Claiming Alexandria

The Curator

2012-02-03T07:17:00.002+08:00

by Justine Camacho-Tajonera

Breathe deeper,
look closer,
listen to how the wind shifts
leaves and curtains,
notice the subtle differences
in the blueness of the sky
this afternoon.

No one will tell you what is worth
your life
but you will know it
by the slowness
of the hands of the clock,
if you are even watching them.

These moments will come to you
in your grief,
in the stillness of your joy.

Take them one by one
as you gather corals and shells
by the seashore.
Piece them together.
The plain, the ugly, the beautiful,
they are all side by side now.
They are all yours.

Image from http://blog.illustrationcastle.com

Midnight Prayer

2012-01-25T15:51:00.000+08:00

by Justine Camacho-Tajonera

I chase after the words.
And then I sit down and breathe.
Clearing the mind is a laborious thing.
It is so easy to live the automated life:
the raised arm, toothbrush in hand,
the turning of the key,
the grimace on the face at
the high pitched screech
of a baby.
The heat, the heat could kill.
But the rain, the rain too
could kill.

What would turn this machinery
into offerings, instead?
The one who offers.
The one who bends her head,
not accepting fate,
but choosing this,
this gesture now
of peace.

Image from Royalty Free Stock Images: Raster moon illustration
dreamstime.com

A Prayer for Mica

2012-01-12T19:27:00.000+08:00

by Justine Camacho-Tajonera

I never met you.
In the first picture I saw of you,
you were wearing a pink shirt and a shy smile
and the word, "Missing," was at the bottom,
in the white border.
Watching the news, later on,
when I saw the rushing flood water,
I felt the weight of the mud,
of a whole archipelago
dragging my heart to the bottom
of a restless river.
In my mind, my arms, my hands stretched,
sifted, held on tightly
to the edge of your shirt,
wanting to hold on
to something.

No, you will not be
forgotten the way the internet
buries yesterday's news
in a sea of status updates.

When we said grace
last night, my son,
your cousin, whom you never
met, said, "Mommy, let's pray
for her," with the urgency
of someone who will not
accept that life ends,
that your smile would
ever dim.

When I hold my children's hands,
I hold your hands too.

For my niece, Mica Samson, missing since the wake of Typhoon Sendong, Dec. 18, 2011.

Morning Siren

2012-01-06T17:19:00.001+08:00

by Justine Camacho-Tajonera

At 5 a.m. she cries,
she demands,
she will not be denied.
I wake up, startled,
obeying an instinct, following
a predetermined course on a map
with my brain half-asleep.

Soothed, she cups my face
in her tiny hands.
She looks into my eyes.
The room is still dark
but her eyes are shining.
Who is this who heard me?
Who is this who completely
understood me?

Years from now
someone will fall in love
with her
for those eyes.

I smile and take her hands
in mine before we both
fall back to sleep.

For Clea

Image is of Ponyo (Hayao Miyazaki's Ponyo on the Cliff)

Watching the Water

2012-01-05T20:12:00.000+08:00

by Justine Camacho-Tajonera

The water slowly soaks up the paper.
It takes its time,
moving from one corner
upwards, outwards, spreading,
pinning the paper to the surface
of the table.
It takes its time
whether anyone watches
or not.
There are things that cannot be rushed.
There are things that cannot be stopped.
If I do nothing more,
the water will still run its course.

Image from Lostandtaken.com

Things I Want My Daughter To Have (Reading "B" by Sarah Kay)

2012-01-02T19:28:00.003+08:00

I just discovered this spoken word poem on Amazon.com. I stumbled upon it when I searched for poetry. It was the first book they recommended for the holidays. It is truly amazing. And because I do have a daughter, I found it really fascinating and true and poignant.

There are just some things I want to share with my daughter because I was there before her. And I want to share it with love, with a lot of understanding, with the compassion of a mother to a maybe-future-mother too. And not to say that I'm all-wise either. Like Sarah says in her poem, "on a scale from one to over-trusting, I am pretty damn naive." I want her to know that I'll be there. Through her mistakes (which she'll surely make) and her triumphs and her heartaches (with all the drama!) and her joyful discoveries. And maybe when she's a mother herself... I'll be there before, during and after that painful, bewildering, crazy, beautiful thing called giving birth. And like "The Runaway Bunny" (one of my favorite kids' books) "B" reminds me that I am a "Point B" and no matter what my daughter will do... I will find her. And also that she can't get away from me.

Some things I want my daughter to have: a love for life, an independence of thought, a big, inexhaustible heart. And more, more, more.

I was very inspired by "B." And I'm already drafting something for Clea, especially after she woke me up at 5AM today! :-)

"B"
by Sarah Kay

If I should have a daughter,
instead of "mom," she's gonna call me "Point B."
Because that way she knows no matter what happens
at least she can always find her way to me.
And I'm going to paint the solar systems on the backs of her hands.
So that she has to learn the entire universe before she can say
"Oh, I know that like the back of my hand."
And she's gonna learn that this life
will hit you.
Hard.
In the face.
Wait for you to get back up just so it can kick you in the stomach.
But getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to remind your lungs
how much they like the taste of air.
There is hurt here
that cannot be fixed
by band-aids or poetry.
So the first time she realizes that Wonder Woman isn't coming,
I'll make sure she knows she doesn't have to wear the cape
all by herself.
Cause no matter how wide you stretch your fingers,
your hands will always be too small to catch
all the pain you want to heal.
Believe me.
I've tried.
"And, baby," I'll tell her,
"Don't keep your nose up in the air like that.
I know that trick;
I've done it a million times.
You're just smelling for smoke,
so you can follow the trail back to a burning house,
so you can find the boy who lost everything in the fire,
to see if you can save him.
Or else,
find the boy who lit the fire in the first place
to see if you can change him."
But I know she will anyway,
so, instead, I'll always keep an extra supply of chocolate and rain boots nearby.
Because there is no heartbreak that chocolate can't fix.
Okay...there's a few heartbreaks that chocolate can't fix,
but that's what the rain boots are for.
Because rain will wash away everything,
if you let it.
I want her
to look at the world
through the underside of a glass bottom boat.
To look with a microscope at the galaxies that exist
on the pinpoint of a human mind.
Because...
that's the way my mom taught me.
That there'll be days like this.
There'll be days like this my mama said.
When you open your hands to catch
and wind up with only blisters and bruises.
When you step out of the phone booth and try to fly
and the very people you want to save
are the ones standing on your cape.
When your boots will fill with rain,
and you'll be up to your knees in disappointment,
and those are the very days you have all the more reason to say "Thank You."
Cause there's nothing more beautiful
than the way the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shoreline
no matter how many times it's sent away.
You will put the wind in winsome...lose some.
You will put the star in starting over. And over.
And no matter how many land mines erupt in a minute
make sure your mind lands on the beauty of this funny place called life.
And, yes, on a scale from one to over-trusting, I am
pretty damn naive.
But I want her to know that this world is made out of sugar.
It can crumble so easily but don't be afraid to stick your tongue out
and taste it.
"Baby," I'll tell her,
"Remember your mama is a worrier
and your papa is a warrior.
And you are the girl with small hands and big eyes
who never stops asking for more."
"Remember that good things come in threes
and...so do bad things."
And, "Always apologize when you've done something wrong.
But don't you ever apologize for the way your eyes
refuse to stop shining.
Your voice is small
but don't ever stop singing."
And when they finally hand you heartache,
when they slip war and hatred under your door,
and offer you hand outs on street corners
of cynicism and defeat,
you tell them that they
really oughtta meet
your mother.

Fairy Godmother

2011-11-12T13:02:00.000+08:00

Fairy Godmother

by Justine Camacho-Tajonera

There is a corner shop

waiting for her.

Only she knows its name.

One day, she will look out the window,

watching the afternoon light

filtering in,

an absentminded smile

on her face.

Her hands will be holding a pair

of padded shears,

cutting through a rich,

burgundy velvet fabric.

And on the corner of her

working table,

she has ivory lace

for a Peter Pan collar.

On the pattern paper beside her,

she sketches dreams

for little girls

who cannot wait

to shine.

For Jaja

Image from Olgalis | Dreamstime.com

Fireworks

2011-11-08T11:54:00.001+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

You won't remember this,
little one.
I was carrying you close
after the carousel ride
and there were fireworks
in the sky.
The lights and sound startled you
and your mouth opened in awe.
You looked at me, your eyes huge
with a question you couldn't yet ask,
then you looked away and
you looked at the sky again.
You leaned your head
on my shoulder
and those five minutes
stretched to forever
as I breathed in your wonder
and the powder on your neck,
your tiny hands holding on
to my shoulder.
I will keep this for us,
for when I hold your hand
through other days ahead,
for when you have children
of your own.

