Polis

By Justine C. Tajonera

I remember my lessons
from Philosophy
about this thing
called Politics.

I had come to
the conclusion
that power
corrupts.

But what I had
failed to grasp
was that politics
did not mean
"those in
power" but
the power
of the public
space.

Before you,
the people,
I leave
my hearth
for today
to declare:
that I am
responsible
for my hope
and the choices
that I make.

(Nov. 30, 2009)
Image is of me reading Obama's The Audacity Of Hope.

Sunrise

by Justine C. Tajonera

The sunrise
is an illusion.
The sun
doesn't really
rise.

The earth
just turns
on its axis.

I consider that
this isn't
the start
of our lives
all over again.

This is us
coming to meet
the sun
and that there
really isn't any
point to it
other than
the fact
that we've
walked here
together.

For Vier
in reference to Onofre Pagsanhan's Kaharian Ng Araw
(Nov. 29, 2009)

Comfort

By Justine C. Tajonera

Before he goes
to sleep,
my son pinches
his ear lobe
and it seems
that no harm
will come
to him.

Small gestures
from childhood
tide us through
the night.

Our grandest
ambitions,
our dreams
come true
will never
parallel the little
ecstasies
of innocence.

Our mothers'
wordless
nuzzles,
perhaps,
will greet us
in heaven.

(Nov. 28, 2009)

Getting Off The High Horse

By Justine C. Tajonera

The dirt is a good thing
to be

in.

It keeps you close to
what is
real,
to what will
not fall apart.

When you strip away
the privileges
and take hold
of what is
necessary,

you realize
what your life
is about.

There will be no
distractions
to who
you are
being.

(Nov. 27, 2009)

Image from http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Wooden_toy_horse.JPG

Res Gestae

by Justine C. Tajonera

This thing has been done.
This thing cannot
be taken
away.

There are no words
to describe
the sound of her
voice
as she saw
her grave
already
prepared.

Evidence is hardly
the appropriate
word
for her
horror or her
fear.

There is hardly any
place to stand
as things public
cross into
the hearth.

Women and scribes,
who will
protect you
now?


These things
have been
done.

Children,
listen to your mother.
There is no hope
in retribution.


They must not
be done
again.

(Nov. 26, 2009)
For Genalyn Mangudadatu, the massacred civilians, lawyers and journalists of Maguindanao and the children who were left behind


'Res gestae' - Collins English Dictionary definition

1. things done or accomplished; achievements

2. (Law) Law incidental facts and circumstances that are admissible in evidence because they introduce or explain the matter in issue

Image from http://www.chippewa.com/articles/2009/11/25/ap/headlines/as_philippines_hostages_killed.txt

AP Photo/Aaron Favila

Canvas Bag

by Justine C. Tajonera

Every day I load this
canvas bag
with my spoon and
fork
wrapped in a woven
cloth, tied with
a ribbon.

This is where I stash
my newly bought
books,
my cookies,
my magazines.
This is where
I bring my supplies
like toilet paper
or the occasional
tube of toothpaste.

My canvas bag
is so ordinary
and easy to
miss

but indispensable.

How did it begin
to be my constant
companion,
a witness to my
adventures and
misadventures
on the train?

I don't really
know.
But here it is
on my
shoulder.

(Nov. 25, 2009)

Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/10953991@N00/2494945392/ posted by Crystl

Just Say The Word

by Justine C. Tajonera

It used to be
that you would
just say the word
and I would be
broken.

Time has muffled
the screech of
my fears
but when they come
back
they are
deafening.

I used to think

that being with you
was like
hanging on
to the sharp side
of  a blade.

That was the problem:
that I was
hanging
on
at all.

Enough.

I just need to say
the word
and I
will be
healed.

(Nov. 24, 2009)


Image is of a display of naval dirks (long daggers) at The Maritime Museum of the Atlantic in Halifax, Nova Scotia from http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Navaldirks.jpg by user Matthew Vanitas.

