me needs to be said, a voice wanting to be heard, a seed needing to see the light of day. . .
I discovered that when I express myself in writing, I need an ideal shape and form for my thoughts to be fully understood. I allow my heart and my intuition to guide me to pick the right pattern to entwine with the music of my soul that gives rhythm to my poetry. I value clarity and honesty, they are the be-all and end-all of my works.
I write my poems because I feel them, I believe them, they are my truth ~ they are me. I don’t give my pieces limitations as to their form and shape. Some pieces want to be all over the pages like a simple poetic journal entry. . .
“what now? I don’t know. I ride the tides, sail with the wanton winds lossing my anchor. Wherever it will take me, there I am. I just hope one day the tides and the winds will take this vessel back to you to anchor me. . . “
Some wanted to be written in free verse. . .
Offer abundant inspirations.
Some occur only in my imagination
Silent illusions ~
Writings done initially in the mind:
Dreams in my sleep.
But like seeds seeing the light of day,
They sprout from their coats
And display colorful blooms
When I awake.
They become sketches in words ~
Stories, poems, music of my soul
Written on pages.
Stories not told die.
Dreams remain in the shadows
If we don’t live them.
Random thoughts nag me.
My hands itch to write
My body has to live my thoughts.
I allow them.
And that’s when Poetry Becomes me.
Other thoughts are expressed better in Haiku. . .
Enthroned on placid blue sea
Crowned by fluffy clouds.
Senryu. . .
Hunters live to take
Gardeners exist to give
But both shepherd life.
Tanka. . .
The best of prayers
Are chants from the heart in songs.
I don’t have a gift
A voice to pray in a song.
So I’m praying though my poems.
Others may need to be written in vignette. . .
As the sun sets to the west
I lay, shut-eyed, on its chest.
The eastern breeze pass a gentle whisk on my face.
I listen closely to the songs of the sea
As the waves come home
Like a lover breaking down
To the chest of the waiting shore.
I lay there and wait.
While some require refinements like in sonnet. . .
A Walk Around The Oval
Once more I walk the oval track today,
And ponder yet again, “What is my role?”
Am I just making circles every day
In life’s arena, like an errant soul?
I walk around the never ending trail:
A fallen leaf caught in a swirling stream;
Or like an army, ever locked in drill.
I am engrossed and walk in my own dream.
Some strangers share my lane but not my muse.
You’re far, and yet, our thoughts are much the same;
I’m not alone then in the road I choose;
Beyond the oval someone shares my lane.
In you my lonesome soul finds home to stay,
For in my heart you’re near, you’re here with me.
And still others are better left as prose.
I listen to my heart when chosing a structure because if I follow my mind, free verse just disguises the laziness in my thoughts and execution, and the formal verse just sugar-coats my bloodless triviality. The heart recognizes the difference, and so I write only with my heart.
Most of my earlier works are written in the morning when my job still allow me to wake up at dawn for my morning pages. Now that I work night shift, afternoon becomes my morning ~ so it is safe to say that I write when I rise, whatever the time of day. It is important that I capture my thoughts as soon as it start to reveal itself because when I miss them, they are lost forever. It’s like an entangled thread that I need to find its loose end and writing helps me untangle my thoughts to clarity.
“Tis great to think with a free mind;
’tis wonderful to love with an unretrained heart.”
These words speak my life’s mantra, and I found my enlightenment by writing.
I hope my written works, the songs of my soul will find home in your hearts. Because when you read them, you’re listening to this tyke’s voice, and I allow you to take a peek to my waif soul.
I wish you well.
Signs Of Autumn (Haiku)
Found leaf on the sand
Brought by wanton winds of fall
My signs of autumn.
signs of autumn #2 – my initial attempt on photography
I’m watching the leaves falling from the trees outside my window as I write this. Autumn is now on its full-blown glory, trees are displaying their colorful raptures before their leaves descend like showers of confetti, covering the earth floors as if some royalties are coming to walk the path.
Just some weeks ago, I was looking forward to this. Autumn came a little late this year. I was so eager, I searched for signs of autumn in places I went and found only some hints of the impending season.
The leaves do their final waves to the heavens. For the last time, they flirt with the chilly winds and take a bow to a graceful touch down leaving the sleepy trees with bald canopy. I watch the unfolding pageantries outside as I ponder upon my personal journey inside.
I am at the peak of life’s summer season. I still have a sunny temperament as I celebrate my existence. I’m still capable of reinventing myself, welcoming new things, embrace them with child-like enthusiasm and with a grown-up patience. But like I did weeks back, I’m also searching myself for signs of autumn. For I know that soon, I, too, will fall on the same ground and take my final bow. I remember a beautiful line from the movie, My House In Umbria ~ “We can not hold on to something beautiful forever, even to summer.”
And so, here I am, in the middle of fall, caught on the web of profound contemplations. Could this be an indication of my autumn?
I’m becoming more of a mind person now than physical that I used to be when I was younger. I now prefer the laid back than the hurried kind of lifestyle which I enjoyed in my teen’s to late 20’s. My idea of fun has mellowed like my taste for music. I’m beginning to like the classic ways of dressing ~ gone is my peacock choice for colors. I would now be a pale leaf when placed among the verdant leaves of youth. I’m fading to earth tone colors, but keeping to memory my colorful youth.
I still have enough years to spend before my autumn. Instead of fearing it, I’d like to face it head-on. Like the leaves, I would like to display my best waves to heavens. I’m taking aging cheerfully like I’m taking my being single lightly.
30’s And Still Single(Humor Poem)
By: Jeques B. Jamora
When you’re still single at your 30’s
You’re apt to be asked with some questions.
Like I’m always asked during weddings by my Aunties:
“So, are you next in line?” (to get married)
I oft find this question so annoying,
But I don’t get mad, I just get even.
So during funerals When I meet them,
Please don’t dare me ask them that same question:
“So, are you next in line?” (to be burried)
For I’ll surely get a slap in my face.
I would like to dally some more with the winds, and with life. I would like to display my brilliant hues before they finally fade, before I totally loss my colors and perform my final bow to a slow graceful landing.
I would like to come home to my creator and bring Him good stories and tell Him: “God, here I am, I did all that. I’ve come home.”
My Anthropomorphism To A Leaf
By: Jeques B. Jamora, 2006
Leaves are like pages, as books are trees.
I, a leaf in God’s verdant forests ~
A single thread on earth’s tapestries.
I awake in the morning of springtime
Lift my face towards the azure skies
I’m in tune with the universe’s rhyme.
I dance with the rhythms of mild zephyr
That oscillates me with its genial whisks
God’s omnipresence fills my need for air.
I am cleansed by the pristine rain shower,
Moisturized by mists, polished by the winds ~
I glow with the steady gaze of summer.
When I turn red and fall on October,
I hope you create something out of me,
Before my descent to earth in winter.
I could be greeting cards for lonely hearts.
Write a poem about my fleeting life.
Immortalize my beauty in your arts.
Insert me in the page of your book,
For ’tis in your core that I’ll find my nook.
signs of autumn #1 – my initial attempt on photography
Nameless white flowers
Embellish ancient brick walls
Unsung Heroes’ tombs.
Moss on old mansion
Home to mystic evening dove.
Cause of her decay.