The Mighty Shark by Victoria Gatan (Grade 6)

2011-10-27T09:32:00.000+08:00

Sharing another poem from the Poetry Workshop at Dumoschola International School last Oct. 25.

The Mighty Shark

What makes you so hungry? What’s your special

weakness? If you could live in the human world,

what would you do to survive? Why do you kill many

humans? Can you tumble like a dolphin? Do people

hurt your feelings? Do you ever fall in love? How?

Have you ever felt lonely? Why? Why are

you so dangerous? Do you have a family? How

do you kill a human? Why? Why am I so interested

in asking these questions? Why are you not

friendly? Is your wife a whale? What makes

you dangerous?

- Victoria Gatan, Grade 6

Illustration from Triangle Tracks.

The Bat by Pauline Taulava (Grade 3)

2011-10-26T10:41:00.001+08:00

I just wanted to share a poem that came out of a poetry workshop that I conducted in Dumoschola International School yesterday (They're celebrating Book Week!). The kids were participative and I really loved the results. We tackled "The Tyger" by William Blake (using the methods in Kenneth Koch's Rose, Where Did You Get That Red? Teaching Great Poetry to Children). I'll be sharing more of them soon. It's so refreshing to see things from a kid's perspective!

The Bat

God, O God, why did you make

such a fearsome creature that has the

ears of a hyena, the wings of a fly,

the eyes of a tiger and fangs of

a cobra? Why did you make a bat

that’s scary and mean? That’s the

Question. I want to know.

Why did you make a bat?

What is it for?

- Pauline Taulava, Grade 3

Illustration from Christine O'Keefe

Forty Six Years

2011-10-07T11:53:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

We are all wearing white
in the photograph
taken months ago.
Everyone is there.
How could all the years fit
in a few frames by the table?

What could contain
all the days and nights
of holding your hand,
of hearing your laughter,
warm and loud,
from the kitchen?

I couldn't pack this all away
in a box.
And yet that box is waiting.

Maybe it will not hurt
so much then.

But not now,
not now,
when I can still see your
soft, gray slippers
by the bed.

Painting by Marc Whitney (as posted on Sprayblog.net).

Greece Awaits

2011-08-11T09:50:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

Olive trees
and marble columns
in the water,
white villages
against a blue sea
and sky.

All these were
created for me
a long time ago
when I was only
a story.

And there it is
a story itself,
waiting to be told,
already told,
unfolding even
now.

These feet will
touch
the Aegean
Sea.

Image of a church in Sifnos, Greece from Flickr/ConstantineD

You Have Been Loved

2011-08-01T07:53:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

Someone else will
look into your beautiful face
and tell you that
you are loved.

But remember,
I loved you
first.

I loved every precious
inch of you,
every little smile,
every fold on your skin,
every expression on your
face.

You have been loved
through sleepless nights
when your first two teeth
sprouted,
through soiled diapers,
through your crabbiest
temper.

When time tests you,
when promises
are broken,
when disappointments
come your way,

remember that
you have been
loved.

You have been loved
for all that you are
and all that you
will be.

And everything,
everything
will be alright.

For Clea

Message

2011-07-11T07:38:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

Telling you this
is so important.
The bridge is so
tentative,
tenuous,
it is hardly
there.
What you will
say
will shake it
to its
foundation.
But I'm crossing
over to you,
anyway.

I'm crossing over,
I'm crossing over.
Please meet me
there.
Please wait.

Information on the picture: Old wooden bridge.
© Copyright Hefin Richards and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence.

A Deep, Deep Silence

2011-07-08T19:25:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

A deep, deep silence,
a well,
the sun in the horizon,
the blur of the
words,
the whisper of
the world,
becoming a line,
a disappearing line,
the view beyond
the view,
the silence, the womb,
the spark, the spreading
of peace,
the never ending stillness
and the constant
ebb of the waves.

I chase after
the description
of that moment
but I can only
say those
three words:
deep, deep
silence.

April 21, 2011

Photo from flickr.com/devosdelphin

Epiphany

2011-04-12T12:50:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

One day
you will see
your feet
at the bottom
of the pond
clearly.
But not before
having muddied
it with
your movement
and not after
you have shifted
your gaze
elsewhere.

Image from freefoto.com http://www.freefoto.com/preview/1218-49-38?ffid=1218-49-38

The Hermit

2011-04-11T07:48:00.001+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

I met a hermit at the peak
of a mountain
who had given up
the world
and all its concerns.
He was past the need
for survival
and the accumulation
of coin.
He was past the need
for leaving
legacies
for his children.
He spoke with the mountain
and the mountain
spoke with him.
He told me that
he gave up
so much
to know the
simplicity
of freedom.

I am the hermit.
You are
the hermit.
Perhaps,
not in
this life.

Image from
Photo credit : (cc-by-nc-nd) Bruno Monginoux / www.Landscape-Photo.net : nature and urban photography, free stock photos

Eve

2011-03-14T07:27:00.001+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

Paradise was blissful
ignorance once
but for you.
Everyone thinks
to curse you and
not thank you
for opening your
eyes,
for creating
the first, the very first
problem,
for stirring
discontent.
What is the dream
if not for the long
stretch
between what is
and what
could be?
What creates greatness
but this chasm
of adversity?
I look at you
across time,
starting the first
fire,
startled by your discovery
of inadequacy.
I could be
looking
into
a mirror.

March 14, 2011

Image from: tablespace.net

Wallace Steven's Of Mere Being

2010-10-27T18:37:00.000+08:00

Last night, I attended an introduction to a seminar and heard this beautiful poem, written by Wallace Stevens, recited at the close:

Of Mere Being

The palm at the end of the mind,
Beyond the last thought, rises
In the bronze distance.

A gold-feathered bird
Sings in the palm, without human meaning,
Without human feeling, a foreign song.

You know then that it is not the reason
That makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine.

The palm stands on the edge of space.
The wind moves slowly in the branches.
The bird’s fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

I wasn't familiar with the poem before but I was haunted by it. It is true that happiness does not emanate from outside one's self. It is always a view from the inside. It is always about the position one takes in life. That's something worth remembering every day.

The sunrise, a majestic view, the peace of a quiet garden... all of these things have no human meaning on their own. It is what you and I agree they are. It is what you and I have made real.

October 27, 2010
Image from flickr.com/aussiegall

Entering the Light

2010-10-05T13:02:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

There are days when
I have time to study
the shadow of a leaf
at the edge of a wading pool
or glimpse the reddish
tint of dawn before
my alarm clock rings.

There are days when
I can watch my son sleep
and wait for him to slowly
awaken with a smile on his face
or the slightly puzzled look
of someone just emerging
from a dream.

These are the days that are
enough,
when time is not a measure
but a great expanse,
a canvas of possibilities.

I know because there are
also days, in equal or greater
number,
when there is just not
enough:
a chasing of hours
into the exhaustion of
evenings,
a blur or repetition
of motions.

In the quiet palm
of good days
I rest my questioning,
my drive to
finish what needs
to be finished

and hold the flickering
light and comfort
of solitude and
happiness where they
can shine
in their immeasurable
brightness.

October 5, 2010
Image from http://www.geograph.org.uk/photo/337143

Little Gifts

2010-09-17T21:56:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

There was one morning
I discovered your socks in my bag
at work.
I started to cry, not yet knowing
if I was sad at the thought of you
waking up without me
or happy that I had something
of yours to hold me
together for the rest
of the day.

The other day, you were
already asleep
when I got back home
and I saw your slippers
outside your room
and again, I started to cry
not knowing if I was happy
that you were getting enough rest
or sad to have missed
tucking you
in bed with me.

These little things
string along in my mind
and break open my
heart.

I cannot yet
find the words
to describe why
each little thing
that you do
and leave
for me
to find

are lovely
little gifts
that throw open
all the windows
in my
life.

For Badger
Sept. 14, 2010

Image from madelinetosh.typepad.com

A Story for Badger

2010-08-09T14:39:00.001+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

Before your sister was born
you loved to read four books:
one was about fuzzy yellow ducklings,
another one was about apples
up on a dog, a tiger and a lion,
another one was about a kitten
named Kate
and one was about a very busy
spider.

And this, this letter I am
writing you,
it will be a story too,
one I'll tell you when
you're older.

Life, you will discover
is a string of stories
that we tell each other,
holding us back
or taking us further.

And while I want to hold
back the steady stream
that makes us both older
only so I can watch you longer

I stitch my thoughts
into this story,
one of the many in
our tapestry,
so that it can fold
around us at bedtime,
wherever we are,
giving us good dreams
night after
night.

(August 6, 2010)

Not a Girl Anymore

2010-07-23T10:19:00.001+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

Not a girl anymore,
I conclude, catching
a glimpse of myself
in the mirror.
Twice a mother,
carrying scars
and two children
gone before they
were born.
My sorrows and joys have
run deep enough
but they are
far from over.
I cannot imagine yet
my face as
grandmother.
I forget my age
sometimes,
letting my body
remind me,
now and then.

