Taming This Tyke's Voice Since 2007

reflections

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


Caught in the Moment

 
 
Dust settled,
The beating of the drums
Faded in the distance.
Chaos succumbs
To peace.
I am here
.
Caught in the moment
 
Not a ripple in the pond ~
Waters placid ~
Bowers’  reflection
Caught in its stillness. 
I am here
.
Caught in the moment
 .
Listening to the acoustical
Silence of the white bell
Serenading me with its
Sweet charm
 

"Gift of Home, The White Bell" pen and pencil on paper made some mornings during my recent vacation. Jeques, 2010

Wires Faded
In the backdrop
Walls unnoticed
Barriers forgotten,
Heartaches freed
Echoes of old sad stories
Replaced with fresh pages
Of new chapters.
I am here, and now
.
Caught in the moment
.
Today,
The silent ringing
Of the white bell
Signals a beginning
Of stories newly born
Taking shape
To florish
To be told

The White Bell clinging, rising, blooming embellishing the wire fence home

Hope surmounts the fences
Words demolished the barricades
Joy overtakes sadness
Shortcomings forgotten
Love prevails.
I am here
.
Caught in the moment
.
Healed and blossoming
Watching the reflections
Captive on the page of my heart
Caught in its stillness
.
I am here.

"Gift of Home: The White Bell," pen and pencil on paper of the white bell in bloom I wanted to take back to chicago, but I can't, so I drew it cpative on paper to take the gift with me anywhere in the world. Jeques, 2010

—–

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


Recluse

 

It is not what I intended,

But it’s what the moment

Calls for.

 

I have great reverence

For the higher laws;

I humbly surrender myself

In acceptance

To this moment of recluse.

With epenness and faith,

I trust the will

Of the greater power.

 

I will come out

From this passage

Equally enriched,

Like my efflorescence

Amid the bunch.

 

 

 


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Breaking Grounds

 

Here I am pursuing

In endless circles

On and on

Wandering, wondering

Where’s this circular course

Taking me,

Where’s this ring going?

 

Like the fan blades

In the dining,

Grating, squeaking in the ceiling

Racing overhead.

 

Like the propellel

At the boat’s rear

My mother once showed me

Stuck in my memory

Of things turning

Around an axis

Aimless.

 

I did my laundry

The other day,

And lost myself

With the motion

Of my clothes spinning,

So did my head

Juggling with thoughts

As the Wheels,

And mills,

The clock running

Round in circles

But really,

Where is it going

When it ends where it begins?

 

I hear an alarm

Of high pitched signal,

My laundy is done.

The machine pukes

Fragrant vomitus:

My clothes smelling the scents

Of spring and renewal

Like my mind

Finding new meanings:

 

The fan in the dining

Brings me air

Of homey comfort

Makes beef stew rice topping

Tastes like what my mother

Used to feed me

From my distant memory of home.

 

The propellel at its rear

“Mamang” directed my young mind

In my first boat ride

Brought me faraway,

Closer to my destination.

 

As the Wheels,

And mills

The clock running

Round in circles

And me pursuing

This ring course,

Breaking grounds

Widening scope

For reasons

 

That some day,

 

My nephews and nieces

Would grow up

To understand.

 

* “Mamang” a name we call our mothers in some regions in the Philippines.

(Jeques, 2009. From his A Traveler’s Soliloquies poetry collection)

 

 


Caged

 

Briefly

Our hands clasped

Against the grated wire screen

Separating

Keeping

Our worlds closely

Apart.

 

It’s a painful union.

 

We see the flowers,

But we can’t pick them.

A banquet is laid 

On the table,

But we can’t celebrate

The feast

Together.

We both have wings

Watching the unfriendly

Sky

But only one

Of us 

Is free to fly.

 

You pulled me

Closer ~

“Does love hurts

Like when the barbs

Pierce the palms? “

Being close to you

Feels painfully

That good.

 

I draw you

Towards me,

But you hesitate

Acquiesced to the customs

Of your world

That defines

A different you

From what I know.

 

I don’t have a heart

To force you out

To my world,

Even if it would mean

Your freedom ~

 

If the barbs

Pierce your wings.

 

I know how that hurts.

 

I let go

Of our clasped hands

And free you

In your cage ~

Aversely ~

I claim the Sky

To a lonely flight.

 

I am free.

 

(Jeques, 2009. From his A Traveler’s Soliloquies poetry collection)

 


Candle Keeper

 

I unearthed you that winter,

And discovered in solstice

That I am your keeper.

 

You’re the incessant blaze

That burns inside me,

You’re my built-in hearth.

Like the fireplace,

My chamber is made of bricks

I guard your flame,

I am the candle keeper.

 

You need me to keep your light

I need you to warm me.

 

Together,

We await in hope

For the vernal equinox.

But remember,

That even in the gray

Of frozen days,

 We endure

The turmoil

Of the seemed endless blizzards ~

We bloom in gloom.

 

You’re the relentless flare

That lit the wintry alleys

When doldrums

Overtook my sanguinity.

 

I coat you,

Steadfast,

Bearing frost bite

And the stings

Of Defeat.

