Taming This Tyke's Voice Since 2007

wisdom

Into The Woods

~

I advance onwards

Deeper, deeper into the woods.

A search for, an escape from.

To chase, or to run away.

 

To seek

Deeper, deeper into the woods

To try to understand. Perhaps.

 

I leave the familiar landscapes

Of my every day roads ~

The street signs,

The white marks, and yellow.

The lamp posts in the corner of the street,

The structures that lined my way

Like the waving of your hands 

That used to beacon me home

In my every day travels,

Now fading in the background

After I let go of your grip

That changed gestures driving me away.

 

Tears clouded my vision

But I need to move forth

Deeper, deeper into the woods.

No turning back.

 

I left the compass, and the map behind,

Safe in a chest where I keep the memories.

I brought only, an empty pouch

To stock things I would collect

From places unknown,

And strings to bind together

The twigs, and pieces of woods

I come to gather,

As I journey to the territories untamed

Deeper, deeper into the woods.

 

I am here to forget,

And also to  find a place to re-call the past clearly.

To connect the fragmented pieces

Of the quilt of the story

And to toss away what’s not needed.

To find time to sew  the vignettes together.

To find out how the complete picture appears

With new eyes, how the story goes

From a different perspective. Perhaps.

 

Here I am, a woodsman in a modern world,

A hermit in the jungle of people,

Wandering around the untamed highways;

Lost in the towering reeds of concrete and steel

Finding refuge in the man-made caves

That cost me my savings

To pay an over-night stay ~

Even the kindly service tagged with a price. Sigh.

 

The discomforts I paid to purchase comfort

In my entry to the lush forest of new discoveries

Where some keys are scattered

That would open me new doors of understanding

Deeper, deeper into the woods.

 

In the grounds of the forest are small packages

Of  seeds that encapsule wisdom.

They are gifts of the towering trees

From their fruits that mellowed with time.

They have seen both

The wider view of the lowlands,

And the best view of the heavens.

 

I am here to collect the seeds

To fill the pouch I carried for that purpose.

From these seeds I wanted to grow another forest

Where another wanderer from onother time

Would collect and sow them again, on and on

 

I trod deeper,

Deeper into the woods

Picking remnants of beauty of the past

Blending with the modern aesthetics,

Like an architecture

Built along the shore.

The reflection of its glass structure

Captured by the placid lake

At noon time

Create such a lovely contrast ~

 

Like a bird perched on a metal pole,

The blooms against the skyline,

A fountain in the middle of a busy street,

Like me, a waif in this streets away from home

Trying to blend in the landscape

Gathering woods in the not so common place

For a woodgatherer,

But I have used up my strings

In the bundles of woods of ideas

I gathered, enough to fuel my creations

From here

 

For you

 

It is time to return home.

~

Jeques, Milwaukee. July 30 to August 1, 2010. From his “Traveler’s Soliloquies” poetry collection.

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Fortitude

~
Let me bring you to a place
In the nook of my mind,
Where silence is a sound,
Quietude is music;
Where the slightest of movement
Ripples to waves like the tide
That rise and recedes.
.
Tag-along with my mind thriving,
Walking this winding paths
Down hills, up slopes, climbing
Grassy, sandy, rocky tracks
And cobblestone alleys.
.
Come with me as my thoughts
Traverse this zigzag roads
Of sudden sharp turns and curves
In my descend down the highways,
And climbs up the mountains;
Following the voice calling my name
Always some hundreds steps ahead ~
Leaving me dainty signals to trail
Not knowing what comes in the end,
But still I abide.

"Leaf" pen, ink and pencil on paper by Jeques B. Jamora, 2010

Stay beside me as I try to understand
The faint signs and traces
That would bring me where I am headed
Keep me awake when the body gives up
And lassitude put me in a trance ~
Hold my hand ~
Help me keep the wheels on the road.
.
Wipe my tears when the storm pours
So I could see clearly my way
Even when the rainfalls cloud the windshield
Of my thoughts, blocked to zero visibility.
.
Share the silence in my reconnaissance
As the sun creeps back ahead
Lighting the terrains of the morrow
Where my home awaits.