My concerns have expanded
beyond the all consuming
fires of infatuation
and the uncertainties
of my identity.
I have traveled to the
shores of birth and death and nursing
and the undefinable
ecstasies and fears
of having a child.
I have chosen a life
of giving,
walled in all sides
by the limitations
of the world,
unable to contain
the infinity of the new
souls in my
keeping.

Not a girl anymore,
I conclude,
not anyone I recognize
from ten years
ago.

(July 23, 2010)

Image from Commons.Wikimedia.

Let You In

2010-06-29T09:32:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

I have already let you in.
Pieces of you and pieces
of me
share the same spaces,
fill my mind with
useless mementos.

There is the jar of
candy that I gave you,
the cup of ice cream
that we both liked,
the spongy toy
you gave me
that makes me weep
or cringe
as it loiters
on my already crowded
desk.

I have already let you in.
There is no taking back
the time.

As much as I have
tried to purge
what little
there was,
I invited you in
at the beginning.

And that is where
you will stay.

No one ever told me
the rules
of the heart:

That there is no
diminishing,
that it can only
grow,
no matter
how painfully
it does.

June 29, 2010

Image of a heart sponge from http://www.flickr.com/photos/tomgruber/493465010/

Your Dreams

2010-06-16T18:23:00.001+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

I watched you this morning,
your eyelids fluttering
with dreams.
As I swept your hair
from your forehead
I thought about my
great dreams
for you.

I paused as the sunlight
left a dappled palette
on your cheek.

My dreams are
different
from yours.

I can only guess at
what moves you
to frown or smile
as you sleep.

All I know is that
I will never tire
of watching you
grow and reach
beyond me
towards some
unknown future
I will
never see.

For Badger
(June 16, 2010)
Image from Commons.Wikimedia.

The Question

2010-06-11T18:51:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

Dust gathers, cracks
widen with time.
If you stand long enough
in front of a mirror,
all you will see
are the infinitesimal
imperfections
on your skin.

Who am I without
my pen or journal?

The question rings
the empty spaces
of unexpressed stories
and cobwebs of
disorganized thought
that line the corners
of my mind.

The question joins
the many pithy inquiries
of this world
as old as
language itself.

I don't presume to
know any
of the answers.
I only know
to ask.

Here is what I have
dredged up.
Here is what I have
committed.
The rest are endless,
daily questions
of what I want,
where I want
to go.

The question is asked.
I attempt to answer
every
single
day.

(June 11, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/torley/2726594777/

Love Poem Written in November

2010-06-01T13:34:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

In mute sadness
I embrace the shadows
and imagine your form.
Letting the cicadas
mimic your whispers
and watching the
starless skies that
hover above us.
I wait for your words
to come back to me
in the silent currents
of deep evening.
But I do not wait
as though for rain
because I know
you are inside me.

In the stillness of
my darkened room
you are born from
my mouth
as I breathe,
from my hands
as I write,
and as I lay down
in my bed, I know
it is your dream
that I dream.

Nov. 1, 1994

Someone once told me that you must write down whatever it is that needs to be written down because you will never write it the same way again. Memory is tainted by whatever view one has at the present. That's why I wrote down the poem, above, as it was written sixteen years ago. While it may sound trite or awkward to trained ears, nothing will replace the passion, the earnestness and the utter belief behind the writing. The person who wrote this is far from who I am today, but her concerns and her preoccupations remain relevant. Why do we never run out of love poems, after all?

Image of a cicada shell from http://www.flickr.com/photos/benimoto/1057086898/

Storytelling

2010-05-24T18:56:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

Tell me the story again
of how we met,
if I listen often enough
I might say it by
heart
in my sleep.

When the children are grown
and have children
of their own,
maybe they will tell
our story.

Maybe when the stories
are told often enough
nothing is
forgotten.

Who might know what
the truth will be
if the story
is all
that matters?

Be careful with the way
you string the words
together
because that will be
how they
will be
sung.

Tell me again,
tell me
again

and we'll never grow
old and never be
weary.

(May 24, 2010)
Image of storytelling by the fire from Simon Barnes, copyrighted but licenses for further re-use with permission.

Father, Husband and Son

2010-05-18T19:38:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

I've seen the worst of my father
and the best of him.
I've enumerated his faults
and I've put him on a pedestal.

But to me, there's no better
comfort
than his bear hug,
even when he's mad
at me.

Like the prodigal son's
brother, I've wondered
at his choices.

Until I realize that
no one will see
me quite the way
he does.

And no one will
will be tough on me
the way he is.

I look at the three men
in my life:
my father, my husband
and my son

all bearing titles
from different
points
in their lives

and I am grateful
for having the
unique and unfaltering
love
of each
one.

For my Dad, Vier and Badger
(May 18, 2010)
Image of father and daughter from http://www.flickr.com/photos/ujwala/501971913/

Fitting Together

2010-05-17T19:00:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

The world shifts
with different eyes.
When time is running out
the color of the sky
is a blur.

There are days
when all I see is your face,
your hands,
how your limbs
have grown.
There was a time
your whole fist
would fit
in my palm.

Your sibling grows
quietly inside me now.
Your tone is apprehensive
with the talk of this new intruder,
your fingers pointing,
curious,
at my growing
belly.

Will my heart fit
the two of you
as snugly and as as surely
as your arms
around my
neck?

I've learned that love
can fit the tiniest
grain of hope
and the heaviest
burden of
regret
like the arms
of a
mother.

For Badger
(May 17, 2010)
Image from http://www.rudecactus.com/archives/DSC04178.edit.html

EDSA 1986

2010-05-13T08:29:00.001+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

"Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget--lest we forget!"

- Rudyard Kipling, Recessional

1986 was the year my youngest
brother was born.
1986 was the year I was in
fifth grade.
1986 was the year
that a dictatorship ended.
1986 was the year
I witnessed a miracle
of nationhood.

There was a silence
in the streets of Cebu
when we listened to the
radio and heard of tanks
forging through EDSA
and the people
who met them
with flowers
in their hands.

On that day, the opposition's
presidential candidate,
the widow of
a slain hero,
was praying with
the Carmelite
nuns
in our city.

We were at home
praying the rosary,
wondering incredulously
at what had
transpired
so far.

Then there was
a miracle.
No blood
was shed
and the dictator
and his family
flew off
in a helicopter
headed to
Hawaii.

A surge of triumph
wove its way
through the
city.
We joined the people
on the streets
dancing, shouting,
waving yellow
ribbons
in the air.

Rich and poor,
young and old
converged
with relief and a
palpable sense
of unity.

I write this
lest I
forget.

I write this for
you.
One day,
this will be a dry
lesson
in history.
But let me tell you
as if it happened
only
yesterday.

It was possible.
And it still is.
Lest we forget.

For the Filipino children
(March 13, 2010)
On the cusp of a new government

Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/layamaria/3613071550/

Mother's Day Wish

2010-05-07T10:04:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

There is a sound that breaks
my heart every morning.
It is when I turn the lock
twice to leave
after getting a
goodbye kiss
from you.

Sometimes, you run
to the door
to see me out.
You wave
and say, "See you
later."

In what world is it
possible for me
to turn around
and
stay?

This morning
you finally held your
crayons in a pencil
grip,
correcting yourself,
watching me,
waiting for me to
smile.

What if we had
the whole day
to draw mountains
and trees
and suns?

Even though this is
the brink of
a work week,
I pick up my bag
and packed lunch
and head to the
door
no matter how hard
my heart remains
tied
to your side.

The day is coming,
just you wait
and see.
The day is coming
when we will both
go through that door
for adventures
with no measures
and a horizon of
mountains
and trees and
limitless suns.

(May 7, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/psychobabble/274717482/

Holding On

2010-05-05T21:57:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

There is time
in abundance
when the clock ceases
to tick
and you hold each moment
in the palm
of your hand.

I heard someone say
that it all depends
on how tightly you hold on
to the moment.

Hold it loosely
and it trickles
through your fingers.

Hold it tightly
and it makes your
hands and arms
ache.

Hold it firmly
and it stays
where it is.

I hold my son's hand
the same way
when I can.

(May 5, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/pinksherbet/470038257/

The Wizard

2010-04-29T13:16:00.001+08:00

By Justine C. Tajonera

What makes him any different
from a wizard spouting
spells and weaving
things from
air and nothing?

He mutters a language
to himself,
a string of codes
understood and learned
by rote
and by heart.

From his set of commands
he can create colors,
structures, kingdoms
out of liquid crystal
displays.

There is a line of
knowledge that
divides us
and yet we meet
at the marketplace
of the very same
world.

One days his kind
will create a god
or monster
with a soul
indistinguishable
from
ours.

