"eugene" poems
Who believes what we’ve heard and seen?
Who would have thought God’s saving power would look like this?
The servant grew up before God—a scrawny seedling,
a scrubby plant in a parched field.
There was nothing attractive about him,
nothing to cause us to take a second look.
He was looked down on and passed over,
a man who suffered, who knew pain firsthand.
One look at him and people turned away.
We looked down on him, thought he was ****
But the fact is, it was our pains he carried—
our disfigurements, all the things wrong with us.
We thought he brought it on himself,
that God was punishing him for his own failures.
But it was our sins that did that to him,
that ripped and tore and crushed him—our sins!
He took the punishment, and that made us whole.
Through his bruises we get healed.
We’re all like sheep who’ve wandered off and gotten lost.
We’ve all done our own thing, gone our own way.
And God has piled all our sins, everything we’ve done wrong,
on him, on him.
He was beaten, he was tortured,
but he didn’t say a word.
Like a lamb taken to be slaughtered
and like a sheep being sheared,
he took it all in silence.
Justice miscarried, and he was led off—
and did anyone really know what was happening?
He died without a thought for his own welfare,
beaten ****** for the sins of my people.
They buried him with the wicked,
threw him in a grave with a rich man,
Even though he’d never hurt a soul
or said one word that wasn’t true.
Still, it’s what God had in mind all along,
to crush him with pain.
The plan was that he give himself as an offering for sin
so that he’d see life come from it—life, life, and more life.
And God’s plan will deeply prosper through him.
Out of that terrible travail of soul,
he’ll see that it’s worth it and be glad he did it.
Through what he experienced, my righteous one, my servant,
will make many “righteous ones,”
as he himself carries the burden of their sins.
Therefore I’ll reward him extravagantly—
the best of everything, the highest honors—
Because he looked death in the face and didn’t flinch,
because he embraced the company of the lowest.
He took on his own shoulders the sin of the many,
he took up the cause of all the black sheep.
~ Eugene Peterson
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 12:31 PM UTC
In 2005
my father,
a pastor,
decided that we would house
victims of
Hurricane Katrina.
Our beds would be given
to the ones
whose homes
had been submerged
in water
and humanity.
Kitty and Minnie
were twins
who slept with me every night.
I was only a child,
but I felt like a mother
to these two orphaned girls
who relived the horror
of seeing their grandmother rotting on a bench
every night.
They had nightmares
of their grandmother standing up from the bench
with maggot infested eyes
and green rotting skin
coming to kiss their cheeks.
They were 6 years old.
Eugene was 13
and his last image of home was
his father drowning in their attic
yelling for him to swim
out of a small hole in the ceiling.
His father never learned to swim.
Eugene waited on the roof of his house,
now his father's tomb,
for 3 days
until a helicopter came.
John was an 8 year old boy
with black skin
and silver teeth
who squeezed between me and Kitty every night.
He dreamt of his mother finding him,
and his dream came true;
I watched them walk away together.
Him
in awe of his mom being alive.
Her
drunk and high.
The last time I saw him
his mother was slapping him in the back of the taxi
that took him away from me.
I pray
that
they learned
to overcome
their nightmares.
I hope
every day
that they learned to stand up
to the ones telling them
that their experience
is a crutch,
an excuse,
to never be anything more than what their
parents
are.
I hope
they all learned
to swim.
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 4:11 PM UTC
This year, Spring has been stopped in its tracks.
Incessant rain has driven life underground,
so as a diversion, we're putting on a play.
It's not the real world, rather a representation of it.
The director is a control freak, so her role is perfect-
she can dictate without having to act.
Rehearsals take place in the Philharmonic Hall where the local
band used to practice. But the young have all gone to the city
looking for work, so the drum kit in the corner stays shrouded
in a black cloth and the unplayed snooker table supports our props.
On the stage, the backdrop is dominated by a church.
Its steeple points to God only knows where, aiming to instill pure thoughts.
Impossible to believe, its true aim is to inject fear into its people-
depending on your point of view.
The main player likes to be different. He turns up.
A vain attempt to give some structure to his life.
Late as usual, he's unshaven, and drowsy with wine.
No one can decide whether he's in character or himself.
Waiting for our cue, we stand on the narrow balcony,
flicking damp cigarettes into the river of rain below.
Eventually, we all change, put on our monstrous armour,
become the same curious creatures following the same script.
Except one....
who refuses to change, deciding in his own mind where he will play his part.