 

I am in your keeping from inside,

I safeguard you

From the harsh world outside.

Your glowing amber

And my unwavering strides

Steer us forth.

 

I see us,

Together,

 

In springtime.

 

(Jeques, 2009. From the Traveler’s Soliloquies poetry collection)

 

 


Message From A Wreck(Prose Poem)

Message From A Wreck , A Prose Poem by Jeques for summer poetry workshop at Evanston, Week 4

message from a wreck for poetry workshop

message from a wreck for poetry workshop

My greatest fear is to lose the photographs I neatly arrange in the pages of my heart, and ultimately drop myself in the dark chasm of oblivion, soaking the memories’ negatives like a wrecked ship watching it’s own decay reflected on the steady waters of some unknown harbor, in some nameless deserted island. But that’s exactly what’s left of me, a wrecked soul, after my head on collision with reality, finding the photographs of memories we keep together stained with lies ~ here I am marooned, watching the grayed horizon, unsure if the sun would ever rise again for us. Frail and  crawling, I pick each grain of precious thoughts strewn in the shore and scribble them in the blank pages of heaven, slowly taken away from my sight by the twilight. Perhaps you will forget, and against my will, perhaps I would, too. but the heaven never will. So I send this letter to the lone witness of what we had, I send these words to heaven for her keeping.

Our story begun in the young hours of our life when the flower has not yet seen the rays of the sun that would pierce the delicate fabric of the pastel skies. We met in the eyes without really seeing each other’s souls in those brief glances, our vision hazed by the sea of strangers criss-crossing the cold space between us ~ together, but we’ve never really been. I look up to watch the flocks of birds criss-crossing the skies and I go back to the days when the closest moments we’ve really been is the touching of our palms in the conversations of whispered soliloquies we never told each other, and that only the heaven heard. For how would you call a rendezvous without even just a single picture to prove it happaned. It is nothing but a fancied romance, a fictional story, a hollowed dream that vanishes at daybreak. Why should I continue to weave a love-tale with someone so afraid to pause for a portrait with me, or to even cherish my company. But don’t feel guilty, my father could not even love me.

The fabrics of our horizon in the past, hand painted by God, were washed empty by the rain and we never really saw the sunrise that morning when our story begun, just like now that the gray clouds dance in the blue void above me threatening a heavy down pour, and just like our sunrise, I’m afraid again that we’ll have to content ending this story not seeing the sunset, not bading goodbye. 

The sound of the soft touch of drizzles in the shore, along the threnody of the winds and the rumbling of breakers are the repertoire of goodbye we never said. The scent of the first few raindrops mixing with the brine permeates in the air, this is the smell of our unnoticed parting. The liquid beads from heaven conceal my shy tears hidden in the corners of my eyes, their union caused a genial trickle of loneliness inside me that I poured down the ocean where the immensity of humanity’s sadness are emptied and purified in the heart of the earth for hopes to be born again out from the ruins, out from the many wrecks stranded in this island of loneliness where I am, where you left me watching the twilight in the grayed horizon devoid of color ~ where our story ends.

I don’t hope you to read this, but the heavens will. Some morning, this scribbling will float ashore, some soul from  some coast would pick this message from a wreck to rescue my memories from the dark chasm of oblivion. The photographs I neatly arrange in the pages of my heart will be safe. I’m ready to embrace the fate of the nightfall, I close my eyes to an ending, or is it the beginning?  

I fear no more my greatest fear.

This week is our 4th in the poetry workshop, and we are doing Prose Poetry. This week, let me bring you to a deserted island and let me whisper words from a wreck heart. The poem is inspired by the classic tale of the message in the bottle. I wrote, prepared and presented my prose poem from the inspiration and yes, it perfectly fits the idea of telling something you wouldn’t want to tell anybody unless you’re stranded, lost, nameless, dying.

message from a wreck 2

 


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

  


Dreams Alight

The child had a vision he will arrive at this moment. He saw everything before all these happened, the images was clear in his reveries, the picture was complete in his imagination. His mind’s feet had walked this path, his mind’s senses had lived this moment. It was not easy for his young mind to understand the vision, It was not easy for his young heart to contain what he saw. All he knew then was to dream. There was a map engraved in his heart, the mind followed the direction that took him to the present.
 
The child grew up to be that man in his vision. Standing still, he look back, following the tracks of his journey back  to the child who told him many stories they weaved together: 
 
The child dreamt.
 
Him, lives. 

 

 I sketch a landscape in my mind’s canvas;
Tracing the figures using my child’s eyes.
Paint it with colors just the way it was.
I feel brimful of joy that my soul cries.

 "Rendezvous" series #1 oil on canvas 20x20, by Jeques B. Jamora, 2009   "Rendezvous" series #4 oil on canvas 20x20, by Jeques B. Jamora, 2009

"Rendezvous series #2 oil on canvas 20x20, by Jeques B. Jamora, 2009   "Rendezvous" series # 3 oil on canvas 20x20, by Jeques B. Jamora

(“Rendezvous” series 1 – 4 oil on canvas 20×20, by Jeques B. Jamora, 2009)

There’s the refulgent streams of the river
Flowing beneath the bamboos’ lush bowers.
Their drowsy whistles I still remember.
When winds blow through the leaves and the boulders.

