Taming This Tyke's Voice Since 2007


Book Teaser

In Celebration of the 7th Year of my web nook here’s a little teaser for the up-coming release of my book . . .

Book Teaser . . .

A Traveler’s Soliloquies
An Illustrated Poetry Anthology
By Jeques B. Jamora

Published by the Vigilante Publishing Group LLC
Coming this Fall, 2014.

teaser 3

My Book Cover Preview

A Traveler’s Soliloquies
An Illustrated Poetry Anthology
By Jeques B. Jamora
This is the preview of my book cover coming soon for release this Fall, 2014. The cover is my art piece, “Unrequited” inspired by the poem with the same title included in the book. My publisher based in Arizona, USA Vigilante Publishing Group LLC will soon announce the release date of the book. Please visit my page on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/JequesBJamora and hit LIKE to get the update feeds about the book.

I wish you well.

~ Jeques B. Jamora


Press Release for Jeques Jamora


Sharing the joy of another life’s firsts with my first Press Release from my Publisher, Vigilante Publishing Group LLC for my soon to be published book: A Traveler’s Soliloquies: An Anthology of Pomes, Illustrated.



Originally posted on Vigilante Publishing Group LLC:


February 25, 2014

Media Contact: E. Ekstrom


Vigilante Publishing Group LLC Welcomes Author Jeques Jamora

[Scottsdale, AZ.] Scottsdale based book publisher Vigilante Publishing Group LLC welcomes poet and artist Jeques Jamora as a new client from Evanston, Illinois. Mr. Jamora is a brilliant poet and extraordinary artist whose talent is showcased in his upcoming book A Traveler’s Soliloquies: An Anthology of Poems, Illustrated.

                    A Traveler’s Soliloquies takes you inside the mind of a Waif. This Anthology is the waif’s 10 years poetic self-talks, illustrated! The art pieces by the author are the visual form of the poems that recounts the memories of his genesis. These are his recorded self-dialogues as his mind hovers in the present, his caught in the moment thoughts and his vision of the future. A Traveler’s Soliloquies will be released in 2014.



            Mr. Jamora’s love for poetry…

View original 124 more words

Self-Portrait of the Artist: In Words

Jeques turns 41: A walk in the mist at Sans-Souci Lake, New Buffalo, MI. July 31, 2013.

Jeques turns 41: A walk in the mist at Sans-Souci Lake, New Buffalo, MI. July 31, 2013.

  Jesus “Jeques” B. Jamora, 41

Case Manager/BSN/Registered Nurse/Self-taught Artist/Poet

“Dots and lines on the right place is Art” ~ Jeques

My romance with art is a-love-at-first-grip kind of thing. The moment I first held a pencil, I knew it in my heart that it is something I would love to do for the rest of my life.

I started to draw when I was around 3 years old: creating dots, connected them with lines and then my mother taught me my first art lesson to form the dots and lines to flowers: my first subject. She stopped teaching me when I drew better flowers than she did; outgrowing her art lessons quick. She advanced and became my first fan and art collector. My first art exhibit was in her convenient store when she would show my drawings to her clients. That was my childhood version of an art gallery. My earliest art portfolio was my mother’s record books lost to time, but never in my memory.

My first art critic was my father. He thought my works were insignificant and told me to do other things. The hardest thing he asked me to do was to use my right hand, I was born left handed. It was a subtle way to suppress my gift, and then he put me in the seminary where I had my first rejection at 13 when I was expelled. I drifted like a waif, then he decided the nursing course for me, ignoring my pleas to put me in an art school in college. I could not blame him though, I was born in a third world country, the Philippines; we need to choose a career that could bring food on the table instead of joy to the heart.

I was caught in the middle trying to balance early on: between my nurturing mother and my highly critical father. I never had formal education in the art. Alone in my room, close doors, is my childhood version of an art institute where I had my art classes as a kid. It was lonely. There was only one person I would seek every time I finish a piece: my mother. Her sincere appreciation of my works nourished me to keep going. The gift is ingrained. I was born with the passion that not even my father was able to control from flourishing.

Somebody encouraged me to join my first painting contest in college and won every competition that followed. It was a tiny spark that kept the torch of my dream lighted in my passage through the dark gorge of dormancy. It put my inner compass back to place to follow the direction that my destiny would take me.

I trod many paths from that point, connected directions that my journey took me. I arrived in Chicago, autumn of 2006 as a nurse, but my solitude nurtured and awakened the dormant artist in me sleeping for a very long time. My first attempts were paintings in words through poetry, but my inner itch intensified and found myself buying materials that my nursing profession made me afford and just started painting.

I am still that kid who would seek my mother’s appreciation every time I finish an art piece to get her nod for me to go on. Only now I seek that appreciation from people who would chance upon my works, like my mother’s friend in the store she would show my drawings of flowers as a kid.

