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.
My Genesis
~
I delight watching things from their outset,
I am soothe to see the genesis of things.
They remind me of the child, the curious eyes
Ever sparkling within.
I see beauty in simpleness of anything even at their lowly outset,
For they possess the genuine truth of precious purity.
They remind me of my beginnings
Like the water glorybinds(kangkong) growing wild in the marshes,
They bring back memories of the backyards
Of some houses I lived as a child.
Water glorybind, river spinach,swamp cabbage, whatever name you call it, for me its "Tangkong" Pencil, pen and ink on paper by Jeques B. Jamora, 2010
In some quiet afternoons during my untamed moments,
I would sit motionless in a corner facing the swamp in our backyard
Listening to the soothing sounds, the slightest of movements
In the still water at one o’clock
When the world in my young mind
Takes a nap with my mother on her siesta.
I would sneak out of the house through the backdoor
To celebrate the joy of my earliest found solitude
In the company of nature ~
Befriending the dragonflies hovering over my head,
The birds nestling in the reeds,
The snails petiently taking thier journeys from one rock to the next,
While my mind quietly travels to the unknown future
Interrupted by occasional sightings of the gourami
That stir the still water creating tiny ripples on the surface.
But the highlight of the afternoon is the rare sighting of the mudfish(dalag)
Making that splash and swashing sound and wild movements
In the dense growth of the water glorybinds as it swims back to the bushes of reeds,
Where the water of the marshes is knee deep and the herons(tagak) nest.
That magical moment of brief beautiful chaos tickles purest joy of childhood madness.
Cherished memories from my genesis ~
My earliest form of entertainment: my humble version of television,
Or a theatre; watching a movie or a concert ~ my idea of a grand show
Happening in our backyard in an atypic stage, in a silverscreen of water glorybinds
Where the dragonflies, the frogs, the birds, the gourami, the snails, the herons, the mudfish
Are the stars, and I, their sole audience.
The show ends with the voice of my mother calling my name at four o’clock.
That’s when the curtains drop,
The world wakes up,
As I walk back home to the door of my genesis.
"The Dragonfly and I"
—
Jeques, 2010. From his “Traveler’s Soliloquies poetry collection.
Underneath Your Sheltering Canopy
~
Under your sheltering canopy
In the safety of your embrace
Beneath your reassuring grip
Certainty returns.
Like the shadow of the clouds
Passing by on a midday.
Such fleeting moments
Of alternating shadow and light:
Long absence,
Brief presence,
And the silent anticipations in between
Fuel hope, keep the heart pounding
To reach another waiting shade
Along the way
To rest
Underneath your sheltering canopy.
"Portrait of Ethan" Pencil, ink and pen on paper by Jeques B. Jamora, 2010 ("Ethan" is my Bonsai tree I planted when I was 13, he is now 24 years old).
His Name Is Ethan
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.
I mentioned the seminary because I planted Ethan the summer after I was kicked out. I was 13 years old with wings broken. Nobody really cared to listen to my side of the story especially my father. My mother, as always, was there to console me ~ in silence. I was left alone in the corner to leak my own wound to heal. At that lowest point of my life, for a reason that I’m just beginning to understand now, God sent me Ethan to care. I always had some loner tendencies as a kid. That summer and years after that I became withdrawn, misunderstood. Gone was the child full of life, I fell down so low I never thought I could ever rise again.
For more about “Ethan,” please click image below >>>
Hi name is Ethan, 24.
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
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 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
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.
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.
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
Better Days
We’ve seen better days,
But are now diffused
In colors, in lights
With the passing of time
As it nears twilight.
I watch waves of parting
As the sun sets,
Recalling, clinging
Til the delicate fibers
Of better days shared
I held on so long
Slip away.
Better days hover
In places we’ve been
And things we’ve done.
I sigh driving around roads,
Enmeshed in the gossamer
Of memories we left behind
When time knows no bounds
And deadlines.
Joyous raptures
I spend in retrospection
Like letters sent from the past
I read too late.
We had such moment
Of better days,
But wasted
To the ever changing landscapes
We throw ourselves off
Unguarded,
Cascading like waterfalls
Lost in endless gorges
Never to return,
Flooding ravines
With tears.
Trickling
Streaming
Flowing
Surrendering to the ebbs
Of destiny
That would empty
Us to the reservoir of fate
That would bring our union
To the same end
At the right time
Where dawn of endless lights
And lasting colors
Of better days
Await.