The Mind Is A Strange And Wonderful Thing

By Justine C. Tajonera

Watching my son grow,
I find his mind fascinating.
You never know where
it will go.

I don't know why he loves
cars and motorcycles and buses.
I don't know why his favorite
colors are neon pink
and dark blue.
The answers don't matter as
much as the fact
that he's learned
to choose
as early as
year two. 

I know that his insights
will be different from mine,
the world is strangely familiar
but so different
from mine
when he says:
Twinkle, twinkle
star,
Mommy,
moon!
Airplane!

There's a hint of betrayal
when he says,
Mommy, office.

But just watching him
learn the words,
piece them together
from nothing,
and spew them out
in his own
weird order

is nothing short
of amazing.

I'll never get tired
of hearing him say
something
new
and I'm devoted
to witnessing
the evolution
of his wonderful

mind.

Neurons in the brain - illustration
Credit: Benedict Campbell. Wellcome Images
images@wellcome.ac.uk

So Much Depends On Restraint

By Justine C. Tajonera

In the great battles,
so much depended on
the restraint of soldiers.
One tiny movement or
mistaken gesture might
have caused legions of men
to lose
their lives.

The same is true
for most great things
in life.
Anything huge,
awesome, majestic
in its nature
depends on the patience
of each player.

The smaller the battle,
the lesser the
discipline.

I call on my inner
royalty,
my calm and
sovereign
soul

to stand by
my choices
in this
daily war
of life.

(Nov. 22, 2009)

Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/42602676@N00/3256865393 by user feserc.

The Equal Parts of Aesthetic Beauty

By Justine C. Tajonera

They come into view at a mall:
beautiful man, plain woman,
lovely woman, ugly old man.
It triggers something
in us, an instant
distaste.

We applaud the beautiful
pair. We say:
no wonder.

Beauty is cruel
in her symmetry.

But love
is more forgiving.

Let perfect balance
be for art
and not for
living.

Give me the messy,
chaotic riot
of happiness and
grief any day
than the equal parts
of aesthetic
beauty.

(Nov. 21, 2009)

Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/appughar/3248593100/ by user appoose81

Plain Vanilla Girl

By Justine C. Tajonera

There go the Cherry Chocolate
and the Almond Swirl
girls,
their skirts swishing,
their heels clicking,
a complicated stew
of perfume, designer
hand bags, and
glossy tinted hair.

I don't know
when I started my
state of
Plain Vanilla.
There was a time
that I aspired to be
Bubblegum and then
Coffee Brickle.


Along the way,
I dropped down
to the basics,
dangerously close to
generic.


But Plain Vanilla
works for me:
pretty much a canvas
for the day.

Really, I'm not
Plain Vanilla because
it tops the charts.

I choose my Plain
Vanilla self
just because.

Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/stevendepolo/3797233888/

The Grand Conflicts of My Story

By Justine C. Tajonera

In another story, Frodo might have
chosen the problem
of his uncle's
estate and its upkeep
and he never would have
saved Middle Earth.

Here I am, agonizing
over the groceries
and the electric bill,
when, in my heart,
there are larger things
like adventure
and poverty
and spiritual
transformation
that dwarf
my very
existence.

The small provinces
of my heart
are hungry for views
of my son, laughing.
Even there, the laundry
and the house
dust
play very minor
roles.

I choose to drive
this flag
into the ground:
the pursuit of
grand conflicts
worthy of
the story
of my life.

In my story,
let the dragons
and wizards come
and not find me
frowning over
a sack
of potatoes.

(Nov. 19, 2009)

Frodo - From Frodo Baggins of The Shire, in J.R.R. Tolkien's The Lord of The Rings

Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/sektordua/205822611/ by user sektordua

Love. Desire. Marriage

By Justine C. Tajonera

The bare bones of a Sunday
morning kiss remains
after the furtive novelty
of desire has had
its tide.
You ask me why
the nature of love
has changed
after the marriage vows
have been said.
I have no easy answer.