(April 29, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/dogwelder/47912895/

Paradise Village

2010-04-27T19:37:00.001+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

I want to step backwards
and retrace the lawn
in my childhood home
in Cebu.

There was an orange swing
at the back
and the street where we lived
was named Mango.

I used to bathe
in an inflatable pool
that we used to take
to the beach.

We buried our white
Pekinese dog named
White King
in the yard.

I have a hundred pictures
of my life before
my mother died
and now I am older
than she would
ever be.

There must have been
a time
that I would wake up
in the middle of the night,
looking for her,
the way my son
sometimes does
when I am home
late.

But I don't remember
that
anymore.

(April 26, 2010)
Image of a Pekinese dog from http://www.flickr.com/photos/c_pedersen/3830232275/

Morning Sun

2010-04-26T09:20:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

This morning, I watched you
wake up.
Your eyelids were flickering
with a dream,
your long lashes wavering.

And then you yawned,
a wide open pink mouth
and white teeth
in the sunlight,
your arms stretching slowly,
your back arching
with no hurry,
no worries.

There was no reason
for you to wake up,
no job to go to,
no school work
to begin.

That is the privilege
of being
three.

But you woke up,
nevertheless,
bound by some inner
clock of happiness
and wonder.

And then you looked at
me and smiled.
We heard a plane overhead
and you said,
"Airplane!" like a great
discovery, the headlines
of the news.

You headed straight
for the refrigerator
and drank your
soy milk
with a straw,
already weaned
and independent.

What I would give
to not say goodbye
to you
this wonderful,
sun filled
morning.

For Badger
(April 26, 2010)

Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/87807550@N00/126164015/

Anniversary

2010-04-26T09:09:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

There was a time that you were
charming,
nothing escaped my notice:
your elbows showing beneath
your folded shirt sleeves,
how you wore your shoes,
the scars on your face,
your arm,
your finger,
the way you gestured,
the broadness of your shoulders,
how you laughed with
your nephews and
nieces.

Then there was a time
I was disenchanted with
how you did not hurry,
your sulking,
your way of saying
that I had a choice
when I did
not.

After four years,
I lost my wedding
ring.

And then after that,
there was a time that I wept
over how I had never
heard you
before,
how our happiness hung
by threads.

It has been five years
and I will never be done
knowing you.

Last night, we fought over
what side we were on
in the grander scheme
of things.

And this morning, I realized
the meaning of being
on your
side.

I would wear your love
as a seal
upon
my heart.

And where you go,
I will
go.

For Vier
(April 26, 201)

Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/troybthompson/434922876/

Difficult Prayer

2010-04-22T15:27:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

This prayer is difficult and full
of distraction.
I try to disappear into a corner
of the screen
in front of me,
wanting divine
intervention.

There are layers of truths
and lies that stand between
myself and the peace
of being no different
from a still
mountain or a silent
root, firm and
slow seeking
in the earth.

There is something within
me that is no different
from the element
that holds all our
flimsy creations
in its palm.

There is a silence within me
that is waiting for
the end of a machinery
of chatter
and doubt.

I sit here and
acknowledge
my distance
from the answers,
from the light that
relentlessly reaches
for me
through the
darkness.

(April 22, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/multiget/2317928071/

Treading the Line

2010-04-20T22:56:00.000+08:00

By Justine C. Tajonera

There was a moment
I leaped from nothing
to comprehension:
an afternoon in my childhood
when a word transformed
from an inscrutable figure
into something
that could be
read.

There was a day
when the word, bread,
was something real
that could be
tasted
and yet an idea,
abstract,
representative.

The days when I have
tread the line
have been few

but luminous.

I fear the line
because
an edge
nearly always
precedes
the fall.

But a life
with no edges
has no flight
or even the possibility
of it.

I stand here,
gathering my strength,
on the
line.

(April 20. 2010)
Image from http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:About_to_dive_off_a_dock.jpg

The Stone

2010-04-19T19:23:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

I don't know why
my heart gathers weight
and pulls me
downwards,
why no matter
how I try to
overturn
the stone
that is my
heart,
it only continues
to plunge
deeper.

Love makes it
no lighter.

I let myself find
the very bottom.
There is nowhere
else
for me.

I move slowly,
curling inwards,
into the nature
of the
stone,

feeling the edges,
the cracks,
the density
and weight
of me,

the substance
I am made of

the outcome of fire
and all the elements
coming
together,

I am
not going away,
dissipating into
the water,

I am of a rock,
what is left
that is
unbroken.

(April 19, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/16956768@N00/3214141415

The Price to be Paid

2010-04-16T10:41:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

I imagine the very first
exchange,
the lack and the
solution,
the quantification
of desire.

The prices of love
and peace of mind
are never on
sale.
Pleasure, perhaps,
might come
cheaply.

I dread to pay
for illusions
with my
life

but there is a
very thin line
between contentment
and resignation.

I threw my hat
over the wall
so I have come
to take it.

The steepness
of the climb
has taught me
about the price
to be paid.

(April 15, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/pigpogm/2836651297/

Drought and Plenty

2010-04-14T18:35:00.001+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

The ride home was dark,
dreary,
my eyes were half-closed
with exhaustion.

There are days
like these
to come.

There are tears waiting,
a slow collapse
of armor
and walls
and anything propping
up what's left
of my flagging
spirit.

But there are just as many
days
bright with sunshine,
hugs, and many-
colored fireworks
and miracles.

And while I hold in my head
that I can paint any
blank canvas
of time
I know that
sadness has a place
beside joy.

So, together, we sit,
dinner companions in life
and death,
eating and drinking
what we can
on the
stage.

April 14, 2010
Painting of the Wedding Feast at Cana from http://www.flickr.com/photos/storm-crypt/3772299208/

Birthday Cake

2010-04-12T12:11:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

One April, you had the perfect
birthday.
We were all together,
we had bougainvilla flowers
in our hair.
The kitchen staff
at the resort
drove all the way
to town
to pick up
your heavenly
butter cake
in white marshmallow
frosting.

I don't remember any
other birthday
quite like
this one.

It was because
we were complete,
by the beach,
not caring where we
would get
the cake
but sure
that it would
be there.

It was because
you were glowing
with happiness,
and we knew we
had a beautiful evening
on the sandbar
waiting
for us.

We will never know
who baked that cake
or where it was
bought.
We will never
taste it
again.

But it was
and will be yours,
always.

for Des
April 12, 2010
Image from http://coconutlime.blogspot.com/2007/01/fluffy-white-frosting.html (includes a recipe for fluffy white icing)

Six Coins

2010-04-07T08:42:00.001+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

Lived or spent?
The line seems so slim
as I plod through my days.

This morning, as we scrounged
for spare change
for my morning commute
we looked at each other
and laughed.

We are walking
in some dire straits
but at least we still
get to eat
our pancakes
in the morning.

I kiss our son
and walk out
the door
keeping our laughter
warm
in my hands,
together
with the six
coins
that we
put together.

For Vier and Badger
(April 7, 2010)

Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/68089733@N00/457624284

A Walk in the Sun

2010-04-05T20:31:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

I don't know why
I couldn't have just
told you
that I didn't want
to walk
in the scorching
sun.

Why I saved my words
so that I could
throw them at
you like so
many flaming
arrows
escapes
me.

I can imagine
what it might have been
like if I had
saved you
the trouble.

But truly,
I relished my
smoldering silence
and expected you
to suffer the
heat of your
guilt.

I cannot undo
the burn.
Here is
my poor attempt
at a balm:

I lay down
my arms.
I'm tired of
my fevered struggle
to be
right.

for Vier
(April 1, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/jimdollar/1696429634/

Imagining a Country

2010-03-30T20:16:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

This country is imagined:
there are no real borders
that ring these seven thousand
islands together,
no color of blood
that follows our steady
diaspora.

This country is imagined:
our suffering is not anyone's
fault,
what filth or decay there is
has not been hoarded by
a few
but shared across all,
tolerated and perpetrated
like scum suspended
in the vast ocean
of our shared
air.

This country is imagined:
there is no real beginning
in a history of colonization
or layers of migration,
generations of mixed races
that have created a boiling
pot of pure
diversity.

But this country is imagined:
what great, exciting plot
unfurls from this
moment?

What unheard of
mystery is
at the center
of our shared
awakening?

There is no leaving
this country
as there is
no real
country
apart from
our
imagining.

In anticipation of the 2010 elections
(March 30, 2010)
Image from http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Harper%27s_Pictorial_History_of_the_War_with_Spain_Vol._II_Philippine_map.jpg

Bus Stop

2010-03-29T18:22:00.002+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

You waited with us, once,
at a bus stop in L.A.,
you taught us which
bus to take to
Anaheim, Disneyland.

The sky was blue then,
the winter air was crisp,
there were leaves
on the ground
as we walked.

We talked about
God, about life,
about how buses here
were different
from buses
back home:
on a schedule,
about how exciting
it was going to be
for us.

