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Thread: Jewel

  1. #1
    Join Date
    Jul 2010
    25 Post(s)
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    Default Jewel

    Jewel: NF (ENFx)

    “You see the ghosts of the buffalo / Moving both fierce and slow / Like glittering prophecies / On the edge of the horizon / As you drive glittering highways / And beaten up by-ways that straddle and girdle a great and many-faced nation / You see the lambs in the ghettos / Who worship their Geppettos / Believing in and never seeing / The strings they think bind them / So we write to our congressmen / With bleeding pens / Of the sorrow within / And in return they just send tickets to the latest Tom Hanks show . . . . There are so many factions / And cue-card reactions / It's hard to keep clear the possibilities here / 'Cause there's no force to unite them / Privilege has ruled for thousands of years / Wars have been fought with bibles and tears / Yet liberation can't deny the temptation / Soon becomes the oppressor / Show me a leader who's fit to lead / Who don't sew his seed in anything / Wounded enough to breed / Because after all what fun’s power if you can't act like a rock star? . . . . ‘Cause we have been petty, oh, and unkind / But I know my own mind / And since it seems clear there's no one leading us here / The only thing left it appears is to task ourselves to be better each time than those before us / We'll be an army of thieves / Of self-freed slaves . . . . So get ready, a new day is dawning . . . .”

    “Listen, heart / Listen close—Listen / To the melancholy / Melody of your own voice / I am weary of my own dreaming / I am tired of waiting / So this time, I'm leaping / I reach beyond myself to see / What I find, beyond my mind, there’s no time / In this place beyond my sight / My heart knows what is not yet seen / I'm witnessing my own becoming . . . . I am hurting / Oh, I am not yet born / I am the mother and the father of what is not yet known . . . . Darkness surrounds me / I scratch, I struggle, I breathe . . . .”

    “ . . . . And lend your voices only to sounds of freedom / No longer lend your strength to that which you wish to be free from / Fill your lives with love and bravery / And you shall lead a life uncommon / I've heard your anguish / I've heard your hearts cry out / We are tired, we are weary, but we aren't worn out / Set down your chains, 'til only faith remains / Set down your chains / And lend your voices only to sounds of freedom / No longer lend your strength to that which you wish to be free from / Fill your lives with love and bravery / And we shall lead a life uncommon / There are plenty of people who pray for peace / But if praying were enough it would have come to be / Let your words enslave no one and the heavens will hush themselves / To hear our voices ring out clear with sounds of freedom / Sounds of freedom / Come on you unbelievers, move out of the way / There is a new army coming and we are armed with faith / And to live, we must give / To live / And lend our voices only to sounds of freedom / No longer lend our strength to that which we wish to be free from / Fill your lives with love and bravery / And we shall lead... / And lend our voices only to sounds of freedom / No longer lend our strength to that which we wish to be free from / Fill your lives with love and bravery / And we shall lead a life uncommon”

    - from A Night Without Armor (Poems) by Jewel Kilcher; p. 6:

    You Tell Me

    It cannot be so

    you say

    simple hands

    cannot change

    the fate of humanity.

    I say

    Humanity is

    a boundless,

    absorbing heart


    death & generations

    and centuries

    absorbing bullets

    and stitches

    and tear gas

    enduring humiliation

    and illegal abortions

    and thankless jobs

    I say to you

    the heart of Humanity

    has not

    and will not

    be broken

    And let us raise ourselves

    like lanterns

    with the millions of others—

    with the mad

    and the forgotten

    and the strong of heart

    to shine

    - pp. 62-63:

    We Have Been Called

    We have been called


    as if it were

    a dirty word

    We have been called


    as though with shame

    our cheeks should burn


    We visited with

    the careful idols

    of cynicism

    to learn to sneer

    and pant and walk

    so as not to feel the scales

    of judgment rub wrongly

    But we say

    some things must

    remain simple

    some things must remain


    and pure

    lest we all forget

    the legacy which begot us

    the health of our origins

    the poetry of our fundamental selves

    And so

    it is to

    the longing hearts we sing

    rise! spread

    your wings!

    Let no hand

    nor ill will

    keep you.

    - p. 80:


    I’m leaving

    You’re done

    Cut the cord

    I will bare my heart

    Make sure it’s sharp

    Make it quick

    Flash your will against me

    relieve this red smear

    Smother the beating

    dull the pulse

    Show mercy

    Spare it from your side

    and I will rip

    what was yours, what was living in me,

    and return it to you.

    Do it while our hearts

    are still intact

    before they rot in each other’s care

    before they become riddled with bitterness

    choked by the stinking seeds

    of resentment.

