Habagat

for Clea

by Justine C. Tajonera

We escaped the storm in Manila by a day.
The skies were overcast for days at the beach.
While we walked the length of Station 1 and 2,
I watched the perfect curve of your cheek, the
way a bikini, which I've dreaded my whole life, was
nothing to you. Around you, the time has come. Pork
barrels are rolling open like so many mouths with lolling
tongues, the streets at home are filling up with murky
water, the seas are heating up like a potent
soup. By the time we come back to Manila,
the people will have taken to the streets.
I want you to keep running unhampered in the sand.
I want you to be cheeky and defiant, the way
you are now as you hold up that stick in your hands.
I want you to kick up the dust and say
want you want. All I wish for are at least
a few seasons of amihan to hold up the tumult
that you are. All I wish for are a few quiet
summers for you, for your children, when there
are no crippling droughts, no floods,
in the coming months, to survive.

Boracay, August 18, 2013

NaPoWriMo#25: Join Easter Jaunt, A Portrait

NaPoWriMo or National Poetry Writing Month, is an annual project in which participating poets attempt to write a poem a day for the month of April.

Below is a short portrait poem that emerges out of the anagram that comes from my name.

Join Easter Jaunt, A Portrait
by Justine C. Tajonera

Inside my name is an invitation to a journey
on the road to resurrection. Everlasting life is heavy
stuff. So, why make the trip so solemn? A jaunt
sounds like a call in the morning: we're going off
to Sierra Madre, come quick, pack light. It's cramming
into a car and making stops at roadside restaurants
that you won't find in the city. We're going together,
that's what counts. Everlasting life is now, exactly
now, as I turn around to take a picture. It's the smile
that won't leave your lips because, there, around the
bend, there's a view of the light coming through
the clouds, making the mountainside golden. It's
the glory of your hand in mine as we get out of the
car with the children and stand in the wind.

NaPoWriMo#19: Death Anniversary

NaPoWriMo or National Poetry Writing Month, is an annual project in which participating poets attempt to write a poem a day for the month of April.

Death Anniversary
By Justine C. Tajonera

You loved the work of Marc Chagall. I have
Paris Through The Window on my desktop. My favorite
paintings of yours are of a tree and the one with
you outside the gate of a house. Or perhaps, that
was me, locked out of your embrace after I realized
you had died. I remember the bright blueness
surrounding the house, the gate, the woman.
I used to listen to your vinyl mood music records
when I was in grade school. I imagined you listening
to them. I watch my daughter now. She's almost three,
my age when I lost you. I imagine you dressing me
in smocked dresses and fussing over my hair.
I remember how you put Betadine on my imaginary
wounds the way I now apply the antiseptic
on your granddaughter's imaginary scratches.
I could write poems for you, for every year after
I had to live without you. I could go on and on.
But there aren't enough words. I close my eyes. I go
into the closet again, the one where we put your large
framed photograph. I forgot the prayers I used to pray in
in that darkness. I just wanted to be close to you.
I come out to embrace my daughter and
all the years we will have.

Ditas (August 25, 1948 - April 19, 1978)

NaPoWriMo#18: Picture

NaPoWriMo or National Poetry Writing Month, is an annual project in which participating poets attempt to write a poem a day for the month of April.

Picture
By Justine C. Tajonera

In the picture we look happy enough, like happy
families that are all alike. Broad grins, the light reflecting
on our hair. I look fat. That was the year you had me drink
nutritional supplements after several years of being
dangerously skinny. I like that picture. I don't know
where it is anymore, probably in a box because
you've always been such a pack rat. I shut out what
I don't like to remember. Better that way, perhaps.
Maybe you were taking the picture. I can't bring myself
to step over the line and cross to you. I only get the
news. I remember sitting on the marble sink, watching
you rubbing Pond's cold cream on your face. It was
one of those days when I could talk to you. I can't go
back there anymore. It's all frozen in the picture.