On that day, I did not
know that I would have
a son the following
December,
I did not know
you would
fall ill
only a year
later.

Yesterday, I heard
how you had gone
on
and yet how vivid,
how alive
your conversation
at
the bus stop,
as if time
had stopped.

You are wearing
your warm sweater,
your hair is gray,
you are smiling
and there is a spring
in your step.

One day,
I will meet you
at a different
bus
stop
and I will know
you
from your
kind smile.

For Uncle Chito
(March 29, 2010)

Confession

2010-03-26T21:15:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

I'm sorry for raising
my voice,
leaving you to yourself
as I complain
about my aching
back.

When you spilled
the carton of milk
on the floor
I hardly recognized
myself,
a witch with a
mop,
wailing.

You won't remember,
perhaps,
when you are all
grown up.

Or that is what
I hope.

In the meantime,
come over here,
let me
begin
again.

For Badger
(March 26, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/haldiroflorien/352232070/

Crossing The Street

2010-03-25T22:20:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

We cross the street
together
and you do not
hesitate,
your trust is
absolute.

My hand is steady
as well,
certain and unwavering
as my love
for you.

But as we reach
the other side,
I wonder what gifts
await your generation.
The tainted air
you breathe
is hardly any parent's
dream of
legacy.

But we are alive
together,
now,

walking home,
free to dream
a world
into being.

(March 25, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/steverhode/3545022225/

Measures

2010-03-24T18:34:00.001+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

These words will travel
a distance
that I may never
track.

Even as I populate my world
with facts and things
that have
measures,
many things escape me,
fall through
the cracks,
disappear or bloom
without my
say.

I ask myself
if it will
matter as
the curtain of this world
sometimes shifts
to reveal
absurdity
or the
divine.

I will not try to
measure
love or hope
or belief

or even argue
their existence.

No, the candle is
too brief,
the stakes
too high.

There is only how
I hold you
now and the things
I say
that fills this moment
with life.

(March 24, 2010)
Image entitled "Immeasurable Proportion of the Senses" from http://www.flickr.com/photos/46425925@N00/543345583

Some Mornings

2010-03-23T20:23:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

Some mornings
are beautiful, suffused in
cool light,
white window curtains
rustling with wind
and the promise
of a brand new day.

Some mornings
are ugly, unbearably
bright and hot or
melancholy and
steel-gray cold,
killing any comfort
saved over
the night.

Does it matter
which one
I wake up to?

Each morning
I am born,
pulled out
from the womb
of dreaming,
facing another
series of conscious
hours,
choosing, each
time,
the quality
of the
light.

(March 23, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/emdot/3035769570/

A Temperate Country

2010-03-22T09:17:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

It was only when
my fingertips were almost frozen,
and my lips were quivering and chapped
that I remembered how,
at home,
there was never
a harsh winter

or even a howling
autumn.

I know that we've had
perilous floods
and droughts
and that is,
in some way,
our own version
of the cruel
face of our
Mother.

But we are blessed
with only summer
or rain
and our islands run
riot with color
and beauty
that are hidden
from our own
eyes.

When I arrived,
thawed and warm,
I was tempted to pick
apart the airport
and the streets.
But I remembered
the punishing cold
and welcomed
the heat.

(March 22, 2010)
Image of a Metro Manila Sunrise from http://www.flickr.com/photos/huno/2994914748/

Contentment

2010-03-19T09:39:00.000+08:00

By Justine C. Tajonera

"I learn only to be contented."
- poem inscribed on a tsukubai in the Ryoanji Temple

An extraordinary life
is not impossible.
It consists of
extraordinary
moments.

I have learned that
contentment has
nothing to do with
coin
but everything to
do with
what is
spent.

The buds in
the orchard
and the deer
roaming the park
pay no taxes,
earn no living
and yet live fully
before the seasons
or the predator
takes
away.

I have no reason
not to live
extraordinarily.

(March 13, 2010)
Kyoto
Image of a deer in Nara from http://www.flickr.com/photos/mlog/3036701485/

This was a reflection after seeing the deer of Nara, living on the streets and the parks, oblivious of humanity's pace and concerns. This world, except for humans, does not worry about the invention called money.

I connected this to what I realized in the Ryoanji Temple. There is a famous rock garden there and a tsukubai (or small basin provided in Japanese Buddhist temples for visitors to purify themselves by the ritual washing of hands and rinsing of the mouth) that has a wise poem inscribed on it, "I learn only to be contented." The original poem literally translates as "I know only plenty." Another way of saying it is "What one has is all one needs."

Plum Blossom Viewing at the Kitano Tenman-gu Shrine

2010-03-18T10:37:00.002+08:00

By Justine C. Tajonera

Lovely flowers bloom.
Dew gathers on the branches.
I watch Spring arrive.

(March 10, 2010)
Our photo from the shrine.

The Kitano Tenman-gu Shrine is dedicated to Michizane Sugawara , who because of his great learning during his lifetime, is worshipped as the patron of learning in Japan. He was fond of plum trees and all shrines dedicated to him always have plum trees at the entrance. This particular shrine, though, has an orchard of 2,000 plum trees, making it one of the best venues for plum blossom viewing in Japan.

The Dishes

2010-03-17T10:06:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

Sometimes the world
seems overwhelming,
starting with our messy
kitchen and the toys
on the floor.

I wake you
from your sleep.
You can tell something
from the grip of
my hand
and the tremor
in my voice,
just as you can tell
something from
our son's silence
or his mischievous
smile.

We talk over
Chai milk tea
and toasted
bagels,
your eyes holding
mine
steady,
never letting
go.

We do the dishes
together.
I wash them,
you dry them and
stack them away
so the water
doesn't collect
at the base of
the dish rack.

And this is enough.
You hold me together
in our silence
as we stand over
the kitchen
sink.

(March 17, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/flyingturtle/386532299/

Heartbeat

2010-03-16T09:40:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

Last week, as I trudged up
and down the chilly streets
of Kyoto,
marveling at flowers
that would never bloom
here,
I hardly heard
you.

Yesterday, I finally
listened.

There is no reason
that I shouldn't hope
for the
best,

that I shouldn't
see what this is
all for.

I join my hands
with yours,
close my
eyes,
and listen
to the beating
of our
hearts.

The song we make,
no matter how brief
or how long,
will be
beautiful.

(March 16, 2010)
Image of dragonflies in a translucent origami heart from http://www.flickr.com/photos/deafredbear/244241210/

A Dream of a Sunset

2010-03-06T09:34:00.000+08:00

By Justine C. Tajonera

Almost a year ago
I learned the odds of
losing,
a fifty percent chance
was not just a statistic
it was measured in
lives.

Almost a year ago
we sat together
in a small room,
meditating.

In my mind, we were
dressed in white,
kimonos or fencing
gear, I could not
say.

We were facing
a lake,
watching a
sunset.

And what was so
remarkable was that
there were
four of
us and not just
three.

I can still hear the wind
and feel the warmth
of the golden light.

March 6, 2010
Image from http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Sunset-Long_Lake.jpg

Wedding Story

2010-03-04T22:05:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

How would anyone know
that it really happened?

Some people bring home
pictures, videos,
little souvenirs of bells
or flowers
or cake.

And they will bring home
a story.

The story is just as real,
just as essential
as all the other tangible
things.

A friend of mine shared
a story with me,
one that is five years
old.

He told me about
my wedding day:
how it was humid that day,
that he saw happiness
brimming on
all sides,
our certainty
as we walked
down the aisle.

And most beautiful of all,
he told me how love
became
real and
vivid
again, something
he could believe.

This story is more
precious
than anything I ever saved
of that day.

for Erwin
(March 4, 2010)
Read the blog here: http://myriadminutiae.wordpress.com/2005/04/24/unforgettable/

The Trap

2010-03-03T22:38:00.002+08:00

By Justine C. Tajonera

Freedom is a fearful
thing:
unlimited options,
the burden of
choice.

I take for granted
that my world
has been paid
for lifetimes
ago.

And a life by default
is as tempting as
sin.

There is a comfortable
trap wrapped around
me and I would be mad
to let it go.

But then I would
be truly free.

March 3, 2010

Adventure

2010-03-03T00:54:00.002+08:00

By Justine C. Tajonera

A world is waiting
in the wings,
something I have never
imagined.

And the world is
a word.

Just one word
puts this all
together.

Take my hand.
Let's go together.
There's a horizon
to discover,
secret shrines,
a walk mapped out
by a philosopher
and streets lined
with lanterns

And we will remember
this all began as a
word.

Mar. 2, 2010

Goodbyes

2010-03-01T22:22:00.001+08:00

By Justine C. Tajonera

He says goodbye
with a smile
and I catch myself
saying come back
okay?

And I think of mothers
and fathers in Haiti
and Chile and how
those words would sound
in their mouths.

