On My Shoulders

by Justine C. Tajonera

When the world is bathed
in gold, I sometimes
forget
that the sun is on
my shoulders.
My son watches his
shadow fall
before him
fascinated by the
play of dark
and light.

I look ahead, seeing
what my life has been,
worrying about what is
to come.
But there is always
a view from
behind my shoulders
that I hardly
ever bother
to see.

Turn around
one day.
You'll see
the one
who loves
you.

(Sept. 30, 2009)

A Hand In The Current

By Justine C. Tajonera

I just heard about it:
a child's hand,
raised above the flood water,
beyond anyone's reach.
Everything else seems
trivial beside
this tragedy.
I look at my hands,
brown, not yet
callused.
What have these hands
done?
There is no limit
to what they can do.
I can raise them
for all those
who cannot,
teach smaller hands
what to do,
haul sacks
of sand
with them,
reach food and clothes
out to those
who need them.
I can earn a
living with them
and give back
from the salt
of my sweat.
I am a hand
in the flood
and I will be
raised.

(Sept. 29, 2009)

Image sourced from: www.belrose.unitingchurch.org

Hunger

By Justine C. Tajonera

This pain in my gut
deafens me to the
roar of the traffic,
blinds me to everything
but pictures of food.
I may very well
be this all-consuming
pit.
My eyes water as
I see a long flight of
stairs.
I am oblivious to
the sweat on
my brow.
How can I be
anything but
this driving
need,
this angry
broiling in the center
of my body?
It is easy to
understand why
this master must
be satisfied before
any kind of
reason.
But I am
not this pain,
not my impulse,
not my flesh.
I uncover my
will and make peace
with my soul's
sheath.

(Sept. 28, 2009)

The Day After The Storm

Justine C. Tajonera

The streets are littered
with strange debris:
clothes, furniture,
the remnants of a wall,
the most intimate
of possessions
and the most
mundane of fixtures,
side by side.
The grief of loss
and the gratitude
for life
move together
over the receding
waters,
as hands sift
through what
is left.
Wrung, dried out,
and weary,
love joins hope,
emerging from
the bottom
of the muddy
river.

(Sept. 27, 2009)

I'd like to acknowledge the source of the photo here. The photo was inspired by another poem about tragedy, Sylvia Plath's "Aftermath." The poem is included in the flickr post.

A Feast In The Flood

By Justine C. Tajonera

Your party halls were festooned
with pink balloons,
the tables were filled
with lechon, pasta,
salmon and cake
but the chairs remained
empty.
The rains made
the streets into
rivers that
ran throughout
the city.
None of this matters
as much as
how thankful I am
that you are safe
in your mother's
arms.
There will be no
birthday candles
to blow or
treats to give
away
but your feast
is not in the
empty banquet hall,
it is in the love
of your mother
and father and
the homemade meal
they fixed
for you.

For Gabi

(Sept. 26, 2009)

Lechon - roasted suckling pig

Delays

By Justine C. Tajonera

I am out of time,
sinking back,
blood boiling,
the lapse
expands in my mind
taking proportions
that it does not
deserve.
I face my panic,
my mounting
anger at the
injustice of
waiting
and I fill it
with the blueness
of generosity.
Compassion hardly
takes space.
It is easy and
malleable,
soft to the
touch and sweet
to the ear.
I fold myself
into a spiraled
conch shell
and wash all my noise
with the roar
of the ocean.

(Sept. 25, 2009)

In Transit

By Justine C. Tajonera

We are all asleep
and dreaming
here,
standing skin to
skin.
We are still,
snapshots of
ourselves,
mute and
unfinished.
All I remember
are our
feet, rushing out
the train,
taking us one step
after another,
wanting to get
somewhere,
easily forgetting
that there is
no somewhere
just here.

(Sept. 24, 2009)

Donuts

By Justine C. Tajonera

I see them sitting
by a food stand
along the train station.
I can tell
from the way
they hold their
donuts in their
hands
that they
have been
anticipating
this moment
for weeks.
Though they are
in rags and
smeared with dirt
the space around
them glows.
If I could but
parallel their
divine contentment
for every little
slight satisfaction
in my life
I would be
in Paradise.

(Sept. 22, 2009
Boni Ave. MRT Station, Mandaluyong City)

Coffee Break

By Justine C. Tajonera

I bring a couple
of coins to
the pantry
for my vendo
machine coffee,
thinking of
the long commute,
the dark skies
outside,
all the people
I'm not talking to.
There are wide open
spaces
outside the
rows of
boxes here.
My mind splits,
reduces,
curls into
a tendril of
smoke.
I am this point
now, forming
on the blankness,
a line
extending
into a glowing
red horizon.
No cube
can contain
me.