"Leaf 2" pen, ink and pencil on paper by Jeques B. Jamora

Disembark with me when I reach a summet.
Sit with me for awhile on the green beds of grass
On a cliff over-seeing the world bordered with white fences
That give me a picture of what has been.
The reasons for winding roads now making sense
As I look back to see the marks I left
On the pages forming definite meaning.
.
Hope with me as I look forward
To the map marked by the stars
That reveal sheer preview of the journeys to come.
.
Here we are in a stop over,
Be my witness as I ready myself to jump ~
My faith as my parachute,
Trusting your hands to catch me in my leap
As I paint my way to the roads
Until I find my way home
With you.
~
Jeques, 2010. From his “Traveler’s Soliloquies” poetry collection.
Jeques is reading the book of one of his favorite authors, Robert Fulghum’s “Third Wish,” a 5 volume novel – he’s currently on the first volume.
~

Underneath Your Sheltering Canopy

~  

Under your sheltering canopy  

In the safety of your embrace  

Beneath your reassuring grip  

Certainty returns.  

Like the shadow of the clouds  

Passing by on a midday.  

Such fleeting moments  

Of alternating shadow and light:  

Long absence,  

Brief presence,  

And the silent anticipations in between  

Fuel hope, keep the heart pounding  

To reach another waiting shade  

Along the way  

To rest  

Underneath your sheltering canopy.  

"Ethan" is my Bonsai tree I planted when I was 13, he is now 24 years old.

"Portrait of Ethan" Pencil, ink and pen on paper by Jeques B. Jamora, 2010 ("Ethan" is my Bonsai tree I planted when I was 13, he is now 24 years old).

His Name Is Ethan

 His name is Ethan Yes, I gave him a name and his name is Ethan. 

I was called once to priesthood when I was in highschool, but I was expelled from the seminary after a year. Many are called, they said, but only a few are chosen; I was not. It was my first taste of rejection, and it was how my story with Ethan started. 

 His name is ethan I mentioned the seminary because I planted Ethan the summer after I was kicked out. I was 13 years old with wings broken. Nobody really cared to listen to my side of the story especially my father. My mother, as always, was there to console me ~ in silence. I was left alone in the corner to leak my own wound to heal. At that lowest point of my life, for a reason that I’m just beginning to understand now, God sent me Ethan to care. I always had some loner tendencies as a kid. That summer and years after that I became withdrawn, misunderstood. Gone was the child full of life, I fell down so low I never thought I could ever rise again. 

For more about “Ethan,” please click image below >>>

 

His name is Ethan

Hi name is Ethan, 24.

   

   

 


Deciphered

.
I once carefully picked
Pieces of letters from my tool box
And put them together
To form words,
Unintelligible.
.
I colored them dabs of meaning
Recollecting from lines
Of misty memories
Playing sad soundtracks
In pastel blues.
.
I put aside
Letters left unused.
They don’t strum
A single cord of sentiments
For now, there meaningless colors
Belonged to the empty space
Of the narratives,
Unintelligible,
That I left pending.

bougainvillea, unfinished drawing from home. Pencil, pen and ink on paper by Jeques B. Jamora, 2010

.
In my return,
I carefully uncover
Scribblings left unfinished
That I kept in my tool box,
To search for meaning
In the marks that brought back
Misty memories of sadness,
Unfathomed.
.
I traced back the lines
And re-called the thoughts
Behind the colors,
unraveled each pigment
Of the blue-tinged page,
Understood.
.
I carefully re-arranged the words,
Blend the dabs of colors
To find concealed happy hues awaiting to burst
Obscured by my limited understanding,
Emancipated.
.

Bougainvillea, completed drawing in Chicago. Pencil, pen and ink on paper by Jeques B. Jamora, 2010

.
You are a gift of my careful pursuits,
Transfiguring on the page 
That I patiently waited.
You are the produce from my labor~
.
Like a child to a mother
Hearing the child’s first cry,
Laid on her breast
Feeling the fragile life
Breathing, throbbing pulses
Of veins carrying pieces of her.
.
.
Like you,
Each word,
Each dab of colors,
A reflection of my soul ~
.
A tribute to my mother ~
 .
Deciphered.

"Mamang" and us, her Children(L-R): Nene Irene, Nong Jhuls, Nang Thez, Mamang and me(Jeques)

—–

Happy Mother’s Day to Mamang, my Sisters and all the mothers in the world!

For all the lines that I have written,

And every word that I have spoken,

A piece of me is taken.