I, too, still am the kid who feared the criticisms of my father that made me rip many pages of my sketches, and toss away many of my earlier works unfinished. I see my father’s image in people who thought my works are insignificant. I find courage in people who tell me otherwise. But deep in my heart, I have to admit I still seek for his approval that he was so selfish to give. He died in 2008, and I thought I’m free now, I always was!

I had since come to terms with my resentments to my father. I thank him for being distant, for it brought me closer to myself, to my soul. And for that, he taught me to fight a good fight. Wherever he may be right now, I wish he look down to see I found my way.

Deep inside this heart, ingrained, is a gift that I’m entrusted to nurture alone, close doors, away from people. I remain that waif inside my room as a child connecting senseless dots and lines to create images hoping that people would find them significant, so I could finally find my grown up version of an art gallery, a home ~ your hearts.

And like a desolate soul a lonely waif

I wait for you to find me.

May your travels not take you long,

Come fast and love me.

"Waif" Oil on canvas, 30x30 by Jeques, 2009

“Waif” Oil on canvas, 30×30 by Jeques, 2009

Through my works, I would like to represent the displaced artists in different fields for some reasons, becoming like waifs, that I am, searching for home. I share the sentiments of artists unable to do their arts, caged in the jobs that are far from what their hearts purely desire to do. I aim as an artist to speak to that audience, to inspire them through my works and to make a statement that it is possible. Every art piece I finish is a struggle, but each is a step closer to home.

My paintings are conceived from my poems. In poetry, the words are my brushstrokes to create imageries in those times when I still can’t afford the painting materials back in the Philippines. Poetry still serves me well now in my study for painting subjects. All my paintings are titled because they are clear in my mind’s senses before they took form on canvas. Many of my paintings complete the circle becoming poems. My brushstrokes are the words I use to conjure imagery in the mind’s senses.

And when I think of it ~ this circle of my poems becoming paintings, and the paintings’ metamorphosis to poetry ~ I am enlightened that there’s really no single strand that separates them. Sketches and drawings are my scribbling: my drafts. Each completed painting is a finished poetry.

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.

I wish you well.

~ Jeques

Jeques turns 41: Sailing in the mist at Sans-souci which literally means life without a care.

Jeques turns 41: Sailing in the mist at Sans-souci which literally means life without a care.

EVENTUALITY a poem by Jeques, 2010


Don’t fear
Sleep well now.
Dream dreams and find solace in the hearth
Amidst the cold of his absence.
Shadows shall pass,
The clouding of the moment
Shall clear. Eventually.

Don’t waver
Walk this day now.
Step your foot forward
In synch with the ticking of the clock,
For we’re part of the veinal flow of the universe
This slow procession of prolonged agony
Shall reach its end
In her chamber. Eventually.

Refuse to cede
Get up now.
Endure the inner battles that defeats you.
Holdfast to your courage
Even when the last ray of hope sets
And throws twilight on your face.
Stay awake for twilights always
Transit to dawn. Eventually.

Raise your chin
Look up now.
Aim to climb the mountains once more
Where a new summit awaits.
Cling your tendrils of faith secure
And leap.
The makeshift shelter I offer may be frail,
But it could send you off
To your journey
To the stars. Eventually.

Find solace in my meek heart.

The Succumbming

THE SUCCUMBING “ang magparaya”
a poem by Jeques, 2009
I cling to the filaments
Of the past to the last strand
For a long time.
Until I can hold no more,
And gave in
Succumbing to the will
Of changes.
I awake from the dream
I once lived
That’s hard to keep my distance,
But the fine grains in the time glass
Emptied to its bottom,
So I gave in
Succumbing to the calls
Of the moment.
I reached a point
Where the river flowed no more
Where the springs halted
And the last puddle of hope emptied.
How could I paint the pain of yielding?
So I just whispered my sighs
To the mangroves
Hoping when the tides return
They would carry my muted chants
To your heart.The winds of long ago
Shall return to visit,
They will blow through the leaves of the mangroves,
The tides shall rise and recede below,
And chant the antiphons of my stories
Again and again and again
‘Til they reach you..

The pain of succumbing to the will of changes,
The acceptance that lost moments never return.


No more silent breakfast to share
That I dreamed about many mornings.


No more lazy walks in the streets and allowing my feet
Where it would take me.


No more reading, finding quietude in the crowd
In some busy coffee shops.


No more memories to weave
For the story concluded to a silent halt


Like when the last flare of the fireworks
Faded in the night skies ending my fancy
And what’s left is the fume of longing.


I gave in and endure
The pain that comes with changes.
I succumb to the over powering force
Of the inevitable end.