(Sept. 22, 2009)

Sacred Destinations

By Justine C. Tajonera

There is a temple worth
my whole life's pilgrimage:
it is built small and sturdy,
the bells that peal
from this place
are magical.

There are no
pithy prayers here
or beautifully written
koans or mantras.

The view is
cramped and narrow
but beautiful
beyond
description.

It is when he wraps
his arms around me
when he cries,
when he wants
to rest his forehead
on my shoulder.
It is when he peeks
at me,
looking straight into
my eyes
with no questions,
it is when he laughs
with pure delight
because
I am
there.

(Sept. 21, 2009)

Water Child

By Justine C. Tajonera

He plunges into
the pool
laughing.
He stands on the
edge
and says,
"Out, out" of
his way.
He paddles with
his arms
and feet,
finding his own
way
to the surface.
Not long ago
he did nothing
but cling
to our arms.
And now
he wants only
to be free.
I watch with fear
and fascination,
wanting to hold
him.
It takes all
my love
to let him
fly
and find
his element.

(Sept. 20, 2009
The Orchard Golf and Country Club,
Dasmarinas, Cavite)

Robbery

"Most of the luxuries, and many of the so-called comforts of life, are not only not indispensable but positive hindrances to the elevation of mankind."
- Henry David Thoreau, Walden

Robbery

By Justine C. Tajonera

We got robbed in April,
after a wonderful meal
in a restaurant in Tagaytay*.
I felt a cold shock
emanating from
my gut,
thinking of possessions,
things,
broken glass,
the violation
of my privacy.
They took away
my purse
with no money
but with irreplaceable
photos of
my mother.
In one blow
my identity floats
in limbo:
government issued
cards, ATM cards,
credit cards,
all gone.

After the initial
fear subsides,
I see that they
have not taken
anything
important.
I have nothing
but my arms
to hold
my son,
my hands
to comfort
my husband.
My heart continues
to beat,
my soul
has sloughed off
the trappings
of the life
before this
loss.
The rest are all
illusions.

(Sept. 19, 2009)
*A city in South Luzon, Philippines

Lists

By Justine C. Tajonera

Sometimes I
believe in
my own illusion
of control,
it is a numbered
device
that reminds me
that I have
gotten through
my day.
But something
about life
refuses
my structures,
forces of nature
are stronger
than the cages
I create.
When I remember
that I am
more
than this
page,
that I
am infinite
in my
blank
slate
I let go
of my fight
with the
universe
and master
my fate.

(Sept. 17, 2009)

Blue Jeans and Onyx

By Justine C. Tajonera

To be comfortable
in your skin
takes a jolting
honesty,
years of clothes:
cuts, colors
fabrics, sizes
shapes
reverse, dissolve
leaving you
naked
on a Sunday
morning with
all the light
streaming
in.
That figure in
the mirror
is yours
but not
you.
So clothe it,
yes, adorn
it
but do not
forget
the absurd
and profound
bond between
flesh and
being.

I Want To Join The Philippine Blog Awards (Bloggers' Choice Special Awards)

Dear Readers,

It was just announced that the Bloggers' Choice Special Awards has been extended! Click here to see the announcement from the Philippine Blog Awards website.

I'd like to join the National category because I feel that a "daily poet" blog is unique and provides readers their daily ration of food for the soul. I deserve a chance to win the award because I'm committed to providing my readers one insightful poem everyday. It's a promise. Whether I win or not is not the point. But what I do offer are my stories and insights to anyone who wants to read them.

- Justine C. Tajonera

This Life

By Justine C. Tajonera

In what world
would there be
no suffering?
I would not give
up a utopian world
in exchange for
a child's
life.
No, there are
no worthy
exchanges.
There is only
this life
and what
I make
of it:
the constant
din of mall
shops,
the children
who sleep
on the streets,
the food growing
cold
in front
of me,
a woman
limping,
a man in
slippers,
carrying
his dreaming
little girl.
There is only
this life
and all that
I make it
to be.

(Sept. 14, 2009)

Pinprick

By Justine C. Tajonera

This pinprick
means the world
to me.
His tears break
my heart.
His arms, hands
and legs are
so strong,
fighting,
not ever
backing down.
I hold him
in my arms,
not knowing
what to
say.
I tell him
a story about
fuzzy, yellow
ducklings
and toads
and sharks
and sheep
telling him
jokes
until he falls
asleep.
I close my
eyes and
join him
in his dream,
where pain
waves
bye-bye
and kids
never
get sick.