    - pp. 52-54:

    I Say to You Idols

    I say to you idols

    of carefully studied


    And you worshipers

    who find beauty

    in only fallen things

    that the greatest


    we can aspire to

    is the strength

    to see the wounded

    walk with the forgotten

    and pull ourselves

    from the screaming

    blood of our losses

    to fight on


    all the more

    Steady Yourself

    Steady yourself, love,

    steady yourself

    for victory is near

    Shut out the world

    with its tyranny of noise

    none of this matters now

    Draw strength from

    the vision the deepest

    folds of your soul

    so longs for

    For it is a song we all sing

    Steady yourself, love,

    upon my gaze

    in this corridor

    & waver not in the face

    of the battle cry

    We will not be beaten!

    Lose not your faith now

    for I need it to strengthen my own

    and should your steps

    falter, mine would

    grow lonely in this

    world of coal and roses

    We are the living

    and the living

    must love the world

    It is our duty

    to fill our hearts

    with all the anguish and joy

    of our brothers and sisters

    Steady yourself, love,

    be strong beside me

    and know that our

    unrelenting gives them

    dis-ease, and that

    the clearer your mouth

    raises itself in

    songs of freedom

    the more others will come to

    warm themselves around

    the flag of your faith

    For our numbers grow

    and soon will outweigh

    their tattered armies

    and I want your heart

    to rejoice in its

    inevitable victory

    - pp. 74-78:


    Can you imagine

    how silent

    a plane crash would be

    if you were deaf?

    How unbearably loud a rape?

    I Am Not from Here

    I am not from here,

    my hair smells of the wind

    and is full of constellations

    and I move about this world

    with a healthy disbelief

    and approach my days and my work

    with vaporous consequence

    a touch that is translucent

    but can violate stone.


    infatuation is a strange thing

    a bony creature thin

    with feeding on itself

    it is addicted not to its subject

    but to its own vain hunger

    and needs but a pretty face

    to fuel its rampant imagination

    humid couch

    and sweaty palms

    fleshy carpets

    ablaze with conquest

    but when conquering is complete

    the blood leaves its limbs

    and it becomes disenchanted

    (to the point of disgust)

    with its subject

    who sits then like a hollow trunk

    emptied of its precious cargo

    and left to fade

    a seed relieved

    of its transparent husk

    to dissolve, finally

    on a rough

    and impatient tongue

    The Fall

    Labor to open

    the large wooden door

    wrestle the wind

    as it sucks past

    and rushes through the house


    Step into the crisp day

    blue sky, dry leaves

    shocked to see

    the sun still shining.

    It had grown so dark in there

    Breathe in deeply,

    the thin air

    flashing lungs that have been


    tied in knots talking to you again again again

    We try too hard—

    Do you see?

    - pp. 24, 26:

    Love Poem

    We made love last night

    beneath the stars.

    The moon’s Cycloptic eye


    staring us down

    uncovering our bodies of the darkness

    like naked roots

    we tangled ourselves

    thighs and elbows heavy fruit

    shiny as winter chestnuts.

    Body of the man I love—

    bitten mouth, tangerine lips

    rose petal surprise of tongue,

    I could wander the continent

    of your golden valleys

    without ceasing

    and delight each day

    in discovering a new dawn

    rising from the depths

    of your mysterious being.

    Father of a Deaf Girl

    Every time her hands began to stutter he became

    enraged. She threw these fits sometimes, and he

    never took the time to understand what they meant.

    Her words were wasted on him. Her hands useless

    birds caged by their quietness, and he would

    immobilize them, tying her wrists together so they’d

    jump like awkward fish, gasping at the shock of air.

    Un-heard they’d dance like that for hours, her eyes

    full of silent desperation, on the other side of the

    closet door. He never even knew what they were


    I want to fly from here! I want to fly from

    here! I want to fly from here! I want to fly

    from here! I want to fly from here! I want

    to fly from here!

    - p. 84-85:

    Christmas in Hawaii

    The sky pierces me

    with its turquoise embrace.

    The scent of lemons

    and suntan oil find

    their way to me

    by the pool:

    No one is here.

    I walk the beaches alone

    and drink silly concoctions

    with little paper umbrellas.

    In my room, my guitar

    is calling to me.

    I will go to it soon

    and write songs

    for love lost

    and for love yet to come.

    Merry Christmas, baby,



    I am perhaps


    to those who

    are outside my

    own flesh.

    I can not help

    it, I am an


    each pretty

    face should

    come with a straw

    so that I may

    slurp up the

    perfect moments

    without them getting

    stuck between

    my teeth.