For every time I send my greetings,

It is my heart that I am sending.

—–

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


Midday

 

Watch the tides

In the bay,

Grub remnants

From erstwhile morning,

Of blithe facets gone by.

Hush frolic thoughts,

Soothe reckless times,

Sort out tangled memories

On a drowsy midday

And be ready,

And be ready,

And be ready to get hold

Of the hand of passing time

From this moment forth.

Know which rock to hold

When the cliffs are slippery.

Climb up with certainty,

But know when to hang on

Or climb down, if necessary.

And be ready.

 

Lay the spirit down

On the hay

Of the harvests

From erstwhile morning,

Calm and carefree.

Watch the clouds

Form

Dissolve,

And Resurface fluffy

Souffle and sweet

To the tongue of memories recalled

On a dreamy midday

And be ready,

And be ready,

And be ready to confront

The inevitable streams of time

From this moment forth.

Know when to sow

And to toil night and day.

Sprinkle the earth

With blood and sweat

That trickle on the forehead ~

Let the seeds grow,

But know when to stop

And celebrate the harvest,

When it is time.

And be ready.

 

Come home on a rainy day

To an aged couch, old and saggy,

That kept imprints

From erstwhile morning,

Of blots of ink and paint

Red and blue

From childish blows

And gentle touches.

Trace back  the stories

From stains and tears,

Unreeling,

On a quiet midday

And be ready,

And be ready

And be ready with soothing

But sometimes harsh whisks

Of the nearing eventide

From this moment forth.

Know the terrains,

And be guarded of the stings

Of each season, but be happy.

Be accepting and resigned,

And embrace the gifts

Of each moment

To build the plinth –

With stable bricks –

Of one’s equanimity

That mellows in time.

 

Take a moment

To keep your thoughts hushed

And tarry like the water in the bay.

Take time to glance back

To the parting waves

Of the erstwhile morning

And listen to the silence

Of the midday.

And be reay,

And be ready,

And be ready

 

To watch the sunset

In the bay

With me.

 

Jeques, 2009. From his “Traveler’s Soliloquies” poetry collection.


What About The Morning?

 

When all the grains

Of smile are drained

Through the lips

Of the time glass,

All the joys gone,

Or so it seems,

 

What about the morning?

 

When the refraction of ray

Doesn’t reach you,

Barred by layers

Of  doldrums, and soak you

In the dark marshes that drown

Your spirit slowly

Down the quicksand,

Or so it seems,

 

What about the morning?

 

When all the fragrance

Has left you

Suffocating in the unsought

Scents of things,

You’re ready to succumb

To obloquies that knock you

Black and blue,

Or so it seems,

 

What about the morning?

 

When the sweet tang

Of moments

Tinged your heart

With gawky bitter taste

That numbs you,

And forget their better flavors after,

Or so it seems,

 

What about the morning?

 

When icy days

Suddenly embrace you,

Chilled in the midst of strangers;

Unclad even with coats on, and shivering.

Cold in summer sun,

Or so it seems,

 

What about the morning?

 

When music halted to a final note,

Lyrics suddenly turn to threnodies

As mirth fades to distance,

And absence.

Duet losing words, and songs,

Or so it seems,

 

What about the morning? 

 

View everything

From the bottom of the time glass

Ever accepting each speck of grains

Engulfed by its lips,

Collected in the base

 

Joys

 

Sorrows

 

Memories

 

Moments ever feed you

With fresh grains again, and again

And again, no end. Once more,

The gifts of the morning 

Bring back lost smiles

In the lips of your time glass

To fill your heart,

And think of me.

 

What about the morning?

 


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)

Jeques, 2009. From his “Traveler’s Soliloquies” poetry collection


Unrequited

 

 

I understand the books in the shelf,

Untouched. Covers gathering dusts

Pages turn yellow, words unread,

Wisdom unhearkened.

Banquet prepared by writers

Wasted to termites

Leaving disinterested heads unfed,

Hearts failed, voices neglected.

 

I understand the bud in the wild

That awakens at dawn, 

But nobody drops a visit til midday,

Not a single butterfly, not a bee,

And wilts unnoticed at the end of day.

 

I understand the tree along the river

Bearing fruits all summer;

Realeases sweet odor filling the air

Inviting reapers, but nobody came.