I awake to the dawning of tomorrow
To breath the fresh air of its promise
Of the bliss that I still have to live.

ang magparaya


“Mailalarawan ba ang sakit ng pagpaparaya? Ibubulong ko nalang ang nararamdaman sa mga puno ng bakawan. Ang hangin ng nakalipas ay babalik at iihip sa mga dahon ng bakawan. Ang tubig dagat ay tataas at bababa. Paulit-ulit nilang aawitin ang tula ng aking mga kwento hangang ito ay umabot sa iyo.”


Faces and Time

Faces and Time

Knowing one self is the greatest discovery one could ever find in this lifetime.



a poem by Jeques, 2009

Notice me.
For once,
Just be with me.
See my heart and soul
And let time
Stand still ~

Look at me.
Show me the spark
behind those eyes
That you would not

Talk to me.
Translate your silence
To words
So I would fathom
The tenderness
In your glances.

Write to me.
Send me letters
Of your heart
So you would fill
My empty page,
This void
In my chamber
That patiently

Visit me.
Anytime of day
While I’m awake
Or even in my dreams
In my hours
Of sleep.

Touch me.
Run your finger tips
On my longing cheeks;
Reach out
For my hands
For your reassuring

Show me.
What’s behind
Those elusive eyes
So afraid
To stay still
Always looking away
From my direction.

Whisper to me.
I want to listen
To your heart
And hear
The language
Of your soul.
Let it speak.
Just for a brief moment,
Please look into my eyes,

Let time stand still ~

And be with me.


a sonnet by Jeques, 2006
I watch the gray twilight through my window
‘Tis dark, and I can’t see the setting sun.
The dusk is darkened by the cloud’s shadow;
The birds that criss-cross the skies are now gone.
My eyes trace the silhouette of a tree;
‘Tis there, but like you, I no longer see.
You’re into places since I set you free;
Oft I wonder if you still think of me.
Tonight, as I rove to the land of dreams,
I hold your thoughts close, afraid to drop you
And lose you in to oblivion’s dark streams.
Oft I doubt if you keep me that way, too.
Tomorrow, when the sun rises again,
I pray there’ll be no clouds, and will not rain.
- – -
I remember this sonnet poem while watching the sunset by my bedroom window yesterday. I wrote this years ago before leaving the Philippines and moved here in Chicago -


a poem by Jeques, 2009


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




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
On the lips of your time glass
To fill your heart,

And think of me.

What about the morning?


a poem by Jeques, 2009
I understand the books on the shelf,
Untouched. Covers gathering dusts
Pages turn yellow, words unread,
Wisdom un-hearkened.
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;
Releases 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 to 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.
encapsulated 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,

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.


a poem by Jeques, 2008


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.

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:

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




a poem by Jeques


I flip through the rubbles

Searching for sweet stories

Left from the collapsed
Romance I once built with you.

Memories I don’t want to forget;
Moments I will always remember.

I pick up the fragments,
And like a mosaic,
Paste them on the pages
Of my mind
And bind them with my tenacious heart.

Sweet ruins
Scribbled on crampled papers
Tossed in the heap of rubbles
From our colorful past,




(a poem by Jeques, 2010)


How did you know I’m here?
And you send me the same sunrise
That woke my many childhood mornings.
Only now it greets me every day here
In the other side of the world.

How did you know I went here?
And you secretly filled my luggage with memories
To last me the many years that I’m away.
You equipt me with fuel,
Enough to survive me a lifetime.

How did you know I’m longing?
And you send me short notes that keep me sane
Messages brought here by the winds,
Postcards in the blossoms of flowers,
Your hand written letters in the night skies.

How did you know the things I need?
You read my heart like the open pages
You keep me in the right direction,
And when at times I drift away
You send me signals, I am safe.

How did you know about my dreams?
You give my wishes a sense of place,
All the elements in order at the right time.
You taught me to see the beauty in waiting
And hand me the key to the doors of being.

If you know all these how could I doubt you?
You made the arrangements beforetime.
I throw myself to the morrow in sweet surrender,
For I trust the guarantee of predestined schemes ~
Where the cushion of your will awaits.

If you have leafed through the pages of my soul,
Then there’s no reason for me to fear.
You know exactly this wanting I keep inside me,
Soon a name will fill the space I left blank.
The word I searched to complete my sentences is in your hand.

I welcome the impending sunset,
Knowing you would be there to sit beside me.
For now, I gather the rich harvest of my midday
Getting ready in anticipation
For the sunrise of your arrival.

I trust the will of time this way,
In sweet, sweet surrender.



The 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

That guard your flame,

I am the candle keeper.


You need me to keep your light

I need you to warm me.



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,


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,



In springtime.


Jeques: Re-Invented!


Welcoming 2013 . . . Embracing New Beginnings . . . Celebrating Life!



Jeques in London, EnglandIMG_3020IMG_8809












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