Or the children
who heard those words
for the last
time.

I kiss my son
with all my heart
and watch him dance.
I want nothing more
and need nothing else
except now and now
and now
is heaven
happening in my
heart.

March 1, 2010

Eternal Life

2010-02-28T22:52:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

No one has to have
eternal life
or heaven
on earth.

No one has
to believe.

But I could,
I could.

I could take this bread
and drink from this
cup
and honor
the divinity
that resides
within me

and I am free
to hold you in
my arms

and love you
and see forever
now.

(Feb. 28, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/markus941/403409500/

The Seed

2010-02-28T01:02:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

I did not see it at first,
the fully grown tree,
the branches reaching outward,
the leaves that catch the sun,
the roots deep in the earth,
the strength of the trunk,
the beauty of the flower,
the sweetness of the fruit.

Talking to you,
I grasped the seed.

In my life
there was no tree
there was never going to be
a tree.

And there is a full
chance that the seed
will never
grow.

But here is where I am
awed:
that it could grow.

For Irene
(Feb. 27, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/jjjohn/2112182631/

Wonder

2010-02-27T01:06:00.000+08:00

By Justine C. Tajonera

Wonder is surprisingly easy
to kill.
A word, a look, a gesture
could dismiss
something beautiful,
something new.

There was something
about what you said
that was resplendent with
love
and I did not
listen.

When you point your hand
to the moon
sometimes I don't see it
the way
you do.

Cover my eyes with
your hands.
I loved how I finally
heard what
you were saying
this morning
after I gave up
correcting
you.

(Feb. 26, 2010)
Image of crescent moon with Venus from http://www.nasaimages.org/luna/servlet/detail/NVA2~4~4~4017~104543:Moon-And-Venus-Share-The-Sky

Today

2010-02-25T21:47:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

Today, you wore a
gray silk blouse
with a splash
of turquoise
and a blue Murano
glass bead bracelet
on your right
wrist.

Today, we shared
some pasta and
a colossal
cookie a la mode.

Today, we talked
about weddings
and traditions
and exotic
food.

Today was a
day before
your birthday.

I wrap these
lovely moments
together, a
short, sweet interlude
in your early
twenties,
a beautiful day
with beach weather
outside
and your life
shining and
bright.

For Kim
(Feb. 25, 2010)
Image from http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Millefiori_beads,_1920s.JPG

The Runner

2010-02-24T20:41:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

When she talks about running
there is no her and the running,
there is only the running.
The sound of the leaves
beneath her feet,
the sound of running water,
the sound of the wind
are all one
with the running.

She does not talk of running
as pleasant or kind
or pretty.
She talks about it with
grit and balance and
a sense of being
grounded.

Her running is not in her
soul,
it is her soul,
bare and free,
a total loss and
an absolute enlightenment
that finds no
words,
only bone and muscle
and the beat
of her
heart.

(Feb. 24, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/16961193@N06/1846504959/

All That is Sacred

2010-02-23T22:53:00.001+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

Could there be
inspiration in all
this world's weariness
and disenchantment?

Could there be
a lyrical song in all
this discordant
noise?

I look at my son
and I remember those
first dark days
after his birth.

Love is not always
shining or magical
or blooming
but there is one thing
I know it is
and it is
sacred.

(Feb. 23, 2010)

Vantage Point

2010-02-22T18:16:00.000+08:00

By Justine C. Tajonera

There are days when
nothing seems to work,
the horizon looks bleak,
a commitment feels like
a burden.

There are days when
the structures you put in place
to help you keep things together
makes you feel like
you're in a prison.

These days of disenchantment
are sure to come,
like any season or
law or cycle.

Those days will come
but your view is the only thing
you can change.
Nothing else.

So, I do not wish you
good days continuing or
a forecast of good weather
all your life.
I only wish you a good view
and a place to stand
when all things crumble around you
and all you have
is who you
are.

(Feb. 22, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/beuel_sued/4256708689/

Glass of Water

2010-02-20T10:11:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

In the middle of the night,
my son opens the door
to our room
looking for
me.

His head and neck are hot
from a fever
but he doesn't cry.
He lies down beside me,
content to be close by.

After an hour,
he turns to me
and makes a request,
"Water please."

My heart breaks over
his politeness.

Dear one, I would bring
rivers into this room
if you asked me.
I would haul the moon
with strings and
make the stars dance
to ease your fevered
sleep.

If my embrace and a glass
of water
is all you want,
here is my heart too
and a kiss
goodnight.

For Badger
(Feb. 20, 2010)

Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/bergius/77596187/

Freedom

2010-02-18T20:42:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

What does real freedom
look like?
I peer behind the bars of
the a work day's hours
and glimpse some vague
kind of heaven
made up of
ocean vistas and wide
spaces of
time.

Or isn't it being free
to love
you?

When I open up and
sweep away
all constraints:
I will still take this pen
and write these
words,
I will still go to great
lengths
to give, to create,
to tear at the boundaries
and find new
struggles
worthy of
my life.

And I would still
love
you.

(Feb. 18, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/phae/426425321/in/set-72157600002381973/

A Letter from New York

2010-02-17T20:10:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

She talks about life
coming full
circle,
bringing back
memories of hillside
walks, plaid skirts
and falling leaves on
red earth.

There are children now
and husbands, jobs,
a life that has gathered
around us,
astonishing us sometimes
with how much things
can change
and stay
the same.

She tells me about
an exhilarating walk to
Central Park,
a book we both read,
and I imagine the passage
of time,
the boots and gloves
she wore,
the sound of the ducks
and the wind.

The distance between us
is bridged by a story,
one that we will tell
our children
when we are
grandmothers.

For Karina
(Feb. 17, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/smoovey/3211678814/

Sacred Vessel

2010-02-16T18:14:00.001+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

This body is easy
to abuse:
tired beyond its limits,
eyes dimming over time,
hungers and appetites
denied or
indulged.

It is easy to forget
the difference between
this body
and my-
self.

The hands extending
towards my son
could easily be me
but is
not completely
myself.

What am I if I am
not my embrace,
my comforting words,
my endearments
and my presence?

I look at myself
in the mirror:
acknowledging the vessel
that holds
my soul,

the burden and the
privilege
of being
em-
bodied

inviting the envy of
gods and the pity
of angels.

One day, I will
take my leave
and ask nothing
more
of my body.

Until then,
I hold my palms
to my eyes, easing
the strain of
living, breathing,
remembering what is
sacred.

(Feb. 16, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/traceyholland/3504732856/

Child's Play

2010-02-15T17:46:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

We played a game we invented,
a sort of football with a water-filled
green balloon on a Saturday morning
in the swimming pool.

Badger shrieked with delight
and we were three kids
throwing around
a wobbly, green ball.

There were other kids like:
Callista, Seth and
John.
And we all talked
excitedly about
tossing and catching
a yellow balloon
and racing a couple
of orange matchbox
cars.

And there's no such thing
as forgetting how
to play.
It's the only thing
that's worth
doing
full-out.

(Feb. 15, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/kaibara/3518861937/

Listening In the Heart of Silence

2010-02-12T20:35:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

I have been hungry for tranquility
for some time,
searching in the noise, in the crowd,
wondering sometimes
why I cannot move away
from the traps
around my feet.

When I sit for a few moments
in meditation,
I begin to see the many illusions
around me:
time, success, material
things, obligation,
stress.

I have never really listened
before.
I have always talked,
requested, demanded,
shared, pined,
questioned.

But I have never really
listened.

And the listening is
difficult,
elusive, strained.
The listening is full of
my own voice
asking, wondering,
talking.

But there has been
a clearing
sometimes,
a fountain of light
and love

and the answer
that my mind
can never
comprehend.

The answer is
the music
and the silence
and being
in the heart
of it.

(Feb. 12, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/_brilho-de-conta/344394465/

Crossing Over

2010-02-11T20:41:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

There is one final journey in
this life that I used to fear
but now
anticipate.

It is the last of all travels,
the final country
that outstrips all the
space in
the universe.

It is the last and
great
crossing over,
the moment of reckoning,
the confirmation of heaven,
hell and
divinity.

The veil is thin
and crosses into my life,
taking those I love,
those I do not know,
those I will never
know.

I don't know why
I am so sure
that this last port
will not be bleak,
that it will be
a bright glimmer
from across
an ocean,
a beautiful coast,
a nothingness
that is also
everything.

And there I am
perfect, whole
and
complete.

(Feb. 11, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/brianauer/3274615418/

My Word

2010-02-10T19:46:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

As I watch my sleeping son,
I try to see my life stripped of speculation.
What if I did not have to wonder
about the future
because I was responsible
for everything I could do
today?

The question follows me
as I sit in front of my cup
of coffee,
scared of putting myself
behind my
word.

For it seems a grave thing:
my word.

