Taming This Tyke's Voice Since 2007

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Creating Festoon Of Memories

.

I select salient picks

From life’s garden

Creating festoon of memories.

.

.

I weave them in a tender thread

That binds us ~

.

The longing serves

As sturdy knots

In between. 

.

I choose

Stunning colors

To embellish the wreath

.

.

And hide the sorrows

Now and then.

.

I collect strands of thoughts

And shared laughter,

And tie them with ribbons

.

.

To mark each moment

That I take in.

.

Somehow,

Those conversations

Would ease the burdens

.

Of concealed pain,

‘Til we see

Each other again.

.

I’m weaving a pair of festoon

From colorful memories

Strewn in green:

.

One,

I will crown your head

Like wreath

.

.

Where the memories

Would always remain.

.

The other,

I’d wear like garland,
.
Around my neck,
.
.
.
.

It’s pendant

Rests on my chest

 .

Where love

Hides

Within.

~

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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.


My Poem

Between the humdrums

Of my routines

I come to you

To give me colors.

Between the monotones

Of my existence

You come

To sing me songs.

Between hazed terrains 

Of my journey

You send me signals

To guide me home.

Between the highs and lows

Of life’s tides

There’s you

To keep me anchored.

Between the infinity

Of things around me

I cling to you

And I feel safe.

Between fears and doubts

In everything I do

My poem

I run to you

For you are the true meaning of my being.


How’s Your Life Going?

How would your life read if it is written as a book? How was the prologue, the early pages were written? How’s each chapter progressing, do you know where it is going? If you’re given the chance to write the epilogue of your life story, how do you want it to end, and how do you want to be remembered?

 

~

‘Tis true, I’m like a book to your fine taste

My tale could top the world bestsellers’ list,

Or I shall vanish from your thoughts in haste.

But life’s circles give mine appealing twist.

.

There are moments when I would con this, too.

I’m oft tempted to change the clumsy parts

For sometimes I regret the things I do.

That’s pointless though, ’cause fresh chance each day starts.

.

My life, like a novel, ’tis in progress.

Every day’s like a page I celebrate

Weaving my colorful yarns of stories.

Always forward I go, at any rate.

.

I am making peace with the great author,

Getting good reviews from my creator.

(My Best Seller Story, By: Jeques B. Jamora, 2005)

—————

How would your life appear on the silver screen if it’s a movie? Would you like what you’ll see when you watch your film. When did life started for you, where do you want the film to start to roll? How’s your character, the cinematography, the plot? If you watch your movie would you smile, or laugh, or cry. How would you feel? Are you making an impact, would your life make a blockbuster film?

If it rolls to a sudden halt now, have you already done something in the script of your life that made the difference?

How many more rolls of celluloid would you need for a happy ending?

Would your life story become an immortal film?

 


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.


Sunrise On My Pages

I turned off the light for awhile in my nook. My pages went to sleep as I allowed my soul a quiet rest watching the colors lurk in the shadows of my black and white dreams. I needed it. I need the time, I need the moment to clear myself from doubts, to free my heart of fears, to listen to what my soul wanted to say without the forbidding empty page and the blinking curser: Without me writing them.

My soul told me many stories. Inside me are heap of raw thoughts thrown in the junk shop of my heart waiting to be polished to become precious gems that they really are. So now, I allow the sunrise on my pages. It had slept long enough. I need to reconcile with my soul to clearly see its colors and paint the many facets of its hue. I need to listen closely to hear its music and write its songs. I have to give it time like I gave myself time for my worldly needs.

Because if I don’t, what would this life be?

~

Goodbye my eventide, the dawn’s now here.

Your clinging shadows are all behind me,

‘Tis time I face the light I use to fear

To 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?

~

The poem is an older piece I wrote: “My Silent Confidant” The photograph is a view of the sunrise in Bay-bay, Roxas City, Philippines.

Tomorrow, I will tell you about the fire works and the sleepless city. 


Behind The Glass Window

behind that glass window

 

I still don’t know what love means the first time I saw you many months of June ago. From above, behind the glass window, I watched your every move below. I studied your every detail storing the moment in my memory which I kept all these years inside my heart. It would be a surprise for you to know that I still remember the clothes, the shoes you were wearing and the person you were with that day when my concealed tales of you started and endured many years. I opted to stay behind that glass window, I’m better off this way, you will never know my secrets for I will continue to watch you from afar and admire your every detail from the distance. In silence.

Something happened inside me that day. I fear losing the magical feeling so I kept it to myself ~ Somehow I have triumphed for the feeling always remains. Returning to memories, feeling that feeling again, reminiscing, opening the glass window of my heart, I still get a blush and my heart still beats faster everytime. It grows with me, it evolves as I go on, surviving the seasons, re-surfacing, re-emerging from my highs and lows in love. My safe place, my refuge and everytime I fall, I run back behind that glass window to watch my photographs of thoughts and I would feel better. The feeling endured many years of triumphs and defeats, of joys and sorrows. You are my true bliss, only I celebrate you alone. You are with me wherever I go, I have pronounced my vow to you in silence, I have kept that promise.

The world ’tis vast, ‘

tis graced with too many faces.

Many wouldn’t last and some few just leave some traces.

You are the face that I longed for and missed.

‘Tis your cheeks, your lips that I dreamt

To plant my first

Kiss.