So he pulls on his proofed coat and heads out for the bar.
Outside, the power is off.
The streets are silent. Even the cafes have closed earlier than usual,
tables and chairs left out in the rain chained together, like prisoners
crying for release.
He slips along the cobbled streets, chanting his lines in time with his own footsteps:
'There are more dead people than living....the living are getting rarer.'
Even he's not sure if he's quite himself or still in character.
Briefly, the clouds part to reveal the cold light of the moon,
the only thing in which he has absolute faith to guide him on his way.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2013
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 1:07 PM UTC
I’m up early
as always
swimming in the currents of
a sweet morning
in summer
in Oregon
as if for the first time
Much like the morning
years past
when I woke
with a new girl
in a cemetery in Eugene
We went there to escape the heat
slept on a blanket
naked in the night
So alive were we
and in love
Practicing, perhaps,
for the day when sleep
and death
converge.
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 4:30 PM UTC
the lanky mortician with wryly looking fingers, oh the poor boy.
The hospital asked me how the body should be cast.
Such a funny thought to wrap you up in white linens,
your favorite colour.
Before I say goodbye my dear Eugene,
"Do you find it all right, my dragonfly?"
I can hear you asking, "James why do you cry?,
Make the most of your life, while it is rife;
While it is light."
Before I watch your flesh go,
Shall we look at the moon, one last try?
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 7:41 PM UTC
A Mean machine in obscene gang green
The Candlelight flicker in busted T V screen
Scream queen Ilene in paralyzed dream
Dean Irene exploded her spleen
It seems when she ate some beans
Kathleen drank from a canteen of benzene
Said sardines soaked in saline make the best cuisine
Eugene came between Kristine and Janine
When they went to the ravine in Racine
Teens hopped up on caffeine convene
With Thirteen marines on Halloween
On routine to clean and preen the latrines
I’m keen to notice the things that you’ve seen
?
? ?
? ? ?
? ?
??
? ?
? ? ?
? ?
??
? ?
? ? ?
? ?
?
What if you could unseen what you've seen
Apr 6, 2012
Apr 6, 2012 at 9:54 PM UTC
She found a propeller in Portland
and carried it all the way to Eugene
under her arm, this western artifact.
Says she’ll turn it into a necklace,
use it to press through the crowds
of people reaching at her hems.
They hold the sidewalks down
as she passes, waiting like wildflowers.
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 3:49 PM UTC
America.
Oregon.
Eugene.
***** hippies,
Homeless kids,
Handcrafted knickknacks
For sale at Saturday Market.
Rain
Rain
Rain
Rain some more.
These tourists cannot
Perceive how happy
The rain makes me,
When their droplets of
Life fall and surround me.
They do not have
That Oregonian Blood.
I have ducks in my heart,
And rain water
Courses through my veins.
I am a Country Fair girl.
I am a Eugene Girl.
I will be an Oregonian forever.
Portland may not be
As quaint,
As *****
As close knit.
But,
When it rains,
I get chills.
I kick off my shoes,
And I dance in the
Glorious lifeblood
of my home.
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 4:44 PM UTC
For God's sake, you got to give more power to the people
There's some people up there hoggin' everything
Tellin' lies, givin' alibis about the peoples, money an' things
An' if they gonna throw it away, might as well give some to me
Yeah, they seen an' heard it but never had misery
There are some people who are starvin' to death
Never knew but only heard 'em an' they never had happiness
If you don't have enough to eat, how can you think of love?
You don't have time to care, so it's crime you're guilty of
For God's sake, you got to give more power to the people
For God's sake, why don't you give more power to the people?
Cut this jive an' see who's got the power to **** the most
When they run out of power, the world's gonna be a ghost
They know we're not satisfied, so we begin to holler
They give us a promise an' throw in a few more dollars
There's no price for happiness, there's no price for love
Up goes the price of livin' an' you're right back where you was
So whatever you got, just be glad you got it
Now we're gonna get on up an' get some more of it
For God's sake, you got to give more power to the people
For God's sake, why don't you give more power to the people?
For God's sake, you got to give more power to the people
For God's sake, why don't you give more power to the people?
For God's sake, you got to give more power to the people
For God's sake, why don't you give more power to the people?
For God's sake, got to have it, more power
For God's sake, got to have it, power, power, power
For God's sake, why don't you give more power to the people?