 

There’s the rock that rests on the reef of stones,
Where the tyke sits when he would go fishing.
Silence croons him with nature’s pristine tones.
When a fish pulls his bait, his heart’s dashing.

 

There’s the lily that cupped the morn’s dewdrops.
Frogs stay motionless on their giant leaves,
Until an insect strays by their tongue traps.
Their prying eyes ever alert like thieves.

 

 There’s the damselfly that hovers above
My head and the tip of my fishing rod.
A scene I always remember with love,
It never fails to cheer me when I’m sad.

"Dreams Alight" study oil on canvas 30x30, by Jeques B. Jamora

"Dreams Alight" study oil on canvas 30x30, by Jeques B. Jamora

 

 There’s the sun peeping through the verdant trees;
Casting their shimmering hued reflections
On the running waters like pageantries.
Moving me to profound contemplations.

 

Ah, idyllic landscape, ethereal arts.
We always have that child’s nook in our hearts.

(“Childhood Nook, Revisited!” From the poetry collection by: Jesus B. Jamora, 04/21/06)

  "Dreams Alight" oil on canvas 36x36, by Jeques B. Jamora, 2009

“Dreams Alight” oil on canvas 36X36, by Jeques B. Jamora, 2009

I am now  beginning to slowly understand the child’s vision that used to scare me. I am now starting to polish the rough edges of the images and lay the pictures on the frames as I translate the vision to become my breathing, throbbing realities.

I awake to the present to write on the pages the stories that the child once told me. I alight to this moment where his dreams had landed long before I arrived.

I used to think I was chasing my dreams, I now understand I did not. Like  the damselflies that alight on my palm as a kid, dreams, too, alight when I learned to open myself and keep my heart still.

 

~ Jeques


A Prelude To A Million Dreams

My creative muse prompts me to begin writing on a fresh page as I start a new process of knowing. This is the time of my life when I do things because I feel like doing them. Like, I write because I would like to read my thoughts tangible in words taking form written on pages, so I would get a better grasp of them.

to-the-deeps-0151

Like the damselflies of my childhood, I don’t chase my thoughts anymore now that I’m grown up. My mind, like my palms to the damdelflies, I will open so dreams and thoughts could freely alight to show me their beauty. I will befriend this elusive guests instead of running after them like I did during my reckless youth. Perhaps this way, I could encourage their frequent visits.

"to the deeps" #1, oil on canvas by : Jeques B. Jamora, 2009

To The Deeps

At midnight

When half the world is asleep,

The prying eyes of the nocturnal owl

Stay alert for mice dozing undergrownds.

."to the deeps" #2, oil on canvas by : Jeques B. Jamora, 2009

A turtle slowly prowls in a swamp

Disturbing the resting fishes

On the shallow waters.

."to the deeps" #3, oil on canvas, 20x20 by : Jeques B. Jamora, 2009

Somewhere, you are confined

Asleep in your room dreaming.

While I stay awake questioning.

.#to the deeps" #4, oil on canvas, 20x20, by : Jeques B. Jamora, 2009

Am I part of your dreams tonight?

Would I take part in your life

When you awake in the morning?

.to-the-deeps-010

The night ends

With the owl catching no mice.

The fishes has gone to The deeps,

But the turtle hasn’t reach where ’tis going.

Just like me with my doubts never fading.

."to-the-deeps" #2 and 3

But nevertheless always wishing

That one day I’d stop questioning

And to The deeps I’d just let the fishes

Swim.

"to-the-deeps" #3 and 4

Unhurried thoughts and dreams come pellucid like the reflection of the summer skies on a placid river. I aim to write my thoughts that way: to achieve such clarity. These thoughts, my dreams reflected on pages as I allow the readers to grasp them like viewing the river and the skies on a clear summer day.

But sometimes, words are just ain’t enough. There are thoughts and dreams conceived that come in defined shapes, definite forms and rich colors. So I capture them in sketches. Such thoughts and dreams come alive on pads as my pen and pencil give them skin and the ink give them blood and the images from my mind come throbbing alive in sketches.

But then again, oftentimes, I am haunted by vivid dreams and thoughts that not my pen and the pencil nor the ink are enough to breath them life, to bring them the colors like the coquettish fishes flirting my mind with their exotic dance moves in the river where my mind often hovers. They demand to be born and inhabit the canvas, and only my brush strokes could give them soul, only the pallette could bring to life their hued reflections flickering in my imagination ~

Conspicuous in light and shadows.

This is the time of my life when I am fully in touched with my creative muse and the river of my mind is on its calmest state, where any minute movements are reflected that could stir ripples of dreams, and rapture of colors like the blossoms in springtime. The pages and the pads and the canvas are like the verdant fields where my dreams bloom. They are like the river in my mind where the fishes swim to the deeps in their coquettish dance moves that preludes to a million dreams.