The sun will continue to rise and set,  the days would continue to bring forth the cycles of the seasons that would grow new sprig of life, of hope and I will continue to believe, returning to memories celebrating my love behind the glass window.

new hope

Wherever time would take us in the face of the planet the sun would continue to shine upon us, at night the moon would keep the mystery of my secrets as I whisper my wishes upon the stars behind the glass window hoping one day my feeling would become transparent to you and you would see what’s inside this heart.

If forever means falling in love to the same person over and over again, then I must have found forever.

___

For Writers Island prompt this week: “The Return”

http://writersisland.wordpress.com

 Behind The Glass Window is part of my “Love Stories (Well, Almost)” collection.

https://jeques.wordpress.com/2008/05/17/love-stories-well-almost/


April Rain

My senses tell me it’s about to rain,

I run and take refuge in a cavern.

Paying attention, I sooth all the pain,

And allow the rain to heal  me again.

Cavern

I smell the earth’s intoxicating scents

Brought by the swift pouring of april rain.

I seize the boon after the solemn lent,

The earth exults, now my re-birth will reign.

~

Brilliant drizzles of crystal clear raindrops

Quench the the thirst of the fruit trees of summer.

The rain showers refill the plants’ sweet saps

That would make season’s harvest juicier.

~

A damselfly alight on the reed’s blade.

Pellucid mist caught on its net-veined wings.

Raindrops form pools in the forest’s glade

The earth’s bosom bears the heaven’s blessings.

~

The rain stops and winds blow the clouds away

To bathe other grounds with april shower.

I’m enriched by my silent reverie.

‘Tis time I bequeath the cavern’s shelter.

I wish when april rain reaches your place,

You would pay attention and seize its grace.

~

 

 

 


The Silent Spectator

si2

I remain a silent spectator, a bystander watching love from the coast. I have not yet placed that last card in the table, I have not yet gambled my heart to anyone. I’m like a boat watching the ocean wanting to sail, but choose to remain in the harbor, in the seashore silently waiting. I’m known to be always in control, I’m independent minded. I maneuver my own life, never afraid to plunge into the ocean of uncertainties but when it comes to love, I chose to stay in the harbor. Love, like anything else, is a game of chance, you gamble and you put your heart at stake. It is not really fear that’s stopping me ~ that could be when I was younger. But now, that’s not really the reason.

This is the time of my life when I already know how to choose my battles  ~ so I don’t rush anymore into something that’s not worth it. That, I think, explains why I remain an observer, still unattached and why I choose to remain a silent spectator at this point of my life. I view a quite different side of love from this angle, not too many would understand me especially in this age when people get hooked to anything “instant.” I’m not coward, or jerk or something, don’t get me wrong. No. I’m a risk taker in other fields but not with love. I place love in the highest esteem, I vow not to play with it. If I find somebody who would share to view love this way from this angle, I would be glad to gamble. It is only then that I would finally place my last card on the table, it is only then that I would gamble my heart and take on sail.

It is for this reason that I haven’t written anything “Torrid.” For how could I write something that I haven’t really done. I have two poems written which used the word “torrid,” in quite unusual manner, I think they express that unconcious yearning inside. I thought these poems are the soft whispers of my heart, the silent spectator.

~

My Story begins in the morning, before sunrise;
Stars are nowhere to be seen in the gray morning skies;
The roads are wet from the rain that bathe the humid night.
A quiet place; shadows fade, giving in to the lights.

I closed my eyes briefly, and smelled the essence of dawn:
The scents from flower buds opening to greet the sun;
Ricefields smoldering with fog of morning after rain;
And the aroma of coffee from someone’s kitchen.

I heard the crickets’ noise behind the bushes fading,
And the frogs in nearby streams praising God for the rain.
My eyes sparkled to the lights of the fleeting moments;
The roasters’ cries awakened me from my reverie.

The sun peeks through the lush trees creeping up slowly;
In awe, I watched the drama unfolding before me.
The wild wanton wind blow my cheeks with torrid kisses;
I wished it came from the lips of a love I longed to have.

The day is bright; the flowers I can now see clearly;
The verdant fields, and azure skies in their hued glory.
I saw birds taking off the skies, soared, chasing the lights;
They streached their wings wider, as they fly higher today.

I feel like the birds embarking to a pristine day;
Like the fishes swimming toward the heart of the sea.
Travelling, I, too, am ready to conquer the day;
I tread the roads, and cross the sea; I am on my way.

(From the poe , “Traveling: Chasing The Lights,” By: Jeques B. Jamora, 2005) 

 ~

Wary of waking the isle that still sleeps,
I dress up sofly for my morning walk.
I sneak out to the hazed dawn in mild steps,
And resumed my mute traveler’s self talk.

I begin my strides keeping myself close
To the shorelines of the insomniac sea.
I savor the briny breeze through my nose,
With consent, the winds kiss me torridly.

I took off my sandals to feel the sand
That longs to touch the bare soles of my feet.
The cool rush of breakers reach where I stand ~
I commune with nature ~ our spirits meet.

My voids are replenished by the sea.
In return, I shed my life’s loads off me.

(From the series poem “A Traveler’s Soliloquy” By: Jeques B. Jamora, 2006)

 silent spectator

For writer’s Island prompts: “Torrid and Gamble


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.