For God's sake, you better give more power to the people
For God's sake, why don't you try it? Yeah, power, power
For God's sake, can't deny it, no, no, no, power, power
For God's sake, why don't you give more power to the people?
For God's sake, you got to give more power to the people
For God's sake, why don't you give more power to the people?
For God's sake, you got to give more power to the people
For God's sake, why don't you give power, power?
For God's sake, you got to give
Songwriters
RECORD, EUGENE
-The Chi-Lites on Soul train!!!!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rSIr5a4L8os
Joss Stone - São Paulo, Credicard Hall, 11/11/2012
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0iyd3Dgi1xY
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 10:03 PM UTC
Well it was Tarquin's idea, actually.
It came to him after watching 'Slumdog Millionaire.'
Have you seen it? Marvellous film.
Such resourceful people.
Anyway, we were looking at schools,
and the local comprehensive -
simply ghastly - we couldn't put Eugene through that.
But two blocks away
there's a school for the blind.
Ofsted simply raved about it.
So, we popped the old eyes out
- easy as
- and Bob's your uncle.
He starts in August.
More tea?
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 9:22 AM UTC
Through a vision in my dream, I see her there standing
a smile, unpainted, authentic and real, hopeful
opening the door, I feel a smile emerge, and the butterflies
oh they kick within me, like a life is growing there
a baby in sight, with no bump or pulse, just a gathering
of fluttering wings, that should I rip my chest open
out they would fly, a mélange of colours and shapes
purple swallowtails, adonis blues, lacewings, painted ladies
and finally, my favourite, the Menelaus Blue Morpho
escorted by the Duke of Burgundy, my springtime hero
each flutter, each movement, a collection from the continents
my self, my soul, my body has travelled, wanderlust
keepsakes of beauty and bliss, bordering on extinction safe within me
in a heartbeat they cover my whole self, they move around my body
my legs tremble, barely able to hold, this grown woman upright
a gulp, a gasp, a stare in wonder,
speechless, tongue tied, dazed, dumb, silent
my head empties, no thought passes, the parietal lobe vanishes
adrenaline is racing through my body faster than the light hitting my eyes
moments later I find vocal sound waves breezing past my ears
they are in slow motion, her voice mumbled, incoherent
she touches me and I jump in fright,
my eyes adjust, my heartbeat slows down, my legs steady
"Rachel!"
"Rachel!"
I wake up alone.
© Sia Jane
---
*"In through the window a moonbeam comes,—
Little gold moonbeam with misty wings;
All silently creeping, it asks,
"Is he sleeping— Sleeping and dreaming while mother sings?"*
Eugene Field
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 7:02 PM UTC
When a woman says: she likes
The man to take the initiative;
What she is really saying is:
*“Yes, I will **** you, just ask.”*
As I write these words,
I rent The Eugene O’Neill Theater,
Located between Broadway &
8th Ave, on West 49th Street,
No shabby venue, I might add.
Then I stage & cast the play,
Choosing for the role of me,
Myself: Queequeg.
Ishmael’s Crypto-Gay,
New Bedford, Mass bedmate,
A large, well-toned, muscled
Man of much ink & few words,
Just short pigeon-English phrases,
Utterances such as: “I likee.”
That’s right, playing me is
Melville’s freaky, tattooed,
Polynesian harpooner,
Right out of *Moby ****
And should the ****** imagery &
Metaphor of me—yours truly—
Packing a harpoon in my trousers,
Prove a trifle too scrumptiously
Potent for you, consider please the
****** potential of a three-way with
Chingachgook.
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 12:54 AM UTC
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod
A Dutch Lullaby.
WYNKEN, Blynken, and Nod one night
Sailed off in a wooden shoe,--
Sailed on a river of crystal light
Into a sea of dew.
"Where are you going, and what do you wish?"
The old moon asked the three.
"We have come to fish for the herring fish
That live in this beautiful sea;
Nets of silver and gold have we!"
Said Wynken,
Blynken,
and Nod.
The old moon laughed and sang a song,
As they rocked in the wooden shoe;
And the wind that sped them all night long
Ruffled the waves of dew.
The little stars were the herring fish
That lived in the beautiful sea--
"Now cast your nets wherever you wish,--
Never afeared are we!"
