Five Best

Five Best Reasons Not To Kill George Bush
1. He provides great material for comedians
2. Killing monkeys is against the Convention on Endangered Species
3. If he stays and continues to fuck up (and let's face it, he probably will) we'll have a better chance of a President Hilary
4. He'll become a martyr
5. The pretzels will get him sooner or later anyway

Five Best Reasons To Be Ginger
1. To show your revolutionary colours
2. To save people the trouble of thinking of proper insults
3. To distract bulls (and yes i know they're colourblind really)
4. To make it easier for friends to find you in crowds
5. People remember you better

Five Best Sounds
1. Hockey balls striking the back of a goal (exept when it's your goal)
2. The sound of fingers sliding in chord changes on the guitar
3. Frying bacon
4. Bob Dylan's early period
5. Rain

Jesus Is Risen

Take this

Take this photo; there I am, in the background
Take this letter; there are the tear-stains
Take this single tear I hurriedly brushed away
Tate my hidden looks of envy when she saw your face
Take that knotted stomach, that empty space
But take that dance with her so close
Take too that night we could see the stars
Though we hardly gave them a glance
Take another night of sleepless fretting
Take a night of sweating and tossing
Take a day of whispered sunrise and dashed moonlight
Take the poems, the letters, the pictures
Take my shirt, her scent is still there
Or take this vision of her bright and fair
Take this hope, this regret, this age from my bones
Take the bitterness hat put this pen to paper
And take this poem too.

She was mine, now I give all of this to you.
She was my muse, but now she has flown
Flown to your arms, now I am alone
So I wish more luck to make her your own
May she give you all the happiness I’d never known.

A bit over-the-top i think.
I cant decide if there's a point to the second part

Self Portrait

taken this summer

Three Days From Jerusalem

I
Three Days from Jerusalem
But here I will stay forever
Watching the pilgrims and angels pass
On their way to the halls of David
But here I sit, under the tree,
This Cyprus tree, and find
That all men walk this dawning globe
Though some walk far behind
But none of them will stay with me
Not one Samaritan takes my hospitality
And so I watch alone

II
When nightfall kills the shade of the tree
My thoughts walk down the road
A city they find, shining with light
A thousand or more candles ablaze
On the highest mount, the beacon shines
And the searchers flock through the gates
All around the hills abound, the pilgrims
Starring to the city of lights
Guided, they stumble through the dusty roads
Keeping always the beacon in their sights
And reaching the wall, they marvel in wonder
At the others who marvel there too
The lights call forth, and the pilgrims sing
For the angels have shown them the way home.
But where I stand, no light but the stars
Reaches my hand; I am three days
From Jerusalem. But I know where to find it.

III
When I was young, or so it seemed,
I chanced to find a sparrow
Curling tight her tiny winds, I saw
She was in sorrow. And so I said
Dear little bird, where is the air under your wings?
Why so sad and lonely? why this morning silence?
She could not answer me, but I saw
Her leg was trapped in a branch
So I freed that life
I felt that tiny warmth in my hand
And I threw her to the wind
The wild and lonely wind
She caught that wind beneath her wings
And soared up to the morning sun
But blinded by that light, I looked away
And when I returned, she was gone.

IV
They say there is a man who waits
On the banks of the broad river Styx
In fear of Cerberus, of Charon, of the water
He jealously guards his own mortality
And shuns the wanderers on their way to Hades
He does not know he is dead

V
Four moons ago, a pilgrim I saw
On the road from Babylon
A seer he might have been
A wise, a brave man, curious and true
Though his face was old and his spirit young
I saw in him something of you.
And that is why, of all these pilgrims
For him I answered his questions.
I told him I sit by this tree on the road to Damascus
Forever, three days from Jerusalem.
And I told him I waited because the angels had hurt me
Because I had been with black truths lied too, with strong sticks beaten and with bright fires blinded
Because I hate the human soul and am weary of human voices
Because truth lies not in the light but in the dirt from which it is grown
Because the Lord can find me here if he loves me
Because these legs will carry me no further
And in short, because I am afraid.

VI
I have heard the harps of angels play
As they make their way to the city
I do not think they will not sing to me.

A missionagly long, religious themed poem for Christmas Eve

Arco Niso

Dialogue for Cynic and Believer

Believer: When we are hurt
when we are broken
when we are damaged.
Our bodies draw in and close the wounds.
we harden, we separate ourselves.
we cut off our damaged parts.
pretend they were never there.