The damselfly is within reach – I am taking time to appreciate his beauty as he hovers and I, motionless wishing the damselfly would soon alight in my palms.

Who says that dreams are black and white?

oil on canvas 20X20 by : Jeques B. Jamora


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


Klieg Lights(An Open Letter To Laarnie)

Dear Laarnie,

I know this will not anymore come as a surprise to you receiving letters from people you don’t know – from your fans, and I happen to be one of them. I write because I want to tell you something that I also wanted to tell myself, and to your legion of followers, and to ordinary people who would chance upon this message. Perhaps everyone who would read this open letter would somehow connect to my thoughts in one way or the other, and you, I hope you read this before the klieg lights dim your vision and it would be harder for you to see the truth from lies; before it deceive you with its dazzling glitters that are temporary and you’ll never get back to your realities again.

Klieg lights are blinding and they are fleeting. They are temporary – here today, gone tomorrow. They dim your vision so what you see are only traces of the truths and silhouettes of reality, especially when you’re in a stage hearing only the noises of the maddening crowd. You would stand before a throng of faceless people, like a small boat sailing in the ferociuos ocean of strangers and you would feel so alone and cold in the midst of the warm glow of the kleig lights. But do not be afraid, for in that stormy sea of strangers are genuine lifeguards in a close watch ready to throw you life rafts and ropes to bring you back to shores, to anchor you back to your truths when the show is over, to bring you back home to your realities – safe from the lies of the dazzling klieg lights.

You have a good heart and that is your solid ground – you have proven that temporary fame could not shaken your deeply rooted goodness. It manifests in your gift of voice, but it is actually your beautiful heart we are hearing everytime you sing, and that’s the reason we are moved, we are touched, we are driven to uncalled tears the moment you hum a tune whatever the song. Your voice speaks to our hearts because it is actually your heart singing.

Continue singing that way.

In whatever you do from here, continue doing it from your heart. I know you would be doing more in that stage where opportunities abound and possibilities are limitless. You are the rarest gem of a raw talent that could deliver an infinite glitter in the stage. You are the kind of star that would shine for a very very long time. You have a share of people throwing you slime and all kinds of mud to discredit your brilliance but you shine through – there’s no amount of cloud in the sky could ever conceal a bright star that you are. But don’t be blinded by your own light – God gave you that light so you could radiate it to His children living in the shadows of hopelessness.

Continue to be an inspiration. Continue polishing and honing your gift – shine some more until your rays reach the darkest corners of the world where lonely Filipinos and people need a small spark of joy, a little ray of hope in their lonely existence. Always keep in mind that there are children somewhere, dreamy and looking up to a starry-starry night gazing at your Star, and just like you once, wishing their dreams will come true.

Carry on Laarnie. God put you there with a purpose. Anchor your stardom to His purpose and you will not be dazzled, you will not be blinded, you will always have a place to come home for goodness and God is in your heart.

 

 

 

 

When the show is over

And the crowd is gone.

After the applause has faded

And alone you stand.

Remember that I will be backstage ~

Waiting.

After the blinding

Kleig lights

Are gone.

~

I wish you well.

 ~ Jeques a.k.a. nonoisebarred

For more of my works – poetry, prose, paintings, photography – please visit my web nook with link below:

https://jeques.wordpress.com/

Please click link to YouTube video clip to hear Laarnie Lozada sing with credits to LaarnieTV, owner of the video.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gj9vtSW2d3w

 

Note: To know how I become a LAARNIAN, please read my previous post: The Fan with link below:

https://jeques.wordpress.com/2008/09/27/the-fan/

 

~

 

 

 

 

 


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.


And The Rain Stopped

It is raining. The noise disturbs the quiet afternoon awaking me from my shallow sleep. I look outside as I lay still on my bed watching the rain pours slanting on my window. In the many rainy days of life this is the only time that I really paid attention to the cleansing elements of rain washing my senses in a drowsy afternoon.

 

 

It is turbulent outside; I am motionless inside.

I delight to the sight of the sparkling waters confined on the tips of the leaves and that magical moment when the gentle breeze shake the lucid liquid beads off the trees. Below are streams of rain water collected into small pools in the concrete pavement that drain to the gutter, to the directions I wouldn’t know. I listen closely to the refreshing sound of waters rushing down the spout near my window as I block my ears from the much louder and annoying noise of the down pours hitting the roofs and the grounds that now release that sweet scent of the earth when it rains.

The chilly feel, the soothing sights, and sounds, and smell of the rain calm my senses.

The heavens bathe the trees again. Quenching the thirst in our hearts and bring our wilted souls back to life so our petals could display their rich colors once more.

The heavens wash the pavements and the gutters and flush the arteries of the city from the clotted debris draining them to rivers, and lakes, and oceans and the filthy sins of the city desolves and forgotten in nature’s forgiving heart. 

 

Silently I, too, let the rain carry my own sighs down the drain and I felt the cleansing of my heart. 

And the rain stopped.

I watch the faint reflection of twilight in my window  and let it in. The view gave my soul a certain peace.

I am a better me like a cleared window pane after the rain.