So cried the stars to the fishermen three,
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
All night long their nets they threw
To the stars in the twinkling foam,--
Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe,
Bringing the fishermen home:
'Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed
As if it could not be;
And some folk thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed
Of sailing that beautiful sea;
But I shall name you the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,
And Nod is a little head,
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies
Is a wee one's trundle-bed;
So shut your eyes while Mother sings
Of wonderful sights that be,
And you shall see the beautiful things
As you rock in the misty sea
Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three:--
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
Eugene Field
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 1:34 AM UTC
R.I.P. Clinton Eugene Jarvis
~My father ~
The saguaro an altar
A tree stump a pew
He knelt in the garden
His church all that grew.
Cactus and succulent
Tenderly grown
Were all in his choir
For his ears alone.
From aisles of stone walkways
Stained glass in bright clouds
The sun was his mantle
The stars are his shroud
The lakes holy water
As a child he'd haunt
Skipping stones 'cross a pond
Like a Baptismal Font
Sat he 'neath the willows
To hear their prayer's sigh
The saguaro an altar
His Cathedral the sky.
SoulSurvivor
Catherine Jarvis
(C) 5/31/2018
May 31, 2018
May 31, 2018 at 8:11 AM UTC
America, you never had a chance
America, you and I both know there's only one way this ends
America, you aren't going to like it
America, what did you do to deserve the millions of revolutionaries in your streets?
America, whose bones are in the ground beneath your feet?
America, what did your father say before he left?
America, what did your sons bring home from war?
America how holy was your birth that you can't move on?
America, who will be left behind when you do?
America, I'm too sentimental about you and I know it
America, I watched the workers hold the line for months and you locked the doors
America, I watched those people starve
America, I watched you build a cage and call it Chicago, call it Missouri, call it Baltimore, call it Dayton call it what you want and forget
America, I watched you forget
America, you forgot your angels
America, the saints want to destroy you and I don't feel sorry for you not anymore
America, I let go of you in pieces
America, I watch your flag burn to cinder and drift away
America, I watch you die every night
America, I loved you once and now I'm nothing
America, how did you repay Ginsberg's love?
America, where did you bury Eugene V Debs?
America, did you follow Abbie Hoffman to hell?
America, where are your heroes?
America, what did you do to the workers who never crossed the picket lines?
America, what did you give the black kids for Christmas?
America, what price do the immigrants pay for your freedom?
America, who do they pray to?
America, what do you pray for?
America, I pray too much for someone who doesn't believe in you
America, you never had a chance
America, I pray you get one, I owe you that much at least
Dec 30, 2016
Dec 30, 2016 at 3:17 AM UTC
smiling not frowning not grinning
peculiar how with effortless crisp
cheeks unsentimental remember
your cheeks nearly my cheeks
oh and your lips were there too
don't let's forget how they tasted
like warm plum wine in a hot
little motel room in Eugene how
the sun felt like a delightful hammer
when we hadn't single thing to do
and we walked like nothing
everywhere because the van was
broke and we ate chocolate and
****** everynight
Apr 11, 2012
Apr 11, 2012 at 1:51 AM UTC
A cold has put me on the fritz, said Eugene O'Neill,
how can I forget certain things?
Now I have thirteen bottles of red wine
where once I had over a thousand.
I know where they went but why should I tell?
Every day I feed the dogs and birds.
The yard is littered with bones and seed husks.
Hearts spend their entire lives in the dark,
but the dogs and birds are fond of me.
I take a shower frequently but still
women are not drawn to me in large numbers.
Perhaps they know I'm happily married
and why exhaust themselves vainly to ****** me?
I loaned hundreds of thousands of dollars
and was paid back only by two Indians.
If I had known history it was never otherwise.
This is the song of the cold when people
are themselves but less so, people
who haven't listened to my unworded advice.
I was once described as "immortal"
but this didn't include my mother who recently died.
And why go to New York after the asteroid
and the floods of polar waters, the crumbling
buildings, when you're the only one there
in 2050? Come back to earth.
Blow your nose and dwell on the shortness of life.