NaPoWriMo#8: Balanga, Bataan

Balanga, Bataan
By Justine C. Tajonera

My last trip there was for a funeral.
There was a brass band playing and it
was very hot. We went back to the old
house for pancit and coke. There were
framed pictures on the walls of graduates in togas,
this one became a doctor and now lives in
San Francisco, that one lives in Las Vegas.
In the bathroom there are Bath & Bodyworks
liquid soaps from children long gone.
Our family is from here, this dusty town,
the birthplace of my grandfather who
died when I was a child.
We visit the land that has yet to be parceled
out. It is green and flat and will be sold.
We say goodbye and prepare for the
long journey back to Manila. Decades ago,
a lifetime ago, soldiers died on the march here during
The war. Now, it is a place I have left behind.

NaPoWriMo#3: Running After C

Running After C
by Justine C. Tajonera

You move so quickly,
you won't stay still, not for pictures,
not even when I plead and offer you cookies.
I wash your hair and wrap you in a towel
and off you go, somewhere else, humming.
You used to scramble to pick up my jogging shoes
and put them on the shoe shelf but now you
only smile and say no and attempt to climb
up a shelf to get at your biscuits.
I want to capture your laugh, your smile,
all teeth and cheek.
I run to keep up with you and make
poor copies of you with my camera
(how will it ever come with the scent
of your nape?)
I want to keep discovering you, I want
to be surprised. I want this world to be yours,
little girl. I don't want you to be saved.
I want you to do the saving.

NaPoWriMo#2: Easter Eggs

Easter Eggs
by Justine C. Tajonera

We hid eighty-four eggs in the park, yesterday
and waited an hour and a half for everyone to show up.
Eighty-three eggs were found in thirty minutes, one was unaccounted for.
Inside the eggs were pieces of paper with Easter quotes
about eternal life and temples and resurrection and God's
only begotten son. I had hoped some of the children would
read them before turning them over for the prizes of marshmallows
and star jelly candies and chocolates and lollipops.
Some of them did. But what I remember most was how hot
the afternoon light was. How cooling the breeze.
How peaceful it was with only the two of us looking for
unlikely places for children to find treats among the trees.
We rested on the wooden bench together, exhausted, smiling.
We counted all those eggs. We worked on them with our son,
our daughter. We had twelve big eggs with five small candies
in them. We had twelve small, fancy eggs with designs on them and
sixty regular eggs, each with three small candies in them. Sixty
out of the eight-four eggs had carefully folded pieces of paper.
Easter bunnies have nothing to do with Jesus Christ, I know,
but there was something in the work of that afternoon that was
the resurrection and the life.

Father, Husband and Son

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/

Morning Sun

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/

Confession

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/

The Dishes

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

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/

Goodbyes

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

All That is Sacred

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)

Glass of Water

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/

Child's Play

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/

Athena's Birthday

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/

Dancing in the Morning

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

Hugs

By Justine C. Tajonera

I learned the art
from my father:
fat bear hugs
in the morning.

Playful tickles in
the rib
and a quick
hug before attending
to cities of
blocks and story
books.

Safe hugs after
learning how
to swim.

Tentative hugs
after a scolding.

Is it my way of
testing affecgtion,
listening to his heart,
staying hidden
from all the hurt
in the world?

I hug my father goodbye,
taking his aftershave
and cologne with
me as I hug
my son
at bedtime.

(Jan. 4, 2010)

Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/gustty/1345811649/

Pink Donut

by Justine C. Tajonera

Nothing tastes as good as
the color on this donut.
His choice overrides everything:
the taste of the donut,
the place where we buy it.
Nothing matters except that
he chooses a pink one.
Few have the privilege
of an obstinate choice,
a dedication so pure,
so free.

No one will understand
this but us,
his bewildered,
adoring parents.
The chaotic universe
looms large
in the background
but we are safe
together
gathered around
our son's
pink
donut.

(Jan. 3, 2010)

Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/7310714@N06/3741991820