About Last Night

What happened between the silence, between the lights and shadows of last night? I’m back in a corner where I spent the night few days ago, still reading – a different book – caught in a semilar web of thoughts. There must be something in that corner, in that space why I need to return.  

Between reading and the silence, the memory of the fireworks return flaring in my mind with the fleckering headlights reflected on the walls. The frantic mood and sounds, the glowing faces and sparkling eyes of the crowd watching the colorful burst of light in the evening skies. A fleeting treat to the eyes that stayed only for a brief moment and then desolve with the smoke clouding the horizon. What’s left are memories that the crowd take as they slowly parade home. Often, I feel like the fireworks – things make me float in the air, seeing colors of temporary bliss and then gone desolving in the air like smoke clouding my hopes. What’s left are memories.

Between the silence, between the lights and shadows of last night, the memory of the flickering headlights of traffic returned. The sounds of vehicles’ coming and going, you could not tell the difference. The city never sleeps. It goes on no matter what, even if somewhere some souls are happy, or sad, or hurting. The traffic doesn’t roll to a halt even when you’re tired but can’t sleep. The city would not cease to move even when love opens or closes its door on you. It goes on even if you continue to struggle to take grasp of life or find a sudden enlightenment from the brief reflection of headlights on the wall and then gone. What’s left is emptiness.

Between the silence, lights, and shadows of last night I awake – I’m not sure if I even slept – with the cries of the birds taking flight in the early morning skies where the fireworks desolve leaving only hints of memories in the thin clouds floating, in pastel colors signaling daybreak.

Between the silence, lights and shadows from above, the birds look down to the city that doesn’t sleep, they know the terrains below, much more above them. They know that the city lights and the fireworks are temporary, the birds know better. They have seen what we neglect to see.

Watching the sunrise that peered through the city skyline, I briefly saw what guide the birds’ flight every morning. Colorful than the flares of fireworks, brighter than the flickering headlights.

If we’ve stayed a little longer after the fireworks desolve with the smoke in the evening skies, like the birds, we would have seen the clouds clear in the horizon and above are the real fireworks that are constantly there.

Because if we stayed long enough, we would have seen the stars and they are there forever.

I will tell you about the rain next time.


Déjà vu: Seeing My Reflections In Their Eyes

reflections4

I walk the same roads I trod at eighteen,
I stand on my hometown’s pavement again.

.

In life’s transits we’re merely passengers.

As I glance upon the streaming strangers,

I feel a certain familiarity

There’s strange kinship in the locality.

.

I take the same spot I took at sixteen,

I’m seated at the same station again.

.

I can’t move forward with my travels blind,

Flash backs of my past trips rush in my mind.

There are story-filled structures in the streets

We are commuters to life’s immense fleets.

.

I breath the same air I breathed at thirteen.

I’m home to the place of my youth again.

reflections3
 

‘Tis a breath of fresh air ro be around kids, especially around my nephews and nieces. I enjoyed their company during my recent home-coming. Watching them is like seeing fragments of my reflections strewn in their eyes. I see myself in them, I see strangely familiar sounds in their voices and laughter, being with them is experiencing Déjà vu as I watch their every moves. A piece of me is somewhere in their genes, each of them are my little version ~ we are connected in that way.

It is fun to see familiar moves and be reminded of how I used to be when I was their age. My eldest niece is 18 and the youngest is 5. I cherish their company, it was like watching myself from age 5 to 18, like when we were together during mealtimes, or during games, in our chats, telling stories, laughing, roaming around, seeing things or even just in simple exchanges of smiles.

reflections2
— 
They are one of the reasons for my coming to America. I want to open for them a better option in life, new possibilities, new frontiers. I would like to be an inspiration. I would like to plant in their hearts seeds of dreams. I would like to nourish what I have planted. For remnants of my dreams are ingrained somewhere in their genes, deep in their hearts. 
And as I’ve mentioned in one of my previous posts: I would like to become somebody for them, that person I wish I had(but never had) when I was growing up. Please click link: https://jeques.wordpress.com/2007/12/14/becoming-somebody-i-wish-i-had/

reflections 

Child Once, Too

By: Jesus B. Jamora, 2005

~

Let the child run free, uphills or down plains

Like a gazelle that gallops in prairies.

Let him swim in lakes, bathe in rains

And coquette like the mystical fairies.

Censor him not for he is free from stains

Trust not the filthy mind of the gentries.

Free the child from the restraining chains

And from the customs’ narrow bounderies.

Let him be for his generations’ gains ~

Allow the children to weave their stories.

For Writers Island: “Déjà vu”

~


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.


Transitions

transitions1

Life is a series of coming and going, of departures and arrivals, of leaving and coming-home, And in between are transitions.

I am fascinated with transitions. Each of life’s passages are spellbinding quiet moments that transform us: the stage of becoming.

Like I love to observe that time of day before sunrise, that passage from darkness to the coming of light and the raptures of colors that come in between ~ the advent of life: the dawning.

Like a child awakening and starting to see beauty, the sun, too, rises in the child’s face, when he smiles and that twinkle in his eyes seeing things for the first time.