—–
Jeques, 2009. From his poetry collection, “A Traveler’s Soliloquies”
Eventide
I feel its presence
Unsually more often lately.
Hint of air implies
Impending cold
With undertone of blue,
Entices.
Brilliance wanes;
Vigor slowed, esprit concedes
As vibrant colors fade to shadows
On its advent.
Soon the eyes of day
Would close to a lengthy blink,
As spirits would seek refuge
And safety in the burrows.
A small space
Under the covers
Would suddenly be home
To weary souls
As warriors come home
From battles completed.
Birds would seek their roost;
Shepherds would gather their herds,
Hens their flocks
As lovers cuddle each other
In their arms,
Embracing eventide.
Would you kiss me goodnight?
—-
Jeques, 2009. From his “Traveler’s Soliloquies” collection.
Midday
Watch the tides
In the bay,
Grub remnants
From erstwhile morning,
Of blithe facets gone by.
Hush frolic thoughts,
Soothe reckless times,
Sort out tangled memories
On a drowsy midday
And be ready,
And be ready,
And be ready to get hold
Of the hand of passing time
From this moment forth.
Know which rock to hold
When the cliffs are slippery.
Climb up with certainty,
But know when to hang on
Or climb down, if necessary.
And be ready.
Lay the spirit down
On the hay
Of the harvests
From erstwhile morning,
Calm and carefree.
Watch the clouds
Form
Dissolve,
And Resurface fluffy
Souffle and sweet
To the tongue of memories recalled
On a dreamy midday
And be ready,
And be ready,
And be ready to confront
The inevitable streams of time
From this moment forth.
Know when to sow
And to toil night and day.
Sprinkle the earth
With blood and sweat
That trickle on the forehead ~
Let the seeds grow,
But know when to stop
And celebrate the harvest,
When it is time.
And be ready.
Come home on a rainy day
To an aged couch, old and saggy,
That kept imprints
From erstwhile morning,
Of blots of ink and paint
Red and blue
From childish blows
And gentle touches.
Trace back the stories
From stains and tears,
Unreeling,
On a quiet midday
And be ready,
And be ready
And be ready with soothing
But sometimes harsh whisks
Of the nearing eventide
From this moment forth.
Know the terrains,
And be guarded of the stings
Of each season, but be happy.
Be accepting and resigned,
And embrace the gifts
Of each moment
To build the plinth –
With stable bricks –
Of one’s equanimity
That mellows in time.
Take a moment
To keep your thoughts hushed
And tarry like the water in the bay.
Take time to glance back
To the parting waves
Of the erstwhile morning
And listen to the silence
Of the midday.
And be reay,
And be ready,
And be ready
To watch the sunset
In the bay
With me.
—
Jeques, 2009. From his “Traveler’s Soliloquies” poetry collection.
What About The Morning?
When all the grains
Of smile are drained
Through the lips
Of the time glass,
All the joys gone,
Or so it seems,
What about the morning?
When the refraction of ray
Doesn’t reach you,
Barred by layers
Of doldrums, and soak you
In the dark marshes that drown
Your spirit slowly
Down the quicksand,
Or so it seems,
What about the morning?
When all the fragrance
Has left you
Suffocating in the unsought
Scents of things,
You’re ready to succumb
To obloquies that knock you
Black and blue,
Or so it seems,
What about the morning?
When the sweet tang
Of moments
Tinged your heart
With gawky bitter taste
That numbs you,
And forget their better flavors after,
Or so it seems,
What about the morning?
When icy days
Suddenly embrace you,
Chilled in the midst of strangers;
Unclad even with coats on, and shivering.
Cold in summer sun,
Or so it seems,
What about the morning?
When music halted to a final note,
Lyrics suddenly turn to threnodies
As mirth fades to distance,
And absence.
Duet losing words, and songs,
Or so it seems,
What about the morning?
View everything
From the bottom of the time glass
Ever accepting each speck of grains
Engulfed by its lips,
Collected in the base
Joys
Sorrows
Memories
Moments ever feed you
With fresh grains again, and again
And again, no end. Once more,
The gifts of the morning
Bring back lost smiles
In the lips of your time glass
To fill your heart,
And think of me.
What about the morning?
—
jeques
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