Tag Archives: Poetry

“I got no name for open roads.

Cause all I own fits on my back.

I see the world from rusted trains.

And always know I won’t be back.

Cause all my life, is wrapped up in today; no past or future here.

If I find my name’s no good, I just fall out of line.

But I miss you.

There’s no comin’ home,

There’s no comin’ home,

With a name like mine.

I still think of you,

But everyone knows, yeah everyone knows,

If you can let it go.

I’ve seen more places than I can name.

And over time they all start to look the same.

But it ain’t the truth we chase,

No it’s the promise of a better place

But all this time, I’ve been chasin’ down a lie.

And I know it for what it is.

But it beats the alternatives,

So I’ll take the life.

I still miss you.

There’s no goin’ home, there’s no goin’ home,

With a name like mine.

I still dream of you.

But everyone knows, yeah everyone knows.

If you can let it go.”

Ghost Towns, Radical Face

Music Break

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“Higglety Pigglety Pop!: or There Must Be More to Life”

by Maurice Sendak. Chapter 1:

Once Jennie had everything. She slept on a round pillow upstairs and a square pillow downstairs. She had her own comb and brush, two different bottles of pills, eyedrops, eardrops, a thermometer, and for cold weather a red wool sweater. There were two windows for her to look out of and two bowls to eat from. She even had a master who loved her.

But Jennie didn’t care. In the middle of the night she packed everything in a black leather bag with gold buckles and looked out of her favorite window for the last time.

“You have everything,” said the potted plant that happened to be looking out the same window.

Jennie nibbled a leaf.

“You have two windows,” said the plant. “I have only one.”

Jennie sighed and bit off another leaf. The plant continued.

“Two pillows, two bowls, a red wool sweater, eyedrops, eardrops, two different bottles of pills, a thermometer, and he even loves you.”

“That is true, ” said Jennie, chewing more leaves.

“You have everything,” repeated the plant.

Jennie only nodded, her mouth full of leaves.

“Then why are you leaving?”

“Because, ” said Jennie, snapping off the stem and blossom, “I am discontented. I want something I do not have. There must be more to life than having everything!”

The plant had nothing to say. It had nothing left to say it with.

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” When my blood runs warm with the old red wine, I miss the life that I left behind.

And when I hear the sound of the blackbird’s cry, I know I left in the nick of time.

Well this road I’m on’s gonna turn to sand, and leave me lost in a far-off land.

So let me ride the wind ’till I don’t look back, and forget the life that I almost had.

If I wander until I die, may I know whose hand I’m in.

If my home I never find, then let me live again.

The longer I run, the less that I find.

Sellin’ my soul for a nickel and dime.

Breakin’ my heart to keep singin’ these rhymes, I’m losing again.

Tell my brother, please, not to look for me.

I ain’t the man that I used to be.

But if my savior comes could you let him know; I’ve gone away for to save my soul.

If I wander ’till I die, may I know whose hand I’m in.

If my home I never find, then let me live again.

The longer I run the less that I find.

Sellin’ my soul for a nickel and dime.

Breakin’ my heart to keep singin’ these rhymes.

I’m losing again.”     The Longer I Run, Peter Bradley Adams

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“ I don’t want to leave here

I don’t want to stay.

It feels like pinching to me either way.

The places I long for the most,

Are the places where I’ve been.

They are calling after me like a long lost friend.

It’s not about losing faith,

It’s not about trust.

It’s all about comfortable

When you move so much.

The place I was wasn’t perfect,

But I had found a way to live.

It wasn’t milk or honey,

But then, neither is this.

I’ve been painting pictures of Egypt.

Leaving out what it lacked.

The future feels so hard,

And I want to go back.

But the places that used to fit me

Cannot hold the things I’ve learned.

And those roads closed off to me

While my back was turned.

The past is so tangible.

I know it by heart.

Familiar things are never easy to discard.

And I was dying for some freedom,

But now I hesitate to go.

I am caught between the promise

And the things that I know.”

Painting Pictures of Egypt by Sara Groves

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What I Saw

I forgot my camera batteries. How could I forget the batteries!?! Probably because this whole workshop was put on by my space-cadet self. We drive 30 minutes along uncomfortable roads only to realize we forgot the DVD. Aimable had to catch a moto all the way back and pick it up. And I reach in my bag to snap a photo of the sun falling across the face of the guy sitting in front of me to find out that I left the batteries as well.  (So go figure that I would blindly stumble up the road two hours later than anticipated, late for a meeting and not feeling so great. Awesome.)

Back to business though. I could not take photos for the website, which is my job description. So I had to write what I saw.

My shadow lays long on the ground to my left. Gliding over packed sand and hedges of cacti as I walk into the mud-constructed building where Aimable addresses 120 prisoners.

The sun was setting through the triangle holes in-between the mud bricks and straw roof.  The rays cast orange beams across the side of black faces. Faces furrowed with years of stress, holding empty eyes that sadly stare downward. Faces belonging to men who have only known prison and camp life for 17 years now. Men whose wives are embarrassed to be married to murderers, and thus have children of other patronage. Men who are guilt-ridden by their involvement in the genocide.

Heads in their hands and knees in their chests, individuals and pairs are scattered all over the volleyball court and surrounding grass patches. Children scream on the hillside, birds chirp and twitter as the sun sets on 120 broken men confronting their pain.

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