We fall to rise. The sun sets, but tomorrow it is sure to rise again ~ and the transitions.

Many times, I stumble and fall and felt like darkness over-shadow me. But the morning makes me like a child again, seeing things in different ways, the dawning of understanding and so I rise again to embrace the promise of a new day.

t2

Goodbye my eventide, the dawn’s now here.

Your clinging shadows are all behind me,

‘Tis time I face the light I used to fear,

And welcome the promises of a new day.

~

I will now fold your comforting blanket,

Which has kept me warm and safe overnight.

‘Tis time I place it back in the casket,

My life’s streams will flow and I should not fight.

~

The morning knocks behind the window pane,

I am enthused to rise from my slumber.

To allow the breezes to ease the pain,

From the yesterdays I still remember.

I will open myself like the window.

My body yearns, my eyes long for the light.

I will miss the silence of your shadow,

But I can no longer stay in the night.

~

Farewell darkness my silent confidant.

You know my secrets and heard all my sighs.

Outdoors, my new grounds are turning verdant.

Hello sunrise, would you now end my cries?

(My Silent Confidant By Jesus B. Jamora, 2006)

t3

And life goes on. We progress to the midday of life.

t4

We learn many new things and many new different ways to reach distances ~

as far as we could go.

Becoming is always enriching than being: the hatching.

The bitter-sweet transitions: 

we love and get hurt,

we create memories and bruises,

get scarred but see the stars, 

And yes, we learn anyway.

t5

What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.

We gain wisdom from our falls.

We reach a point of balance, the hard to earn equanimity: the mellowing.

And then we arrive before a fork road or the edge of the coast, the seemingly end of a journey but we see new horizons. We are to choose to move on or stay. 

Is it the arrival or another departure?

t6

No matter how far the distances we go, we are sure to arrive to a sunset.

The afterwords of our journey: the epilogue of life. 

The calm and quiet transition before we close our eyes.  .  .t7

The moment of bliss as we watch the last light before going to a peaceful slumber. 

t8t8

We arrive to the time of life when we need to sit back and see how life has been ~ 

reminiscing moments, finding joy in viewing snapshots of places, things, and people posted in the corkboard of our hearts.

Watching flashbacks, of our life in rewinds.

Like the spellbinding dusk, we find bliss in revisiting colorful memories.

transitions9

The roads that took us away are the same roads that will take us home.

For life is a series of coming and going.

Transitions10

Are the roads we are treading now take us away, or leading us home?

We dapart to arrive, like the sun sets

to rise again.

For life is a series of falling asleep and awakening.

What have we done in between? 

The Photographs were taken during my recent home-coming, and my visit to the spellbinding Boracay Island, Philippines.

Have you visited the Writers Island recently? Please do. Click link below:

http://writersisland.wordpress.com/

This week we are prompted in the island to write about “Spellbound” and “Awakening”

This is my contribution.


Meeting Of The Minds

moon2

A view of the moon from the Philippines

Kindred Spirits

Separated by time and space

From different corners of the world

Gaze at the same moon

In the same sky,

Though from different angles.

.

Their minds’ eyes meet

Their souls commune

Collaborating poetry.

moon1

A view of the moon from Chicago


Nostalgia(For Writers Island)

nostalgia1

“Nostalgia” oil on canvas, 30×38. By: Jesus Jeques B. Jamora, November 2007

I was born and I grew up in one of my homeland’s scattered islands, in the heart of the Philippine Archipelago. Our country is embraced by the sea; if God is the ocean, then He must have loved the Filipinos so much. We are constantly caressed by the sea waves come high tide or low tide,  the ocean enfolds us. We are generously showered by God’s salty kisses.

nostalgia6

 

Rare pearls of south sea

Strewn on far off  shores

Conspicuous gems.

(From my Filipino Immigration, Haiku Series #5)

The beach is one thing I miss about home ~ my walks in the sea shores, the brine touching my skin, the sand tickling the soles of my feet, the view of the open sea’s apparent horizon nourishing my dreams. I am now here ”beyond that horizon,” which I just used to watch in my walks in the strands.

Sometimes, you will never really know and understand a thing until you stay away from it. I now undertand better what I love about my country, and what I miss about home. The sea is one of them.

My earliest memory of the sea are the mangroves. These dense thickest along the rivers and the tidal shores was my first view of the sea. We live in the inland, so before I saw the endless emerald green seas under the azure skies, my young eyes was already captured by this mystical greens that lined the coasts and the river banks. There is something in their verdancy that transport me back in time.

Mangroves are time machines of my nostalgia for simplier, uncomplicated life of childhood. It brings me back to the summer of my youth, of my first boat ride, of  fishing, of hunting, of swimming in the pristine river brine. My happy thoughts and bitter-sweet longing for my first sunburn.

nostalgia5nostalgia2

Photographs from my recent home-coming to the Philippines.

— 

The Sea, You and Me

I’ve seen how everything are connected

That somehow we are one ~ interrelated.

As I tread the sands stretching to the sea,

And my size is engulfed by its infinity,

I watch in great wonder how God links things.