What is it worth?
Only my life
it seems.

This is what I have.
This is what I can give
to you.
Only this, the things that I
have promised,
the things that I have
created, made
real.

I am not putting my life,
my son's life
in someone else's
hands.

No, I cannot hide
there.

I put them behind
my word.

(Feb. 10, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/korephotos/2944049443/

Simmering Mindfulness

2010-02-09T18:35:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

My mind is discordant
with noise,
gossip and advice,
music and opinion,
kindness and rebuke
all simmering
in one pot
of synapses.

I lean into a skillet
and remember the path
to this dish:
the chopping of the
onions as the morning
light streamed through
the curtains,
the chicken bones, flesh
and skin
boiling and filling
the room with
the smell of
broth.

There was silence
in the mindfulness of
cooking,
just as there is silence
in the mindfulness
of prayer.

There is nothing
that cannot be
a meditation
when you empty
your pot of
your noise

and fill it with
being,
purpose
and love.

(Feb. 9, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/betsymartian/371100987/in/set-72057594055269648/

Working the Seam of our Existence

2010-02-08T18:13:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

I remember the wind rushing
beneath my feet
last Friday,
riding a pedicab
to work.

I remember watching the smog,
a layer over the city,
embracing the tops of buildings,
immersing all of us
in a dark soup.

I remember making a stew
on Sunday,
smelling the simmering onions,
the tarragon, the basil,
the parsley,
the cloves
of garlic,
the dissolving flesh and bones
of chicken.

All of these under one sky,
all the beauty and despair,
all the ugliness and the euphoria,
all under one roof,
no air lighter or more fragrant
for the best of us,
no escaping the seam that
sews us into our
places.

We work the needle and
the thread,
the stove and the ladle
of our collective
existence.

There is no escaping
responsibility
in the
end.

(Feb. 8, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/53326337@N00/2176821524

White Sheets

2010-02-05T19:47:00.001+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

Before I drifted off to a fevered
sleep, I had a vision of
a bed with white sheets.

The wind was blowing through
the white lace curtains,
I could taste salt in the air
and hear sea gulls calling.

The walls were earthen brown
around me and the floor
covered with polished red tiles
was cool to the touch.

The sky was blue beyond
the windows
and the sun was shining.
Somewhere outside
I could hear the people
I love
laughing.

Before I sank into
the pillows,
I remembered thinking:
Today, I could
meet Death
for tea.

(Feb. 5, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/profzucker/3319872646/

A Poem that I Love: Meditation at Lagunitas by Robert Hass

2010-02-05T10:33:00.000+08:00

I love this poem. I discovered it in college. It must have been during one of my English Lit classes. I just fell in love with it. I could never forget it. I've never memorized it, either. But I think I would like to.

I keep a copy of it in my Daily Planner, like a prayer or a talisman. I discovered, later on in life, that this poem comes from a collection called "Praise." It was fated for me, I'm sure, given that I would like to one day name a daughter, Clea, or Greek for "Praise."

Meditation at Lagunitas
by Robert Hass

All the new thinking is about loss.
In this it resembles all the old thinking.
The idea, for example, that each particular erases
the luminous clarity of a general idea. That the clown-
faced woodpecker probing the dead sculpted trunk
of that black birch is, by his presence,
some tragic falling off from a first world
of undivided light. Or the other notion that,
because there is in this world no one thing
to which the bramble of blackberry corresponds,
a word is elegy to what it signifies.
We talked about it late last night and in the voice
of my friend, there was a thin wire of grief, a tone
almost querulous. After a while I understood that,
talking this way, everything dissolves: justice,
pine, hair, woman, you and I. There was a woman
I made love to and I remembered how, holding
her small shoulders in my hands sometimes,
I felt a violent wonder at her presence
like a thirst for salt, for my childhood river
with its island willows, silly music from the pleasure boat,
muddy places where we caught the little orange-silver fish
called pumpkinseed. It hardly had to do with her.
Longing, we say, because desire is full
of endless distances. I must have been the same to her.
But I remember so much, the way her hands dismantled bread,
the thing her father said that hurt her, what
she dreamed. There are moments when the body is as numinous
as words, days that are the good flesh continuing.
Such tenderness, those afternoons and evenings,
saying blackberry, blackberry, blackberry.

“Meditation at Lagunitas” from Praise. Copyright © 1979 by Robert Hass. Reprinted with the permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.

Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/martinlabar/1797518117/

Living in Anticipation

2010-02-04T20:39:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

Life lived in anticipation is always
full of vivid things:
heart beating wildly,
adventure around the bend,
reckless enthusiasm.

Now has never been more
colorful, alive, breathtaking.
The sound of new languages
are coming out of the silence,
poetry and songs are
unfolding from their
shells.

I imagine myself in the
Ryoan-ji Temple,
immersed in the pattern
of the rock
garden.

Mystery and beauty
lose their distinctions
and yet are thrown into
stark relief.

This is
being
alive.

(Feb. 4, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/jimg944/3202247839/

Divinity

2010-02-03T21:18:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

I have never considered
that divinity lived
inside of me.

I have looked everywhere
else:
the stars, the sun,
the sky, any proof of
beauty in this
world.

I have considered that
the numinous might reside
in the grand, the majestic,
the hidden,
the deep.

As I unfold my words
and greet my husband,
my son
with a tender
word

I become aware
of the sacred.
It is not in some secret
grove or cave.
It dwells in my smallest
gesture
of kindness.

(Feb. 3, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/neilbanas/3301972961/

Generosity

2010-02-02T17:58:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

This embrace has no limits.
It has nothing to do with depletion,
with the weary resignation
of giving away too
much.

For something so essential
there is no measure,
no moment of having had
enough.

Go fearlessly into
the heart of the matter
and see what is really
needed.

It hardly has to do with
the amount of things,
the weight of things,
the number.

For grief and joy,
comfort and
love
are hardly grasped
by limits,
but they are all
completely
absorbed and
conveyed
in a touch.

(February 2, 2010)
Image from http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/XzPziB_BzTzbxSc1BlxwaQ

Monsters

2010-02-01T18:03:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

Like victims, we allow
monsters to be.
We give them permission,
we give them the keys to
our fears.

Like love, we keep them
close to our hearts.
We feed them with our
emotions,
we clothe them with
our despair.

They are hiding in the
borders of our comfort,
just two or three steps
away from what we call
safe.

But give them something bigger
than your insecurities,
something stronger than
mere conformity,
and they, too,
will cower before
your strength
and the sheer power
of your
will
like shadows
cast in the face
of light.

(Feb. 1, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/spiritwalk/216461646/

A Boy Named Lugi

2010-01-29T20:03:00.000+08:00

By Justine C. Tajonera

I asked him twice for his name
and he confirmed it is Lugi,
in Tagalog, shortchanged.
Not the most auspicious
word to begin with,
not the best of introductions.

But that is his name.

And I look beyond the name
to his eyes, how they are hurt
when I imply that he is not
telling the truth.

I offer him food,
a sausage in a bun,
and he talks about his
brothers and sisters,
the life of a child
in the street.

I think of how his whole life
he will resist his name,
the struggle, the uphill climb.

Or how he might transform
his life and redefine the terms,
creating something new
out of what he has been
dealt with.

I say goodbye to this child,
wishing him abundance,
his stomach filled
and his mind with no thoughts yet
of self-fulfilling
prophecies.

(Jan. 29. 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/bthomas1/206929136/

Sacred Markers

2010-01-28T20:52:00.000+08:00

By Justine C. Tajonera

They walk barefoot through
the deserts,
they climb mountains in
loin cloths, eating moss
from boulders
and drinking water
from rain water
on leaves.

This world is not
a barren wasteland
to them,
it does not shake
their faith.

Their begging bowls
are sacred,
their eyes are clear
and ancient.

Their thin and steady
fingers are
pointing to God.
And yet we still claim
that we cannot
find
the way.

(Jan. 28. 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/icultist/317645938/

The Arrow

2010-01-27T22:55:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

I am a goddess borne
on Achilles' heels,
I am aloft a zephyr,
blowing in one direction.

My body is poised
to fly, legs elongated,
neck forward reaching,
eyes focused and
unwavering.

This journey is my prayer.
There is no "then," only
a "there."

There is my goal,
there is my dream.
I am there now,
and I am an unfailing
arrow.

(Jan. 27, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/24595035@N00/3877495004

I Am Peace

2010-01-26T18:16:00.000+08:00

By Justine C. Tajonera

It is an old greeting: "Om Shanti."
It is an acknowledgment that there is
a line that separates me
from a material world
and the dimension where
my soul belongs.

I imagine that my body
is a coat for this
particular space
in the world,
in time.

There is a time that
I will cross into
the unknown.
We all know it
but we close
our eyes
to it.

Today, my friend
wept silently
in the car,
grieving for
a loved one,
full of light,
who passed into
the shadow.