Cynic: we all make sacrifices.

Believer: we all make sacrifices but i dont know if I...
if i have to kill something of myself to be mended,
if i have to be less alive to stay living...
then i dont know if i want to be healed any more.

Cynic: everyone wants to be healed. Noone wants to stay in pain for ever.

Believer: but what if the only thing thats real is the pain.
everything else.. my whole life, its not mine any more
i dont feel like its me living it.
Sometimes i look in the mirror and wonder who this is.
why i care so much about what happens to him.

Cynic: you'll always be you, Believer. youre too strong to break up.

Believer: i dont think i want to be strong any more.

Cynic: I dont think you have a choice.
like you said; Our bodies draw in, we harden.
whether we like it or not.

Believer: already i feel like theres some kind of scar there.
less flexible, less open.
brittle and ugly.
where...
she.
used to be.
Isnt that ridiculous?
its happening already. Did you hear how hard it was for me to say that? just to say 'she'? not even her name?

Cynic: i dont blame you

Believer: but i want you to!
I dont want to be healed. I want to have her back.

Shangri-La

Thorn in the Lion's Paw

Like the thorn in the lion’s paw
Like the beggar asking for more
I did everything that I could, just to be close to you

How long, have you heard
The sounds of my words
You never even thought
That they might be for you

Apologies, I have heard
And frankly, have forgotten
It would have been enough
For you just to hear me

And if you ever showed me kindness
If you ever healed my blindness
Then I’d wait for you, until the day I died

How long must I wait again
How soon can we meet again
I couldn’t have waited this long
If I did not care for you

I’ve never known
The first day I met you
And I hope that I’m dead
Before I see the last

Like the thorn in the lion’s paw
Like the beggar asking for more
I did everything that I could, just to be close to you.

And how do you feel about that?

Here’s to you

Here’s to you who loved the world
Though the world loved you not in return.
Who adored and worshiped that, which,
Would gladly let you burn.

Here’s to you who played in the embers
While the fire scorched your skin.
Who danced in the blazing ruins
Knowing always the fire would win.

Here’s to you who gazed at the sky
Though the sky gave you only it’s rain.
Who sang with the wind and the thunder
Though the storm wanted only your pain.

Here’s to you who admired their beauty
When the tigers were circling near.
Who remembered their elegance and grace
When all they wanted was your fear.

Here’s to you, my friend
May your days be long and unnumbered.
You who loved the world
Though the world loved you not in return.

Three Colours

sunset over byron bay, australia

Sea Poem

If the ropes could groan and the
wind could blow and the
steersmen keep his course

And the bells would ring and the
sails would strain and the
masts creak with the force

And the waves might rise and the
rain might lash and the
waves be full of foam

And the mate will yell and the
sailors heave,
but I’ll be safe at home.

Closer Than You Think

Castles Of The Mind

Kings and Princes, all down the line

Were searching for a poet, but not for mine

He, he was safe, though far behind

Sleeping, peaceful in Castles of the Mind.

And when the rough winds from forests will blow

My love he will weather them, though he’ll never know

Alone there he waits, noble and kind

Alone in white Castles of the Mind.

All the Lord’s chariots and all the Lord’s fine

Might break on the walls, and flames burn higher

I will not tremble with the rest of mankind

My love, he is safe in Castles of the Mind.

But though he is secure, these stone walls are cold

The towers are high, these gateways are old

His keep is all ruined, and his deed is unsigned

What kind of home is a Castle of the Mind?

So I with my flowers cannot enter the keep

I sit in the barbican, sit there and weep

These high doors have bared him from the one he would find

These high doors that guard his Castles of the Mind.

He bids me to build up my own redoubt

But the stone is heavy, I cannot quarry it out

I tried for his sake but I am not thus inclined

Mine are the gardens and Flowers of the Mind.

I am no poet, and I am no soldier

I am no artist, and I am no sculptor

I am but a poor girl, simple, unrefined

Perhaps too poor for great Castles of the Mind.

These spires are soaring, these buttresses fly

But war they beget, and many men die

Alone in their glory, they make us blind

It is time to tear down these Castles of the Mind.

This one was inexplicably written from a female perspective. Don't ask, it just turned out that way. I got Jenni to put some chords behind it, so hopefully one day it'll turn into a song one day.