Georgie's Farewell Acrostics

Consider these a first draft...

Go on, write a poem for George they said, it'll be fun they said

Everybody loves her, it'll be easy they said

Overly descriptive and flowery, overt but sometimes a little bit obtuse

Really? Is this the writer's curse? That I can't speak about the skin around my heart?

Gorgeous. But you've heard that before. Funny, fantastic, fearless.

Even after that there's so much more. How can an acrostic possibly amount to all the descriptions of you I'd like to make?

Just a girl

Adventure bound

People

Adore her

N I especially will miss her

This will be updated when I finish this other one which, even if it's just for my sake, will be of a significantly better quality than the above.

Reminiscing

So going through all my old journals since 2009... wow has life been a blast or what? My goodness! I maintain I don't need to watch Shortland Street because I'm living a much more dramatic existence. Goddam life/spiritual war, I would like it to go and die in a fire. Anyway... 

So found this gem that I thought I'd share. Obv apologies for lack of editing, I do that, and if I had time for things such as sleep and fun times this yr then I would also probably do more editing (ok lies) but without further ado... 

Dream world

Sometimes it's easier to imagine 

When my mind is free to roam 

What you could have done, been, given 

your life to 

Sometimes I think that you could've been a soldier 

You could've taken up arms and charged the hill, committing 

travesties unspeakable 

to the enemy in the name of the fair 

goddess - Justice 

That you died with victory and valour, a hero 

among friends 

honoured for years 

and years after by your 

quivering countrymen. 

You could've merged with your computer 

games, computing your next move in 

concordance with your robotic platoon. Then something blasts 

and something blinks and you'd have another 

life 

through a first aid box. 

If only you got extra life

tokens for real 

Sometimes I think you've gone 

to join the occupy movement or something 

equally enriching. 

You've gone to save the world with a silent 

protest against money, against the 

passage of time. 

I imagine you as a martyr, setting out 

to the Diet of Worms espousing 

your grandiose ideas and 

slashing stiffs with tongues of truths 

as a sword through the bullshit. 

Now locked away in memories 

Little brother, between your dreams

and mine 

Your adventures will be better 

than life itself

Eulogy for a Warrior

So my Granddad passed away last week. I can't believe it was only last week actually, it's been one of those weeks that seems like it's had several months crammed into it. I volunteered to read a poem at his funeral, and in typical me fashion didn't finish writing it until 15 mins before the 'funeral rehearsal' the night before. It seemed to go down a hit, but would be interested to hear what you think of it.

RIP Ron Brooking, see you again in the twinkling of an eye. 07/02/1929-26/03/2012

Trumpet the bugle
Fire the cannon
A warrior has lain down his sword
In the same manner that he’s lain down
His life for a worthy cause
A champion for charity
The fight for good, for the Lord
Always paramount in his mind and word
Until his last pause

Beat the drum
Let it echo loud
Today is a day to remember
What makes a warrior
No farmhand to passive soldier;
A warrior emanates courage, fierce fortitude,
Zeal and pugnacity;
Warriors are soldiers with soul.

He will stand when others cower
He will fight when others flee
Fear, fatigue, famine will not hinder;
These feet are fitted with the gospel of truth
This chest the breastplate of righteousness.
Liars and swindlers compare as spindly weaklings
When flanking such valour
And fools, like uncovered bugs, scurry away
Dazed by the glow this warrior emits.

A true warrior lifts his hand and his heart
To plough towards his grand purpose
To wield strength and skill
To inspire others and to protect
He is faithful and true to his calling

Brandishing the Word of the Lord,
Master-at-arms
We pay homage to you today
And to the God you glorify
The battle is won
Thanks to Jesus’ sacrifice
Like him,
You have bravely fought the good fight,
Fought long and strong
So with the Cross of Christ going on before
The joy of the Lord your strength
You laboured until the end

The Lord is with you, mighty warrior,
As he has always been.
Your name is in the book of life
Etched in the annals with like warriors
From bygone days.

Victorious indeed, Ron you will be missed.
The battle will go on without you
But the fight will not be the same

Let us
Now conquer evil with good!
So sound the battle cry
This wizened warrior has lain down his sword
But who will stand in the gap?
Will you heed the call to arms?
On then warrior, on to victory!

Healing

I can't believe I haven't posted anything on here for my poor followers since August, I'm not very good at this blogging/consistency thing. However, this being an excellent semi-useful means of procrastination, today is the day to remedy this! (It's ok, I'm pondering my other assignment in the back of my mind also, don't worry)

As part of the final non-fiction section of my course last yr, I was asked to write an essay, and not really given any more restrictions than minimum 1000 words. Turns out I managed to wow my teacher (finally, thank goodness) and got an A, but would be interested to know what you think of the following. These are my thoughts on prayer and healing.

