1. |
Borobudur (live version)
06:05
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Borobudur
walking ahead, you two
the same firm youthful step
speaking swiftly in a stranger's tongue
beneath the blitz of black carved stone
it radiated sun beneath the sleeping giant
his hand swept over the serene, green expanse
he said nine villages had gone including his own
you know to be angry cause you love your home so well
I falter, eavesdropping, and looking back for my family
against a massive heap of lava
but all I see is Java
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2. |
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Lone Jack Pine
I am a lone jack pine
tall and green with no visible roots
growing from an old dark rock
or the driftwood that bobs on the surface
of the faceted waves
thrown by a wind from the south
on a crisp summer day
I am a lone jack pine
tall and green
the water's too shallow for swimming
knees scraping the sand and hands full of algae
my hair catches on pebbles and the gravel below
A local poet describes herself
she says, I've lived here longer than anywhere else
Is that the best I can hope for?
I'm the driftwood the bobs on the surface of the faceted waves
is it the best I can hope for?
I'm a lone jack pine
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3. |
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Thoughts of being female from picnic table two
on the wilderness trail
I must remember to
switch my bikini for a dry bra
we'll have no disks of damp as I
start off alone on the wilderness trail
with salt on my lips that I must not lick away
someone is watching
I'm an angry cat, terrifying
works every time
what was it that her grandmother said?
nothing so shameful as a woman
walking and eating, or was it walking and smoking?
a boy from Hong Kong told me
you walk like a lumberjack
but what use is elegance on the wilderness trail?
so blindly safe, like the unlocked doors of the widow's house
are creatures lurking in the shadows, monsters
and abductors of girls?
suspicious even now at picnic table two
with its etching, let's do it on the table
lipstick from the city like a biker chick
hair bleached by the Muskoka sun
ah, asking for trouble, no doubt
asking for trouble on the wilderness trail
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4. |
The Visit (live version)
03:34
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The Visit
her hand glides gracefully, only a gesture
shielding her eyes, the palm trees rustle as she sighs
and tells her story
he shakes his head, she's lost me now
as I stab the young coconut with a cold steel spoon
the goats that gaze on the graves
are torn between life and death
they're held fast with a short rope
while she watches me from afar
all the names are wrong
but I've seen the bedposts
carved by nails and hours of pain
as she waves her hand goodbye
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Jeannette Lambert Montreal, Québec
Living creatively through jazz and intuition guides my life as a jazz singer and composer. As a Dutch-Indonesian immigrant raised in Northern Ontario, free jazz, sound poetry, and dreamwork have contributed to my creative freedom. I live in Montreal, Quebec where I insist everyone around me create as well. ... more
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