(Sept. 15, 2009
Capitol Medical Hospital, Quezon City)

Taking The Train

By Justine C. Tajonera

Nothing is hidden
from my view
not the garbage
on the side
of the road,
not the smiles
of a daughter
asking, "Dito na
ba?"* of
her mother,
not the mud
and the puddles
collecting on the
pedestrian
lane,
or the deafening
sound of buses
and eternally
honking
jeepneys,
not the
speed and
efficiency
of first world
travel
or the quiet
walk
home,
from the station,
our hands
linked,
a bag of candy
 in my purse
for our
son.

(Sept. 13, 2009)

*English translation: Is it here?

Adventures

By Justine C. Tajonera

I watch him
cry like it's the end
of the world
because I'm
not sitting next to
him.
I watch him laugh
hysterically
over a seagull
sticking his head
in the water.
I watch him
line up his
toy cars,
saying
"Bye bye Mommy,
Daddy" to every
single one,
then "Beep, beep"
because of the
traffic.
I listen to him
as he makes
Puss-in-Boots talk
to his red Ferrari.
I laugh as he
says, "One more,
one more!"
when he jumps
into a pool.
I smile when
he keeps
a picture of me, his Dad
and him
in his box
of treasures.
Life is
an adventure
always,
with him
by my
side.


Sept. 13, 2009

The Childhood of a Hero

By Justine C. Tajonera

We walk through
a replica
of Rizal's home
in Calamba, Laguna.
As I watch my son
run through the kitchen
and the bedrooms
I imagine
Pepe
eating by the window
waiting for his
Mama
to teach him
his lessons.
I imagine him running
to his bahay kubo,
chasing around his dog,
Syria.
I smile, seeing
in my mind
my own son at home,
walking his dog,
Sparta.

A national hero
and my son
are no different
as toddlers.
They are shaped
by the love
they are
given.
They shape
the world
from the
love
of their
mothers.

Sept. 12, 2009


Bahay Kubo - traditional Filipino dwelling place. It is made out of bamboo  and held together by tree strings with dried tree leaves, coconut leaves, nipa, sasa or dried grass.

The Road to Pansol

By Justine C. Tajonera

The road
to Pansol
is full of
songs.
We pack
our bags
in thirty
minutes
and head
out without
reservations
or definite
plans,
our minds
filled
with pools
of water
from hot
springs.
Even while
the rain
and darkness
fall,
the
weekend
shapes
into
a glowing
smile.

Sept. 11, 2009
on the way to Pansol, Los Baños, Laguna

Portrait Poems: Mountains (For Martha)

Mountains

By Justine C. Tajonera

She tells me
there is
something
that fires her
up
beyond the
mundane world
of making
a living.
I see her
climbing
mountains
with her sons
in tow,
conquering spaces
she never dreamed
of.
She is a
force of
nature.
Give her time
and she
could lift
mountains.

For Martha

Portrait Poems: Listening (For Mari)

Listening

By Justine C. Tajonera


She is quiet,
serene
as a star
in the far corner
of a window.
But her
questions
glow
with an
inner life.
Her patient
perseverance
is just
the smoothened
surface
of a passionate
dreaming
soul
biding
her time.


For Mari

Potrait Poems: His Stories (For Mark)

His Stories

By Justine C. Tajonera


I remember
how
he revealed
his unique eyes:
balloon heads
and a dream
of being
loved.
he will brave
flooded
downtown
streets
to find
the right
frame
to tell
his
stories
and he will
because its
in him
to tell
them.
He will
find ways.

For Mark

Portrait Poems: Her Smile (For Dia)

Portrait Poems

I did a series of poems last August that focused on my impressions of some people and I dedicated the poems to them. This is the first one.


Her Smile

By Justine C. Tajonera

She holds it
all in
with a bright
smile
and even if
I were to
lift the veil
of her charm
and grace
she will not
let her grief
get in the way
of our simple
joy
of a shared
lunch break.
Her beautiful
laugh
is as strong
as steel
nails.

For Dia

Standing in Line

By Justine C. Tajonera

We are there for only
two hours
and yet
it is a flashback
of cliches:

that there are
professional fixers,
that there are
obsolete
equipment, like
a rundown
automated
cashier,
hanging around
for no reason,
that there are
lines that go
nowhere
and counters
with no
labels.

The rain
pours
and styrofoam boxes
stand agape, pointless,
collecting water leaking from
the roof
and trash from
people who have mistaken
the boxes
as trash bins.

