Taming This Tyke's Voice Since 2007

morning

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

 

 

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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?

 


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

  


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)

 

 

 

 

 


Simple Pleasures

~

Waking up

In the morning

With the ray

Of your sunshine

In my face,

Greeting me

With your

Sweet silence.

.

The warm touch

In those eyes,

In that look,

Caress my heart,

Embracing me

With your shy

Presence.

.

The joy

That your company

Brings ~

Words

Ain’t necessary

To make

Good conversations ~

.

That’s just your way.

.

Heavens

Kiss me

Tenderly.

Its fingertips

Tickle my senses

With the ray of light

In your smile

As I awake

To the simple pleasures

Of your morning

Bliss.

~


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.


I Just Want You To Remember

When shall these cloud of thoughts would clear?

Shall the shadows of my doubts would disappear?

Or would I ever find the light of hope from here,

To see a clearer day when I’d be free of fears?

 

I wish your sunlight would send me the rainbow

So colors would emerge from the shadow

Where some seeds of hope would sprout and grow.

The broods would take their flight on the morrow

I’ll set myself free of fears and sorrow

And watch the greens of trees through the window.

 

I wish to bring you the shy smile of dawn

Show you color palletes of my own;

Write you poems more precious than a rhinestone

You’re my oasis in a deserted dune.

 

But if the shadows of my doubts and fears

Would not cease to blur my vision,

 

I just want you to remember.


Waiting For The Morning

 

 

Under the cotton sheets

Face hiding ~

Beneath soft fabric shadow ~

Body contained

Sleepless mind traveling

Beneath soft fabric dreams.

 

Under the cotton sheets

Soul finds refuge ~

Beneath soft fabric shadow ~

Heart in restraints

Set free in dreams

Beneath soft fabric window.

 

Under the cotton sheets

Lost soul found love ~

Beneath soft fabric memories ~

Tamed Heart awake

Waiting for the morning

Beneath soft fabric dawn.

 

 


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.


The Narrowed Road

Life taught me the hard lessons of parting early on. My first best friend was a classmate from childhood I met during my first day in grade school. I’m not sure how his name was spelled, but I remember it sounded like “Hanibal.” My memory of his name is as bleak as my memory of how he looks – I only have a blur image of a boy my age with a new haircut. But I remember the joy finding another young soul to share my thoughts when we first entered the door of education.

Our friendship begun as soon as our first class in grade one started. We met in a classroom that smelled of the mixed scents of fresh pads, newly plastic covered notebooks encased in our new school bags like our minds ready to be filled with knowledge. The smell of freshly sharpened pencil and scented eraser would always bring me back to that moment. I remember the fresh scent of soap when I bathed that morning excited for my first day in school. I forgot the color of the clothes I wore, but I still remember how my new shirt smells. The scents of these things always conjure nostalgic thoughts, reminding me of my first best friend I lost with the passing of time.  The places we reached and continually explore widen the spaces between us, and narrowed the road that once put us together at one moment in time. But in my mind we always share the desk, in that corner of our grade one classroom.

I was seated in the front row at the right side of the room next to him, a stranger just like all the other faces around me. It was fate that placed us seated next to each other, but it was our choice to become friends. The feeling of being left alone for the first time, drew us together. I feel at ease with his presence the moment we first introduced our names. We became friends before our first recess, and by the end of our first day in school, we have found in each other’s company the joy of real friendship. I cannot remember any other details of our days together, like I cannot recall anything more about him. I just know that he made my first day in school less scary to the surprise of my mother who anticipated the worse. I easily got over my separation anxieties and fear of strangers. I looked forward being back in school and always take home fun-filled stories at dinner time, telling my family about my newly found friend.

 

Morning comes and off it goes.

Like people come and (ouch!) they go.

For some brief moment they come my way,

But few are meant to stay.

Life’s lesson of letting go,

And memories remain with me.

Days passed. Our school activities progressed, school became my second home. But one day, I found myself unusually seated alone in our desk. My friend was absent when our teacher checked our attendance. I waited for him until recess, but lunch and afternoon classes came and gone without him. The same thing happened the next day and the days after. Our teacher some few weeks later changed our seating arrangement, making me vacate the desk we shared in our classroom where the emblems of our friendship vanished. I later heard their family moved to another place and he transferred to another school far away that my young mind then was incapable of reaching. I was assigned a new desk in the second row at the center aisle of the room after that and had new seatmates. From time to time I would glace to our desk wishing him back. My new seatmates are faceless and left my memory insignificant traces so were the other friends I had after we parted. I only remember one friend from my first day in school and he is my first real best friend.

 Life taught me early on that some perfect moments could go wrong. Friends come, but I could not expect them to stay, for like me, they too, have lives to live and journeys to complete. I am not sure if my friend remembers or would have the same thoughts. My friend may forget, but as long as I still know how the classroom desk smells he will always be remembered.

"Solitude" oil on canvas 24x30, by Jeques B. Jamora, 2007