There are no perfumed
mysteries after you have
wrestled with the gristle
and sinew of
childbirth together.
The howling, organic
peak of labor
is a far cry from
the short ecstasies of sex,
even the marital
kind.

But love is not fleeting.
That is something
we can report
from the
front lines.

It is that unbreakable
joint that holds us
together, not
at the hip,
but in our guts
and through the
miraculous flesh
of our
children.

(Nov. 18, 2009)

Image from: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:William-Adolphe_Bouguereau_%281825-1905%29_-_The_Proposal_%281872%29.jpg

Little Cruelties and Little Kindnesses

by Justine C. Tajonera

Where you find little
cruel gestures like
a shove or a sneer
you also find the gentlest
of sympathies,
a touch on our wrist
to let you know
that there's space to sit
or an extra hand strap
to hang on to.

In the same garden
where the savage beasts
claw and tear,
majestic trees
outstretch their shade
and little networks
of quiet ants
build their kingdoms
out of mud.

(Nov. 17, 2009)

Image from http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:%22And_the_palm_tree_nodded_to_the_mirror_in_the_jungle%22_--_winter_beauty_of_the_tropics,_Ormond,_Florida,_by_Underwood_&_Underwood.jpg

Finding You

By Justine C. Tajonera

It's scary how I can preschedule
my life:
calendar appointments, messages,
even birthday greetings.

I could live my life
out of the box and by proxy:
A bot with my name
and specifications
might be doing my status
updates
and answering
my mail.

Is this another kind of
freedom
or is there really a replacement
of myself that would work
fine
in my
stead?

And one day,
will my son
disappear in this
replacement
world?

This conjures a different
kind of hope
in my head:

"If you run away from me..."

I will always find you. 
That's a mother's promise
to her little bunny.

(Nov. 16, 2009)

Quote from "The Runaway Bunny" by Margaret Wise Brown

Image from Margaret Wise Brown's "The Runaway Bunny." This illustration is on the page where it says "If you fly away from me, I will be the tree that you come home to."

Daddy

By Justine C. Tajonera

My first memory
of my Dad
has to do with a nightmare
I had.
At three years old,
I woke up screaming
in the night.

A pair of strong arms
lifted me into the air,
and rocked me gently,
all around the house.

My Dad is all about bear hugs,
computations written on
table napkins and
yellow legal pad,
and a grip that's sure
and unfailing
when we hold hands
during the "Our Father,"
at mass.

I've seen him falter,
confused and hurt over
things I say
so carelessly.

I've seen him shed
tears while watching
a movie.

I remember that this world
is so much less scary
and bewildering
because he's always
had my back
since that night
I woke up
screaming.

My bedrock and my
shield,
I take his warm
hand
wherever I
go.

When I look back
there he is,
always.

(Nov. 15, 2009)

For Daddy, on his birthday

Forgetfulness and Promises

By Justine C. Tajonera

Either way, it's astonishing
of how much of life
we forget
and how much
we remember.

Watching my son
learn how to count
and say his alphabet,
I think of those countless
moments that have
slipped by us,
irrecoverable.

At the end of it all,
all we remember
is what makes
a life.

There are only a few
precious things
in that box.

The things that I've
promised
persist,
day in,
day out.

Could it be that our lives
are the promises
we make?

I stretch out
my hand to you,
sorry for all the things
that I have
not done,

happy that you
are
there
at all.

(Nov. 14, 2009)

Image from www.ccci.org

A Place To Stand

by Justine C. Tajonera

I imagine that this piece of earth
where I have planted my feet
holds me up because
of my will.

I imagine that there
will never be a day
that I can say
someone else
is the root
of all
ills.

I imagine that no one
has any right to my
freedom, my dreams, my
choices.

I imagine that there will
never be
any pity
for me.

I imagine that this world
is falling apart at the seams
because I have not
sewn it properly
together.