Lift up your dark heart and sing a song about
how time drifts past you like the gentlest, almost
imperceptible breeze.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 8:31 AM UTC
He got up onstage lookin’ like somebody’d torn him out of a National Geographic special on the Amish, plunked ‘im down in Eugene for a decade where he quickly realized he didn’t have to change much to get along quite alright here.
this is a song ya know I played it here 23 years ago just right over there on that side of the room and ya know my partner and I played it here and I couldn’t write songs then and he could and I was a little bit down in the dumps about myself about it but then I moved on and ya know my partner left here not long after that got caught up in that hitchhiking business and then got tangled up with the mental hospital and now he’s forced to take antipsychotic drugs every day for a time he was known as the second most dangerous schizophrenic in the state of Oregon but ya know he was also probably the second most gentle person in the state of Oregon cause ya know opposites sometimes come together in that way and ya know his songs were gentle too like this one for example this one is real gentle
ya know he was really a gentle player and now he’s caught up on those antipsychotics and its all my fault cause I drank a bunch of *****
Hot Tub Jeff looked straight outta National Geographic but when he sat down he pulled out a phone and the screen glowed bright on his face bringing out all the creases that had been hidden in room’s putty atmosphere, cause ya know opposites sometimes come together in that way.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 10:02 PM UTC
I asked him why he loved me
I said I was hysterical
A drama queen
Hypochondriac
What did he see in me
He replied
After a swig of dry red wine
My love
You're talking nonsense again
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 4:42 AM UTC
We scuffed across the wide sidewalks, 3 AM *****
persuading us the dim-lit bridge wouldn’t fall away beneath
our curiosity to see the university’s emptiness, content
in August’s stagnancy. I tried to picture thousands of strangers
walking different paths to reach their point B,
but soon we stepped off yellow-toned brick and I saw hippies
laying on the ground outside a pub, smoking joints.
One woman with hip-length dreads, her face as wrinkled
as crumpled love letters hidden behind my dresser, pointed
and said, You’ll forget yourself some day.
Months later, I blinked awake in the tank as dawn crept
through my cell bars, quietly, like the disappointment on my birthdays
or Mom’s sighs when she browsed the mail for child support checks
never sent by my train-wreck, truck deck loving old man
who ****** me off when I mistook him for that self-righteous cop
hell-bent on teaching me a lesson of respect.
He had that patronizing presence, and it blinded me with magma
rage I felt in my arms, through my knuckles, right to his rib cage.
I still don’t remember the way back to that dingy pub.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 6:06 PM UTC
“It was a great mistake, my being born a man, I would have been much more successful as a sea gull or a fish. As it is, I will always be a stranger who never feels at home, who does not really want and is not really wanted, who can never belong, who must always be a little in love with death!”
“Be always drunken. Nothing else matters: that is the only question. If you would not feel the horrible burden of Time weighing on your shoulders and crushing you to the earth, be drunken continually.
Drunken with what? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you will. But be drunken.”
Eugene O'Neill, Long Day's Journey Into Night
May 20, 2018
May 20, 2018 at 11:04 PM UTC
After a tortuous hour of
math (algebra to be exact)
I start dinner; Middle Eastern stew:
Cardamom, Coriander, and turmeric.
Cooking is a little like math, but
much more like art. My mind begins
to ease as Bach pumps out
one of his symphonies from
the CD player. The stew boils, and
I want to go outside and play,
chase windmills. Where's Sancho?
Dulcinea's here, frustrated by my inept
ability in the equation game.
I ******* despise algebra.
Where's the Bluebird, the Sunflower,
Bukowski or Eugene O'Neil?
I want to smell a six-week-old puppy,
taste Van Gogh yellow, **** until
I can't walk, and ease my
way into old age.
Vivaldi plays his victorious song.
And I know I'll conquer the
numbers game, but probably not
before it drives me crazy;
actually, it's a short putt.
Jan 19, 2021
Jan 19, 2021 at 7:46 AM UTC
Not just a white knight
But a soldier
A protector of many
He doesn't wield a sword
But he's a hero
Just the same
He doesn't have a crown
Instead a few dog tags
But a prince just the same
He doesn't have a cape
Just a camouflage uniform
But he's royal the same
He doesn't have long hair
But a crew cut short
Still beautiful to me
He traded his life
For all of this
But he's the same
He's still my white knight
Even as a soldier
He still has my heart
Even if he's away
This princess, this Rapunzel
Is willing to wait for her
White knight
Prince
Eugene
Flynn
Her hero, her soldier
Sep 29, 2012
Sep 29, 2012 at 3:54 PM UTC
My alarm clock screams.
Been awake for three hours;
so ahead of the game,
unaware of my powerless range.
I’ve been tossing, turning, creaking,
coming up with new names;
another attempt to link together
all of my fireless plains.
Hey, I’m running on fumes.
Hey, I’m Eugene Tooms;
stretching, twisting, warping,
got you reaching for clues.
It’ll all come together,
posted up in my room;
just typing up a dichotomy
of life as a lifeless plume.
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 9:02 AM UTC