For once,
I look into the eyes
of the man suggesting
that I short-circuit the line
with a few hundred pesos
and I tell him sincerely,
"Okay lang sa akin
pumila."*

I am not a cow
being herded.
Despite the
inconveniences,
I choose
to stand
in line.

NBI Satellite Office in Quezon City Hall
Sept. 9, 2009


*English translation: It's okay for me to stand in line.

Sifting Sand as Meditation

A laborer's work
is simple
and clear.
I sift the sand
through a
screen,
swinging the
screen
backward and
forward
until all that
are left are
pebbles and
stones.
With a strong
heave, I watch
the pebbles
and stones
fly
from the screen
and land
in a heap.
I do this
hundreds of
times,
my bare hands
gripping the wooden
frame of
the screen.
I do this until
there is nothing
in my mind
but sand, pebbles,
stone
and flight.
I do this until
there is no difference
between labor
and
prayer.

Sept. 8, 2009
Bgy. Pinagbuhatan Habitat for Humanity Build

Gift

By Justine C. Tajonera

This gift costs nothing.
It is a rainy afternoon,
racing down a
giant slide,
laughing hysterically,
like there's
no
tomorrow.
It is miraculously
not fitting into
a bathing suit
but letting it
fit
me.
It is playing hide
and seek
and new games
like catch Mommy's
keys,
racing around
like a loon
with no
regard whatsoever
to anyone,
or anything they have
to say.
It's dancing
while doing
the groceries
and holding
hands during
stoplights
and eating
pan de sal
out of the blue.
This gift cost me
nothing
and everything.

Sept. 7, 2009

Pan de Sal - Pandesal (Spanish: pan de sal, literally "salt bread") is a rounded bread or dinner roll usually eaten by Filipinos.

The Leaf

By Justine C. Tajonera

I experience
the leaf,
the deadness
of it,
the meaning
of death,
the end
of meaning,
nothing.
I experience
how it lies
among pebbles,
how it is
brown,
how it is everything
and just
a leaf,
and all my
grief,
and the sound
of a silent
afternoon.
I am not
the leaf.
I am not
the pebbles
holding up
the leaf.
I mean
nothing
by this.
I let this
all go,
with a sigh,
like a wind
that lifts up
the meaningless
leaf.

Two Hours Early

By Justine C. Tajonera

The world threw me
two whole hours
with sunlight
streaming down
my face
and a bagel waiting
in the toaster
oven.
I had seven waking
dreams
and a prayer
in my heart
that filled
each moment
to overflowing.
As I drank
chilled water
with the breakfast
my sister
made for me
I found that
I could not
ask for
more.

This Space

By Justine C. Tajonera


This space
in my head is
a box,
a small one
filled with mementos
my mother
left.
This space
is a room
with a view
of the piazza
San Marco.
This space
is as big
as our wedding
feast in 2005.
This space
is as wide
as the kingdom
of our
shared dreams,
draped in grand
gestures and
ambitious
hopes.
This space
returns to
the distance
between us
when we
fall asleep,
the length
and breadth
of our own dreaming
son.
This space
is the sacred
boundary
where I
stand guard
over who
you are
and share
who
I am.

For Vier

Afternoon Naps

By Justine C. Tajonera

There are few luxuries

in life

as precious

as afternoon naps.

Holding my son's chin

close to my

shoulder,

adjusting the pillows

around us

and watching his

smile,

I cannot imagine

a better place

to be. 

Let everything wait:

exercise drills,

chores to be

done, 

work to

submit.

This afternoon

is all about

his sleepy

grin

and his hand

holding

mine

as he falls

asleep

in my

arms.

Badger and the Jazz Musicians

By Justine C. Tajonera

He looks surreptitiously
when he sees one of them
hoist a violin.
Over baked potato
and iced tea
he has a faraway
expression as he
listens to this
different
sound.
He nods his head,
and jumps,
marches,
his smile
as joyful
as the music.
By the time
he attacks
his carrot
cake
in time
to the beat
of the
song
I know his
musical soul
is
full.

Hidden Light

By Justine C. Tajonera

They say millions of people
pass through this
shopping mall.
I feel lost in a sea
of choices:
shoes, bags,
jewelry, scents,
make-up, jeans,
shirts.
People of all
shapes and sizes
pass me by,
part of a
demographic,
a number
on a chart.
I will not see
their hopes
and dreams written
on their sleeves
or even in their
eyes.
I will not see
the love they
bear their
sons or daughters,
fathers or mothers.
I close
my eyes
and imagine
their collective
hope
beneath all the
surface garment
and skin
and this lifts me
on scented air
across a stream
of stars.


SM Megamall, Mandaluyong City