    - pp. 99-100:

    Blanketed by a Citrus Smile

    blanketed by a citrus smile

    your splash of sincerity evades me

    your aim not at fault

    I just have no faith left

    for it to stick to

    it is strange how in just

    a few short months

    I can look back on myself

    like a stranger

    and you

    (whom I loved?!)

    are like cumulous clouds

    dull day after day

    with your threats of thunder

    and promises of passion

    I await the blue flame!

    doused in nutmeg!

    wrapped in white linen!

    but as you pass over me

    there is no torrid sea

    no humid embrace

    just pools cooling

    in the small of my back

    I stare at my hands

    and wonder

    how they got

    so far away

    - pp. 131-133:

    (A Poem for Shane)

    My older brother Shane

    has always been kind

    and would shoulder the lion’s share

    of our many chores.

    Come morning

    it was his voice

    which would rush my consciousness

    into the cold reality of the bedroom we shared.

    It was his hands

    which would numbly feel for coal

    in the still black dawn

    to start a fire

    and his long fingers

    which would grasp the warm pink teats

    of the milk cow in the freezing cold

    so that I could siphon off the cream

    to make butter before school.

    He broke up fights between Atz Lee and me

    absorbing the kicks and screams

    and hollers of rebuttal

    without anger.

    He was our smiling Buddha

    a kind constant force in a house

    that was otherwise capricious.

    I recently went to the hospital

    to see his fourth child,

    a girl, being born.

    I think I am still a child

    scattering myself thin.

    But as I watched my brother

    with his tiny new baby

    and his three boys coming up

    to take a peek at their new sister

    I thought to myself, he must be

    a particular kind of being

    a breed of person that is made simply

    and perfectly to love.

    Wolves in the Canyon

    During snow storms it is always the most quiet.

    Sometimes as a child I would leave my bed

    to walk out in the white padded dark

    and sit at the canyon’s edge, tucked neat

    amongst the lacy shelter of tangled willows.

    The voice of one wolf can split itself so that it sounds like

    the voice of three,

    so a small pack of wolves sounds like the most lonesome


    Sitting out at the canyon’s edge,

    looking out upon the still strange landscape of winter,

    I knew their song.

    I felt it deep in my belly.

    Sometimes I was sick with it,

    so heavy was it in me that all I could do

    was open my mouth and let it call out.

    It was instantly my comfort.

    My own treasure harbored somewhere

    behind my lungs, inside my heart.

    It was the song of my soul, I imagined,

    and I would lend it to the wolves

    and sing with them in the still of midnight,

    while my brothers lay sleeping,

    beneath thick blankets of dreaming.

    - pp. 123-125:


    Harsh winter falls

    away with swollen berries.

    My winter-worn tongue gray

    with waiting,

    dull with no color all

    winter long.

    Small deep-red watermelon berries

    full of blue sky

    and all the unfathomable

    flavor of spring,

    tart green gooseberries and

    peach-colored cloud berries

    in the fall,

    wild blue berries on my chin,

    the blush of cranberries high in their bushes.

    Stop alongside

    the canyon’s edge,

    lose my fingers in the tangles

    of the wild strawberry patch,

    my hands deep in

    thorny rose hips and raspberries.

    Knots of swollen berries

    sticking to my stained palms.

    August spent

    filling empty milk cartons,

    canning and preserving

    the syrups, jams and jellies

    that would sustain us

    through another pale December.

    After the Divorce

    After the divorce

    we moved to Homer

    to live in a one bedroom apartment

    behind Uncle Otto’s machine shop.

    My brothers slept in the closet

    after my dad painted it any color

    they wanted. The pipes looked like

    silver trees sprouting up through

    the frames of their bunk beds.

    For me, we took the door

    off the coat closet

    and built a narrow bed

    four feet off the ground

    with a ladder of rough wood

    to climb up that hurt my bare feet.

    My dad tried hard

    to keep us all together

    and work at the same time,

    but things just weren’t the same.

    He pulled my hair when he brushed it

    and didn’t sing to us at night

    before we went to sleep.

    I was eight and started cooking.

    Shane grocery shopped

    and Atz, well, he was a kid.

    By 7 A.M. every morning

    we walked ourselves out to the road

    and waited for the school bus

    with all the other kids.

    Looking for signs

    of when life might strike random again

    and scatter us like seeds

    on the unknowable winds

    of chance.

    - pp. 116-117:


    I wrote you those nice

    poems only because

    the honest ones

    would frighten you

    Gold Fish

    In my belly is a gold fish.

    I swallowed it and kept it there.

    I sing to it, and can feel it wiggle

    when it especially likes the tune—

    Brahms makes it do backflips of glee.

    Last edited by HERO; 05-26-2013 at 06:44 AM.

  2. #2
    Mermaid with Stellar views SyrupDeGem's Avatar
    Join Date
    Oct 2012
    All about dat heart, no trouble.
    87 Post(s)
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    That's alot of work put together there, appreciated.