Healing

By Lauren Brooking


Countless books have been filled with prayers, musings about prayers, and ravings about the varying effectiveness of said prayers. I have no intention to attempt to address the infinite realms of possibilities for tangents from this topic. One such tangent to be addressed is the difference between prayer, luck, coincidence, and positive thinking. I’m not entirely convinced there is a definitive one, but we won't go into that for now. I could spend a lifetime arguing if prayer ‘works’ or not. I merely seek to share some of my experiences with this strange phenomenon.

One definition of prayer is “supplication, the act of communicating with a deity, especially as a petition, in adoration, contrition, thanksgiving” (Wordnet, 2011). My definition would be seeking to gain a sense of control or peace in circumstances that leave you with anything but – occasionally with some thanks or praise thrown in there too.

A pastor once told me that there are three basic answers to prayer: go, slow and no. Basically, the options are ‘yes’, ‘no’ or the illusive ‘maybe’. It is not often that Christians talk openly about instances where prayers were answered with a ‘no’, or where it seems like they flat out weren’t answered.

The first prayer I remember having answered was when I was about four years old – the neighbours were having a bonfire in their backyard and my mum had washing out on the line, and was complaining that it would now smell like smoke. I prayed that the smoke would move. After a quick stint on my knees, I went to check and the wind had changed direction – the smoke was now blowing the opposite way.

My experience with prayer has usually been a peace-bringing, faith-affirming, yes-answering experience, until 2010.

My brother Peter had been crippled by chronic depression since age 15. He only had blips of improvements and they were short-lived at best. He was on my mind a lot when I was living in Laos, particularly when his girlfriend started emailing me with more details. I struggled long and hard with the decision of staying or going, and one morning I was so sick of the indecision, I yelled at God “I need to know what you want me to do!” I then flipped my bible open to a random page and my eyes landed on the only red letters on the page: “No, go back to your family, and tell them everything God has done for you.” (Luke 8:39, NLT, 2011)

So home I went. (After a Jonah impression in Sydney for three months.)

Home was a mess, so I set about fixing it. I was 'God’s gift' to my family and they needed my help, clearly. Nine tumultuous months later, Peter’s unhinged girlfriend had moved out, Dad had moved overseas, it was just my brothers, Peter, Steven and I left - oh, and the squatter, Roch. I had a new sales job lined up, so I could escape from the tedium of Dominos and life was finally looking up.

I had been praying for Peter for years, as had my mum and many others. Yet never in all this time had I dared to let myself really hope, until one weekend. My best friend, Georgina, and I went to a conference in Auckland with our church pastor, Mel, on May 7-9, 2010. The conference was about prayer and healing for believers. I spent the weekend praying and weeping for the brokenness of my family, in particular Peter and my dad. After that weekend, I had the first glimmer of hope that my prayers would be answered. Then the morning I got back, I broke the fifth metatarsal in my left foot.

I got home alright, but I couldn’t go to work that night because I couldn’t get my foot in a shoe. I hobbled to Peter’s room and he begrudgingly drove me to the hospital after I bribed him with pizza. Depressed Peter was not the kind of person who would go out of his way to do anything, let alone something he didn’t actually want to do, and selfless altruism? No way.

This same Peter did a surprising impression of a ‘nice guy’ during my 3 week incapacitation – he drove me places and did housework and got me food and other things when I needed them. We watched movies and he taught me mind-boggling things about science. I helped him map out his study plans to move to Invercargill to study sound engineering. Those weeks were probably the most time I’d spent with Peter since we used to play dress ups together.

Peter also started coming out of his room more. To my delight, I came home one day to find he’d even cleaned the kitchen. The next week he asked mum how to boil eggs so he could make awesome sandwiches. This was a new, previously unseen side of Peter that hadn’t even existed prior to depression. Perhaps this was the answer to prayer I’d been hoping for?

The squatter had been kicked out on May 31. I started work back at Studylink on June 1, hobbling in on crutches. Peter had faithfully dropped me off and picked me up. June 2, after Peter had picked me up, we’d talked about going to the movies, but there was nothing good on. He smiled as we talked, and I smiled back: progress. But in the early hours of June 3, he took his life.

The next day as we drove around Wellington, I didn’t really intentionally pray, it just came out as ‘But why, God? This is not what I wanted, this isn’t what I prayed for, I asked for healing!’ I heard this voice in my head say ‘Sometimes death is healing’. I was genuinely okay with that for about a month – watching Peter attempt to live was agonizing – and then I started thinking about it a bit more. And more. And more.

After months of seething rage towards God, the world, depression, and Peter himself, everything came to a head at Parachute Music festival in Jan 2011. All the bands I saw mentioned losing hope, suicide, depression, holding on, or something to that effect and by Saturday night, I couldn’t take it anymore. A meltdown of gargantuan proportions followed. I found a quiet place and wrote a list of questions entitled ‘My Beef with God’.