I open my eyes,
frightened,
but believing.

(Nov. 13, 2009)

When You Woke Up Today

By Justine C. Tajonera

When you woke up today
I wasn't there.
Your eyes were heavy
with dreams,
I couldn't bear
to disturb you.

When you woke up today
you must have felt for me,
stirring slowly,
listening to the birds
outside the window,
wondering where I
was.

When you woke up today,
you must have started moving
towards the stairs,
tentatively calling out
my name.

Maybe you cried,
wondering where I was.
If you were in a good
mood,
maybe you asked yaya
for eggs
and rice.

When you woke up today,
I was thinking of you,
how you looked when
I kissed your cheek.

Take my kiss with you,
dear one,
even in your sleep.

My love is even
and uneventful,
rock-bottom in its
existence,
awake always

even as you sleep.

(Nov. 12, 2009)

Image from: http://ladyfi.files.wordpress.com/2008/12/midnight_dreams.jpg

The Bottomless Bag

By Justine C. Tajonera

The day ends and there is still
so much to do.
The lists never really
come to a stop,
life is a cyclic
river,
a race
with no
finish line.

And here is where
a mother
makes sense
of this bewildering
derby:

Her heart
is a bottomless
bag.

Her literal purse
overflows with the keys to
her kingdom,
a treat for each child.
But her heart
has room for
everything:

Every little joy
or grief,
all the lightness of laughter
and the weight
of betrayal
and tears,

all the paradoxes
of loving unconditionally
and letting go
in the same
manner,

all the bittersweet
knowledge
of loving what is
temporary
and ever-growing,
ever-reaching
for the door.

When you think
she cannot
give any
more,
she wells up
with surprises.

Ask her why.
She will never

explain.

(Nov. 11, 2009)

Picture from the game Magical Empire™, used with friendly permission. Illustration drawn by Faugar.

A Dream Of Plum Blossoms

by Justine C. Tajonera

In March, the plum orchards
in the Kitano shrine
will be blooming
with flowers.

Today, I am contemplating
family budgets,
checklists,
and an impending
sore throat
with a
smile
on my lips.

Life is beautiful
lived in
anticipation.
Every day is
fragrant with Spring
and fruit and
early morning
mist.

The streets are
no longer lined
with traffic and the smell
of urine
but lit up for
Hana Toro.

It will not end
in March
if I am an adventurer
and not a drudge
waiting for adventure
to arrive.

(Nov. 10, 2009)

Hana Toro - a walking lane from Shorenin Temple to Kyomizu temple in the Higashiyama walking route lit with 2,400 lanterns from March 13 to March 22. 

Image depicts plum blossoms in the Kitano Tenmangu Srhine


Image from http://regex.info/i/JF7_010334.jpg

A Proper Isolation

by Justine C. Tajonera

There are wounds that I cause
because I'd rather
have the veneer of acceptability
than face my inadequacy.

How often have I kept
a smile on my face
rather than break down
in tears
or drop to the floor
out of sheer
exhaustion?

How often have I
berated my own child's
irrepressible bursts
of energy
to keep a room quiet
for strangers?

Why is it that
I would rather suffer
than tell you how
I feel?

We are all side by side,
wounded and
wondering why
we have not
reached
out.

I'm here,
I'm here.

I am wrenching myself
from the cage
of my own convenience.

Here is my

hand.

(Nov. 9, 2009)

Image from www.laurentbrouat.com

Candle

by Justine C. Tajonera

Two suitcases,
a few boxes,
a couple of
garment bags.
We could leave
at a moment's
notice.
There may have
been a time
that a vagabond life
would not
do.
But this life is
so much lighter
and nothing
has changed.

This is a passing
life.

Kingdoms and fortresses
and empires
are made up of
dust and history.

There is only
this brief candle
for us.
Why spend it
on elaborate
candlesticks
when all that matters
is the
flame?