    I'm not sure if you want people to type the woman herself based off her song lyrics, style or if you want the songs to be typed... did she write all her own songs? or written for her/collaborations?

    I don't know anything about her... maybe and interview?

    She sounds pretty sweet from the music, first impressions of songs Fi/Ne can not explain as yet...also could be wrong just a guess.

    Now this is a story all about how, my type got changed, turned upside down. Just wait for a minute and watch chatbox right there, & I'll tell how Gem became the moderator with blue hair.

    In typology central friended and praised, on the picture thread was where she spent most her days. Chilling out, selfies, relaxing all cool, And all typing some people and getting them schooled.

    When a couple of girls who were up to no good, Started annoying her & her friends in the forumhood, She got in one little flame war & got pissed off & said 'I'm moving in with that exboyfriend in the forum with the socionics toffs.

    So Gem pulls up to the forum for a year without being a hater, And yells to typocentral 'Yo creeps! Smell Ya later', Became a mod in her kingdom she was finally there, To sit on her throne as the mod with blue hair.


  3. #3
    Join Date
    Jul 2010
    25 Post(s)
    0 Thread(s)


    She writes all of her own lyrics and poetry and a lot of her own music. From the first post, she wrote "The New Wild West" and "Life Uncommon" by herself. The music for "Again & Again" was co-written with John Shanks. The music for "Becoming" was co-written with Lester Mendez.

    From this post, "Till We Run Out of Road" was co-written with her husband Ty Murray. The music for "Intuition" and "Stand" was co-written with Lester Mendez, and she wrote "Deep Water" by herself.

    “It's leaving time again / I'm headed out/With all my friends / It's a roll of the dice / I've never thought twice about the way I've been spending my time . . . . Working in an office building tall / Don't know who's next to you at all / But being out here / The blood, the guts, the beer/Is a test / Only time will tell / It brings you close, man / Closer than hell / We're leaving / Leaving again / Can't recall where are we've been / I guess we'll just go / Go till we're too old/Or we run out of road . . . . Expensive cabs and sh*tty food washed down with cancelled flights / Oh, missed wake-up calls, missed holidays . . . . Oh, the late night drives, the calls / The dawn to strike you like a knife / Hey man, this is a beautiful life . . . . We're leaving / Leaving again / Can't recall/Where are we've been / I guess we'll just go / Go till we're too old/Or we run out of road . . . .”

    “You find yourself falling down / Your hopes in the sky / But your heart like grape gum on the ground / And you try to find yourself/In the abstractions of religion [(the) Socionics (dogma)]/And the cruelty of everyone else / And you wake up to realize your standard of living somehow got stuck on survive . . . . You realize your only friends has never been yourself or anyone who cared in the end / That's when everything fades or falls away / 'Cause the chains which once held us are only the chains which we've made . . . . We've compromised our pride / And sacrificed our health / We must demand more not from each other, but more from ourselves . . . . It's nothing without love . . . .”

    “I'm just a simple girl/In a high tech digital world / I really try to understand all the powers that rule this land / They say M—’s big butt is boss / [HERO] can't find [(and/or) keep] a job / In a world of post-modern fad/What was good [(e.g.) frot] now is bad / It's not hard to understand / Just follow this simple plan: Follow your heart—your intuition / It will lead you in the right direction / Let go of your mind / Your intuition is easy to find / Just follow your heart, Davy / You look at me, but you're not quite sure / Am I it or could you get more? / You learn cool from magazines [(and/or) Courtney Love] / You learned ‘love’ from Charlie Sheen [and/or (pro-)analists] . . . . If you want me, let me know / I promise I won't say no . . . . You got something that you’re wanting to sell? / Sell your sin: Just cash in / You got something that you’re wanting to tell? / You'll love me: Wait and see / If you want me, don't play games / I promise it won't be in vain . . . .”

    “Walk in a corner shop / See a shoplifting cop / See the old lady with a gun / See the HERO try to run / Nothing's what it seems, I mean/It's not all dirty, but it's not all clean / There's children paying bills / There's monks buying thrills / There's pride for sale in magazines . . . . Mothers weep, children sleep / So much violence ends in silence / It's a shame there's no one to blame for all the pain that life brings / If you will just take me, it might just complete me / And together we can make a stand // A waitress brings me lunch / We meet but do not touch / On TV, [Putin's] selling lies / While in [Florida], King's dream dies / Go to the counter, pay for me and my friend / A homeless man pulls out a roll, says it's on him / The mayor has no cash / He said he spent it on hookers and hash . . . .”

    Jewel Kilcher.jpg
    Last edited by HERO; 05-29-2014 at 11:24 PM.

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