And How God connected you to me~

.

The seawaves gently kissing the seashores.

The shore that’s bed to the infinite sands.

The sand that reaches the roads, that lead me home.

The home inside my heart where you belong.

.

You are safe in my heart you are home now.

Today, as you open the doors, streets you will see.

.

Walk the streets, it will lead you to me.

The many winding roads take you somewhere,

To the beach, maybe.

The beach where the sands are gathered

Forming the fine strands kissed by the sea.

The sea that stretches reaching me here.

The enormous sea that links you to me.

nostalgia3

Thinking of the sea, painting the mangroves, feeding my nostalgia. When shall the salty sea-breeze of home ever kiss me again?

~ Jeques

nostalgia

 

 


Valentines Seen In A Different Light

valentines 3

Dawn: The moon and the sleepless sea. Boracay Island, Philippines

I never had somebody to call mine,

Nobody ever called me their Valentine.

.

A Certified single since birth,

I share to no one my life’s mirths.

.

I understand, and have few compaints.

I remain not jaded, am free of taints.

.

There’s no space for bitterness in my heart,

Ardor overflows in its every part.

valentines 2

 Midday: Taking Sails. Boracay Island, Philippines

 —

But no matter how strong or smart I am,

There’s no guarantee that pain wouldn’t come.

.

I welcome pain with open mind,

I wait for love for me to find.

.

I loved and was hurt, too, once.

Though ’twas an unconsumated romance.

.

We took on sail, but not moored our feelings.

So we soared and fell like birds with broken wings.

.

There are no more emblems left of our love,

But the sad poems chanted by a waif dove.

valentines

Dusk: Waif dove. Boracay Island, Philippines 

 —

Pages turn yellow, and the mind forgets,

But the soul recalls the songs of our heartbeats.

.

And now, for a broken heart like mine,

How would I greet you, Happy Valentines?

.

I’ve nothing to share, I could only comment:

Anchor your love, celebrate each moment.

.

You’ll never know how special the love you’ve done,

Til the person you’ve shared it with is gone.

~


My 8 Days Series Poem: Changes

day-1

 Changes (Day – 1)

You help me embrace life completely,

All these years I live but did not see;

All the wonderful things around me.

I always revere the morning, alright!

But not as intense the way ’tis today.

I see every ‘lil gifts somehow,

That each morning unfolds to me now.

My eyes are astute with colors, I know.

But not keen as my eyes now do.

I now see the silver lines in blue.

‘Tis not color blindness,

Dont get me wrong, please no!

I just see the brighter side of life now,

And these are all because of you.

So many more stories to tell you,

But I will just save ‘em for tomorrow.

I have written a list, it is long though.

But I would like to share ‘em all with you ~

day-2

 Changes (Day – 2)

The sun now peeks through the mountain ridges.

In hand is my pen,

And you’re in my mind again.

.

I’ve got to go on with changes.

You’ve got to know what exactly are these.

.

As I open my eyes to start the day,

I find things at the right places

As if they were all prepared for me.

I’m not sure of this exactly.

Have I look at them now differently?

Well then, I must really be so lucky.

.

Before, I would just drag myself out of bed.

Rise from my slamber with an aching head.

I’m up, but I would rather stay in bed.

There was no reason to wake up anyway,

Or move on and live.

.

But now, rising is easier for me.

Having you in mind changed everything ~

My thoughts, my life, my morning ~

.

You’re the reason I wake up every day.

Isn’t that wonderful?

‘Tis great, you see.

.

So many more stories to tell you,

But I will just save ‘em for tomorrow.

I have written a list, ’tis long though.

But I would like to share ‘em all with you.

day-3

Cahnges (Day – 3)

Good Day!

You must have waited for me

To listen to the story, I cut short yesterday.

.

I’ve disclosed to you how I wake up.

Today, I’ll reveal how I’ve almost stopped,

In the verge of giving up.

.

The agony is intense

The hurting is within.

I am sweating so cold that I almost give in.

I saw the light slowly dying.

My heartbeats are slowing.

My soul is dying.

.

This is not the first,

But the worst for some time.

I feel numbed, and I don’t seem to care.

In one brief instance,

I was almost there.

But something has changed within me.

I’m surprised I thrived today.

I heared my inner voice begging me to stay.

.

I gather my strength and just breath.

Darkness is behind me, the lights are ahead.

‘Tis your love that saved me from death.

You are my spring time.

Enough said.

.

So many more stories to tell you,

But I will just save ‘em for tomorrow.

I have written a list, it is long though.

But I would like to share ‘em all with you.

day-4

Changes (Day – 4)

I know you’re there waiting for this.

You want to know, what else is there,

What’s more with changes.

Well then, let me now end your weariness.

.

I was given a second lease of life, another chance.

I will not stop, I will go the distance.

I will chase my destiny,

My sails are ready.

I will reap sweet victories,

For you are with me.

.

In moments of uncertainties

Someone is ahead to pave my way.

He clears the narrow arteries,

He builds bridges for me.

.

He is my life raft in the rough seas;

My compass when terrains are hazy.