(Nov. 8, 2009)

The Lighthouse

By Justine C. Tajonera

My steps drag,
my eyes droop,
my shoulders sag
as I walk on.

I'm sapped of all
strength,
making up for night
after night
of fatigue.

But I look to
the lighthouse,
unceasing, steady
in its sight.

Night after night,
it has lit
a safe path
for seafarers
whether the ocean
is calm
or enraged.

In the face of
this strife
and labored breath,
I look to the lighthouse
to keep me
from drowning
myself
in my own
despair.

(Nov. 7, 2008)

Image is of the lighthouse of Cape Bojeador, Burgos, Ilocos Norte

Sacrament

By Justine C. Tajonera

I have known
the difference
between what is
sacred
and what is
profane.
But I have been
puzzled over:
water into
wine,
word made
flesh.

Stepping into
the river,
I finally found
my conviction
made
concrete.

Saying that I
would step into
the water
did not matter
until I did.

My love for you
has no
reasons,
only the moment
onwards when
I said
that only death
would part
us.

(Nov. 6, 2009)

Perfect Days

By Justine C. Tajonera

There were more of them
when I was three.
The afternoons were
never long enough.
I could run away
from the rain
as it chased me
down the street.
I was never careful
eating watermelon
or mindful of
dancing when
the music started.

I thought those days
had ended
until I had
my son.

He reminds me
every morning
of how unapologetic
a kiss
can be.
And when I want
my day
to end
he makes me
laugh over
how he wants
more of it.

(Nov.5, 2009)

Windmills

by Justine C. Tajonera

The beach was paved
with windmills,
white and tall
stretching into
the horizon.

It was like I was
in a different world:
post-apocalyptic
Japanese anime
or Scandinavian coastline,
anywhere
but here.

Anything massive
or environmental
or a machine
that actually works
couldn't come
from
here.

Little faith,
accumulated losses,
a history of
disappointment
color these blank,
white windmills
of the North.

Like the blowing arm
of nature,
collectively unleashing
its amoral force,
circumstances threaten
to drown
my hope.

But an ember
remains.

It is slow to fan,
dragging in pace,
but it is there.
I hold out my hands
harnessing
what approaches.

Our time

will come.

(Nov. 4, 2009)
Contemplation on the windmills of Ilocos Norte

Alay sa Patay

by Justine C. Tajonera

The last time I remember
leaving an offering
for the dead
was All Soul's Day
in Cebu
after my mother's
death.

Death is so final,
leaving us reeling
with everyday
concerns
like food for dinner
or clothes
to lay out.

We don't really
offer these things
to the dead.

No, we lay out
the ulam, the drinks,
the cigar
and the rice
for our abandoned
selves.

We have nothing else
but these human
habits and
comforts
to go on.

How do we say
that we have not
forgotten
if we have not
laid out
their share
of the evening
meal?

Please be here
tonight,
please let me
hold on
on this night
that it is
allowed.

(Nov. 3, 2009)

Alay sa Patay - Tagalog for "offering for the dead"
Ulam - viand

The Living and The Dead

By Justine C. Tajonera

A red string through
time
connects us all.
The string I hold
will end where my
son knots his own
string.

The string stretches on
through a clearing,
drawn taut
with the wind
tugging our
lengths.

There is no point
to the strings
or reasons
why they end
or begin.

But we hold on
tightly
anyway,
knowing that
the string
we hold
will end.

Even though the
length of the string
will never alter
the fact

that a red string
through time

connects us all.

(Oct. 29, 2009)

Image from escalasilver.com

Being

by Justine C. Tajonera

There is no due date
for being,
it is breathing
now,
this moment
when the air
will remain
the same.
It is this moment
when you can confront
yourself for any
unhappiness
or fear
or resignation
and open the
windows
to your own
freedom.
There is no prison cell,
there is no cage.
There is only you
holding the only
key
to your
existence.

(Oct. 29, 2009)

Image from avenueconsulting.co.uk