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Eyes lie in wait ~
Day and night ~
Skies in surveillance
Waiting for the sign
That might be sent
From the future,
As the gentle streams of life,
And the rough currents
That ever oppose
Mold the pebbles
In the bed of stones
By the river
Adorned by some weeds
Awaiting for some hands
To pick them up.
Awaiting for some great minds
To give them names.
Unaccounted for ~
Remaining like a worthless bead
In the infinities ~
Awaiting for some gifted hands
To weave him
In the precious thread
Of chance, to adorn
Like a pendant
To rest forever
Closest to your chest.
Pick me from the infinities
And carve my fingers
With marks to define my distiction.
Paint my blank facade
With a face
And buy me a name.
Find me in the dunes.
You’d easily recognize me
Among the pebbles.
And find in my eyes
Your own reflection:
Waiting for the sign.
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 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.
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
When half the world is asleep,
The prying eyes of the nocturnal owl
Stay alert for mice dozing undergrownds.
A turtle slowly prowls in a swamp
Disturbing the resting fishes
On the shallow waters.
Somewhere, you are confined
Asleep in your room dreaming.
While I stay awake questioning.
Am I part of your dreams tonight?
Would I take part in your life
When you awake in the morning?
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.
But nevertheless always wishing
That one day I’d stop questioning
And to The deeps I’d just let the fishes
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?
“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.
Rare pearls of south sea
Strewn on far off shores
(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.
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.
Thinking of the sea, painting the mangroves, feeding my nostalgia. When shall the salty sea-breeze of home ever kiss me again?
Life goes on
It does not stop.
Like the river, its flowing before we came
And will endure long after we are gone.
It moves forth
But retains the echoes of our presence
The sole testimony that once,
We shared the course of life.
The infinite pebbles that cover
The canal floors and its reefs
Are the multitude of life
That are nourished by its springs
And shaped by its currents.
We come to leave and return
To the banks of the river.
We drink from its fountains
Bathe in the streams.
By its mystical beauty.
I often watch and wonder where the river came and where life goes. For now, I can only look as far as my eyes can see and my mind can imagine. ~ Jeques