This flesh hides me
from the pure
and powerful point
of light that I
am.

I close my eyes
and join the travelers
headed for
the beautiful realm.
One day
we will finally
meet, and I will say,
once again,
"Om Shanti."

(Jan. 26, 2010)
Image from http://www.flyoverpeople.net/galleries/wallpapers/LuminousLotus/LuminousLotus_800.htm

Burden/ Responsibility

2010-01-25T17:42:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

There is an infinitesimal line between
burden and responsibility,
for one could easily become
the other in a blink
of an eye.

Imagine holding up a string
that ties up an endless network
of strings,
the center of a web,
the stitches that keep together
the quilt.

The view from the top
can be both exhilarating and
frightening,
the idea that so much
depends on one foundation
stone can be a freedom
or a chain.

Take apart the network
of roots and vines
and veins and
synapses and you will
find that one will
easily come up to
fill another in the organic
way of things.

But imagine that you
said: Yes!
Yes to the universe
and the question that no
one really asks
you
and the world is a
different place,
where you hold up
your string gladly,
willingly.

(Jan. 25, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/55345035@N00/284333073/

Sunday Market

2010-01-25T17:27:00.000+08:00

By Justine C. Tajonera

This must have been like
the very first
agora,
full of the smells of
different regions,
the sound of tambourines,
vegetables, toys, cooked
food and paintings,
all under one patchwork
of tents.

This, most basic of
all impulses,
to eat, to enjoy the
spices from different
places, to see
what is new,
to hear stories
from the merchants,
to gather with family
and friends.

What if everything
were this simple?
The farmer, the artisan,
the performer meet
the buyer on this
most blank of
stages and exchange
gifts.

(Jan. 25, 2010)
Remembering Legaspi Sunday Market in Makati.
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/scorbs/4167220460/

No Small Gifts

2010-01-25T17:17:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

He sings me the Happy
Birthday Song, off key
and all.

I look at his radiant face
and imagine all the
wonderful stories
in his life.

I will be at the start
of his song
but his lyrics
will take on
a life of
its own.

I may not see it
to the very end
but I love every little
line, every little
stanza.

Nothing he could ever
give me would be
small.
Not the slices of
pancake,

not the Fuji Apple Mentos
dragees,
not a single smile
or a solemn offer
of a yellow block
to keep
in my bag.

(Jan. 25, 2010)
For Badger
Inspired by the song Five Loaves and Two Fishes by Corinne May performed by Hangad last Jan. 23, 2010.
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/mikefischer/3532629536/

Some More

2010-01-22T19:28:00.000+08:00

Justine C. Tajonera

Not everyone is voracious
for life,
stilled by little boxes and
traps, little burdens that have
built up over time,
an invisible load that
stoops our
shoulders.

But not today!

Birthday cakes and
burning candles
are singing.
Handsome young men
and friends in every
corner
are greeting
me in
boldface and
green.

Today is the day
I say:
some more!
Bring me more
because I will never
get enough of
life.

(Jan. 22, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/foodista/3611610821/in/photostream/

Salad Days

2010-01-21T14:28:00.001+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

Over lunch, I watch their
youthful laughter,
their hopeful intensity
over love.

It's beautiful to be
in the middle of
their passion, caught
in refrains of
songs about
Romeo and
Juliet.

I look over my
shoulder and
see the smitten girl
that I was,
I'd never have cared
if anyone told me
that youth was wasted
on the young.

I remember sitting
at a hall in school,
talking earnestly with
a young man,
about the nature
of time,
realizing as I sat
there

that each moment
was a choice,
irretrievable,
already half-spent
as it arrived.

I imagine a life
made up of first
times.

(Jan. 21, 2010)
Image of Romeo and Juliet from http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/archive/a/a3/20060626175442!DickseeRomeoandJuliet.jpg

Offense

2010-01-20T21:55:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

Deep, dark, scarlet
shame shrouded me
the whole afternoon
after realizing a
mistake.

From everywhere,
it snakes into the littlest
gestures: setting a
schedule, writing,
eating.

No, I am not like
this,
I am not in-
considerate.

I go into the anatomy
of the offense,
offering excuses,
shuddering at my
inadequacies,
useless exercises.

I take it apart
and see it for what
it is,
I see the broken
mechanism
(for so often, I pretend
it is not
there)
and I offer up my
culpability
without the cyclic despair
of self-blame.

And the miracle of
a blank slate
is mine
to claim.

(Jan. 20, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/tinou/92858032/

Two Hours in Old Breton

2010-01-19T18:00:00.001+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

We met at a cafe,
exchanging stories
about books,
words like life
lines, stringing us
together.

Different women, different
lives told in the language
of books owned, lent,
lost, borrowed
and bought.

We laugh as we say,
"But it's a book club!" in
retort to questions about
love and other sundries
of life,
knowing full well
how life
is inextricable with
the books
we read.

We savor our cups
of coffee,
listening, exclaiming,
laughing
over how we've
read the same
and different
books.

(Jan. 19. 2010)
For the Breton Book Club
started last Jan. 16, 2010 at Cafe Breton, Ortigas Center

Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/44362511@N00/2464795110

Tabula Rasa

2010-01-19T11:27:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

When the clearing emerges
I see more things
come into
view.

I sweep away the clutter
and realize that there
is a beautiful picture
of my son
on the shelf.

When I hear the wind
and the sound of
my breathing
I create a listening
that opens not just
my ears
but my
heart.

The blankness of
serenity
is nothing like
despair,
it is a canvas
for majestic
actions
and rich tapestries
of all that is cherished
and rare.

(Jan. 19. 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/tortipede/3735937671/

Athena's Birthday

2010-01-18T12:38:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

How auspicious to be named
for the goddess
and how wonderful
to have so much power
in a name.

Grey-eyed one,
patron of heroes
and philosophers,
the mother of
the olive
tree.

By your very
name
you hoist a bow
and arrow,
are dressed in royal
robes
and speak with
kings.

The love of your mother
and father
stretch you as an arc,
poising you for
the stars.

I imagine great
things in
your story.

Remember this day
and how you are
cherished.

(Jan. 18, 2010)

Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/8204247@N08/2239021642/

Light in the Water

2010-01-18T12:19:00.000+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

Same body of water,
same box,
same volume of liquid
but what has changed?

Only the quality of the light.
For this one change,
there are so many different
feelings:
happiness, hope,
something to look forward to.

When the light touches
the water,
beautiful things
are visible,
whole imagined
cities and
happy
memories.

Nothing is different
but everything is
transformed
in the light
in the
water.

(Jan. 18. 2010)

Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/bibliona/208792522

The Act of Creation: Sestina for Clea

2010-01-15T14:34:00.002+08:00

by Justine C. Tajonera

To make something out of nothing
is a talent and a thing of pure delight
or the joy of a poet or an artist in flight.
It is the pastime of a god or a king.
It has no rhyme or reason for being.
There are no requirements for its light.

Imagine darkness and a single point of light.
Look for a force that rises from nothing.
Think of wonderful ways of being.
Bask in a toddler’s simple delight.
Feel the force of a flock of a hundred’s flight.
It would be no less than a tribute to a king.

And what would please a wizard, a master, a king?
Who would disturb an artist’s obsession with light?
Nothing would ground a creature mid flight.
Repressing one’s heart will come to nothing.
And why would one curb what brings delight?
Why would we avoid the zenith of being?

I fear and anticipate what comes into being
when a queen finds her match in a king;
when gravity and reason confront delight.
What great thing resides between shadow and light?
What mystery unfolds from existing and nothing?
I feel the longing of the wingless for flight.

For only we who have invented the tools of flight
envy the birds their natural being.
We are never content to be fated for nothing.
We want to be no less than status of king.
We want all that is hidden to be brought to light
and we spend our lives chasing delight.

No, we are never content without our delight.
We would choose the fight over flight;
We would struggle with darkness to seek the light.
It is written in our blood, in our being,
whether born merchant or pauper or king.
We are born for seeking, stopping at nothing.

This is our delight, our song of being,
It is the dream of a king, the story of flight:
To live in the light, rising from nothing.

(Jan. 15, 2010)

Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/bettinatizzy/3047363756/

Dancing in the Morning

2010-01-14T10:03:00.000+08:00

By Justine C. Tajonera

I had no idea that
I would dance
today.

I woke up,
struggling,
sleepily pulling myself
together
to take my
morning swim.

When I sat down
to breakfast,
my son rushes to me,
with a swing CD
in his hands.

We play it

and the world is
transformed.
Something in me
wants to twirl
and laugh
and not care
about anything
but the joy
in his face.

When you play
the music,
you set yourself up
for dancing.

(Jan. 14, 2010)
Image of a turntable from http://xdem.free.fr/uploaded_images/DJShadow_MidnightInAPerfectWorldVideo-769866.jpg