I fear no more my journey’s dark alleys,

For God lights a candle inside me.

.

So many more stories to tell you,

But I will just save ‘em for tomorrow.

I have written a list, ’tis long though.

But I would like to share ‘em all with you.

day-5

Changes (Day – 5)

My thoughts of you

Wake me up today.

You’d think, there’s nothing new

It happens everyday.

But listen, there are more changes in me.

.

You made me smile, ’tis more than that

You’re the source of my laughter.

You ease my sorrows, ’tis more than that

You made my days and moods brighter.

.

We become closer each day, ’tis more than that

We get along so well.

You’re my friend, ’tis more than that

We’re like secret lovers.

.

The morning turns exciting, ’tis more than that

Each moment is exhilarating.

I have good night rests, ’tis more than that

I’m at peace with God, you made my heart sing.

.

You’re more than everything I asked for

You’re more than anything I need.

And still, you’re more than all that.

.

So many more stories to tell you,

But I will just save ‘em for tomorrow.

I have written a list, ’tis long though.

But I would like to share ‘em all with you.

day-6

Changes (Day – 6)

‘Tis the 6th day, I’ve gone a long way

Changes brought me this far

I am immersed completely.

.

I’ve lived my life for no reason;

That’s how it used to be.

But now each moment leaves a lesson

You changed me all the way.

.

You’re in every speck of me ~

In my art, in my dreams ~

You’re in every details I see.

.

I see your face painted in the flowers,

I feel your essence in the air I breath.

I see your eyes sparkle in rain showers,

You’re a gemstone in the sands of myth.

.

So many more stories to tell you,

But I will just save ‘em for tomorrow.

I have written a list, ’tis long though

But I would like to share ‘em all with you.

day-7

Changes (Day – 7)

You pulled me up from a muck,

You released me when I was stuck ~

The better side of me were unlocked.

Looking back from where I started,

You enriched me completely, indeed.

For one, you’ve made me said

All the things I’ve ever wanted.

.

My mind in bondage has been freed.

The restraints in my heart ~ I once consented ~

Have been emancipated.

.

‘Tis great to think with a free mind;

‘Tis wonderful to love with an unrestrained heart.

.

A new beginning has dawned today.

You are God’s precious gift for me.

.

There’s a finale to every story

In changes, ours will end differently.

Our love-tale will evolve incessantly.

Till death it will grow in you and me.

.

There is one more thing I want to tell you,

But I will just save that for tomorrow.

My written list is now down to zero.

But I’d like to share one last thing with you.

day 8

 Changes ( Day  8 )

I started this journey blind.

There is no map for me to guide.

I only have you in my mind,

And my faith in God to ride.

~

The circle is now complete

Changes have reached day eight.

The winding roads are now straight ~

Changes unreeled our love’s fate.

~

What remain constant in this world are changes.

I can’t contend with life’s realities.

Love alone can defy all these.

I have seized forever in eight days.

~

You helped me embrace life completely.

A brighter tomorrow with you, I see.

You can be certain of this with me.

I feel stillness of heart with you today.

~

And now, what’s left for us to do

Is to make eternity come true.

~

Changes are the series of poems I wrote April 9 to April 16, 2003. It’s through this series that I coined my life’s Mantra: 

‘Tis Great to think with a free mind; ‘Tis wonderful to love with an unrestrained heart.” 

The images attached are the series of photographs of Bay-bay, Roxas City’s Sunrise, which I took during my recent home-coming to the Philippines. This is the beach where I used to do my morning walks, where I got the inspiration and where this series of poems was conceived.

https://jeques.wordpress.com/2008/02/05/when-the-feeling-is-gone/ is the recent sequel to the series.

 

Changes is my contribution for the Writers Island prompt this week: Changed.

Please click link below to navigate to the writers island:

http://writersisland.wordpress.com/


When The Feeling Is Gone

touching the sand 

 Bay-bay, Roxas City, Philippines. January 30, 2008

 

 

I tried to dip my toes in the water,

To try to re-live the past;

To check if the feeling is still there,

But the magic is gone.

The things that used to remind me of you

Has become just ordinary things as they were,

For they are.

Back to the way they used to be.

 

I used to see your face in the flowers

Now I only see petals.

The cotton clouds in the sunny skies

Don’t form to spell your name anymore ~

Not even the stars.

 

kisses in the breeze gone

Bay-bay, Roxas City. Philippines. January 30, 2008

    

 

The arched sky ceased to echo your memories like before,

I don’t feel your kisses in the breeze anymore.

 

I’m sorry,

But I think we lost the magic.

  

 

I didn’t feel the usual thrill

In my return;

I didn’t feel your presence

When the brines caressed my toes,

And stopped to yearn for your embrace.

The sands even failed to tickle the soles of my feet

Like your thoughts

Unable to summon up my fancy.

Archives in my heart

Boracay Island, Philippines. January 26, 2008

So now I gather the sweet ruins

From our past

Becoming just part

Of my valued collections.

They are safe in a folder

In my memory;

You are treasured in a vault

In my heart as ever.

Only now you belong

To the archives.

~