Fruits dropping in the stream like tears,

Wasting her gifts again this year.

 

I understand the green patch of meadow

Hedged by dense forests, bordered by a cliff

Pruned by gazelles and deers

Year after year,

But nobody ever arrives with a mat to picnic;

Not a single soul carrying an easel reaches to paint.

Picturesque view wasted on the wilds.

 

I understand the sea-shells stranded

In a far-flung coast, unfrequented,

That the surf polish

And washed white by the brines

But no one comes to pick them for souvenir.

Encapsuled songs of the ocean

No one hears.

 

I understand the fate of weeds that grow

In the unwanted crevices

Of the concrete pavements of the city, 

Sprouting to embellish her flaws

Cruelly treated, uprooted, tossed.

Seemingly, life undeserved.

 

I understand the child begging for mercy

Strayed in the maze of life

Without the guidance of a father.

Growing without a map to follow

With promising tomorrow to give,

But dreams wasted on vagabond.

 

I feel for the logs decaying in the forests;

Treasures lost in the ocean;

Shipwrecks forming rusts in the harbor.

 

I feel sorry for a bench 

That awaits in the park

Comes sunshine or rain;

Pews empty on sundays.

Envelopes not opened,

Letters left unread, unanswered.

 

I understand the purity of intentions,

Unrequited.

 

I feel for every little things

With so much to offer,

But are never given the chance.

 

Unanswered beaconing of the church bells.

 

When are you going to pick up

My heart’s calls?

 

 

Jeques, 2009. From his “Traveler’s Soliloquies” poetry collection.


Home Sick In Autumn

 

What is there left to write,

When my sense of home has faded.

Fallen souvenirs pirouette in the air ~

Leaves dancing downwards ~ like specter.

The ink must wait, and rest til winter is over

(My spirit retires to quiescent under the covers)

Things freeze like the trees, even the lake dozes.

 

As wakeful hours become less and less,

Mind loses its bluntness,

The page speechless.

Distance drained my veins bloodless

Even the pulse of my pen ceases.

 

I’m losing grip of the eidolon of home, 

It’s warmth I no longer recall.

Like the trees losing their leaves to autumn,

The hands of memories that used to lift me,

For a time, fail to save my spirit to fall.

 

I let the cruel wanton winds to take me;

I trust the higher will would be kind.

I write my thoughts in the palms of the season,

I trust them to come back in time.

 

When my sense of home fills me up again;

When revenant of home,

Like eidolon,

Returns.

Jeques, 2009. From his “A Traveler’s Soliloquies” poetry collection.


Labyrinth

 

Fate dropped me

Bewildered in this forest,

Untamed,

Hazed with drapes of vines ~

Trying to find the answers

From this tangled passages 

Resolving the maze

To find my pathway

To you.

 

I stand before a forked path,

My head loaded

With question-filled sack

Keeping my balance,

Avoiding pitfalls:

 

To my right are hedges

Of thorn-filled,

Truth-concealing,

Tendril-climbing vines.

A single wrong move

Through their bowers 

Would cost me stings

From their spines of truth.

 

To my left, an inviting path

Strewn with petals,

Promising comfort

From gossamer of lies

Misleading me away

To dead ends,

To lost ways.

 

To my center is an easy way

To nowhere,

A direction that would lead me back

Here. To choose. Sooner or later.

 

If only your hand would reach out

From the bower of thorns,

If only heavens would send signal.

If only I could hear your heartbeats

Pounding from the other side.

If only, but . . .

 

Armoured only with longing,

I don’t know if it could shield me

To last the stings of truths

I would discover (I need to reveal),

To straighten the tangled pathway

That would bring you

And me, together.

 

Smothered with veil of tears,

I take the path to truth,

Taking chances

In the hazed bowers,

Following bloody hints

You left in the thorns,

Like trails of breadcrumbs,

As I soothe your pains in return

With balms of found answer

To our sacks of questions

I slowly unload from my head

Leaving them to mark the blind alleys

That would lead you

To me.

 

From separate spheres

In a labyrinth,

We clear a single 

Entangled passage

(Closer than we thought),

Daring to defy the easy way.

 

If that’s what it cost

To find our way,

I surrender to my fate.

 

To find my egress

To you.

 

—-

Jeques, 2009. From his poetry collection, “A Traveler’s Soliloquies”