The first question was ‘If God is all powerful, then why wouldn’t he stop suicide?’ As soon as I wrote the question, this same voice that had spoken earlier came back with an answer, ‘Free choice. Love isn’t love without the ability for it to be something else as well.’

The questions poured out like a broken dam, and an answer matched each, as fast as I could write. ‘I thought you’d heal Peter, it feels like you’ve betrayed me’ was met with ‘Do you think I wanted this to happen any more than you did? It wasn’t my will for Peter’s life. Your prayer was heard, and I tried.’

Next was ‘How can I look at you in all your glory and love and reconcile that with a God who allows free choice to the point of suicide?’ This was rebutted with ‘You need love, not reasons at the moment. The answers to the whys would be so grossly insufficient for the magnitude of your questions anyway.’

Towards the end I incredulously asked ‘How can you possibly use this for my good?’ referencing Romans 8:28 “In all things God works for the good of those who love him” (NIV, 2011). God replied ‘Though everything is terrible now, it will get better. And good will eventually come from this. Eventually. Guard your hope.’

Will ‘good’ ever come from this? Is death really healing? Were my prayers answered? I have no idea. I realised many months after, that had I not broken my foot, I would never have spent so much time with Peter in the few weeks before he died. But moments over a broken foot don’t compensate for months of a broken life. A cynic might say that I used religion as a crutch to get through a dark time in my life. A cynic might be right. But I used crutches when I broke my foot – if I hadn’t, I might still be hobbling.


References
New Living Translation. (1996). Luke, The Bible, http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Luke+8%3A39&version=NLT, (retrieved 24/10/2011)
New International Version. (1978). Romans, The Bible, http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Romans+8%3A28&version=NIV (retrieved 27/10/2011)
Prayer. (2005) In WordNet, http://wordnetweb.princeton.edu/perl/webwn?s=prayer, (retrieved 27/10/2011.)

Poetry Portfolio Part 3

And last but not least, this section houses This Section is Well Developed, Rock Your World, She's Best Served Cold, and personal fave, the Impressions of Depression. Thanks for reading!!

This Section is Well Developed
(A Found Poem from Tommy's Real Estate advertisements)

Quite stunning, in fact.
You can't pass this up!
A luscious sum of perfection
from those with impressive lifestyles
you'll blush - it's quite stunning.
In fact, we've found your Nirvana:
inspiring busy flow in a beige dream
makes for very pleasant creative souls.
First time in 20 years, exuding with character
Market: living life - very popular, viewing a must
Lovingly presented space, it too is stunning -
5 bed, 2 bath, 1 gracious mirror with walk-in runway, double
garage offering an intimate and warn new life
You deserve stunning ambiance
this opportunity to enjoy,
you're building a new
style on a stunning sunny section-
all your dreams come true
with eye-watering value.






NB: - if you turn me on my side, I kind of look like a house.


She’s Best Served Cold

Her curves like a road well-traveled,
her top comes off with a plaintive sigh.
She is intoxicating with
her luscious scent,
but she is coy.

Anticipation bubbles like lava
she toys with you, as an autumn breeze
bursting with summer fruits
and a hint of pear.
Her eye sparkles, glints back at
your reflection. She winks -
you are her willing prey.

Magnetic, like a player
to the score line, she’s best served
cold, and a shiver runs down your
spine like an avalanche, as you
traverse towards her inviting throat.

The first gulp, then another.
She tacitly soothes
conscience with honeyed
whispers in your ear.
She engulfs you as you consume her.
She drizzles confidence, sweetens
thoughts, hushes judgments; more!
You the wanton addict-
She is
as provocative as a dare.


Rock Your World

Doormat done - I'm
alive! My earthen belly
rumbles, igneous hunger awoken
Who's up for a little
moving and shaking?

I have felt your jackhammers judder
down and the drills
extricating precious parts. Did you
think that I would
lie down, allow your mole-like mining
ad infinitum?

Let me drill something into
you are mere mites on my surface.
Furious blasting and
tunnelling through - the fault
line has been crossed and I will
not be going back

Pebble to the
metal, crumple the floor. Ground
shakes, souls break
let the boulder
drop as the fields
beneath vascillate with terror of
the tremble, seismic spasm: shock
after shock, after shock
greets hearts that shudder on
pulsating streets.

Tectonic uplift; earth in raucous revolt
Not a slow slip down the sideline
No, my molten might emerges
stirs something deep and dreary within
You 'earthlings' are the epicentre
of my malcontent.
You aren't my master! Not so
grounded now, are you?

I am the DJ dictating your party
Let the boulder drop
I am your rumbling bass drum
time to rock and roll
put your hands in the air
We're getting all Barney Rubble
up in here

Sway with the rhythm
Foot tapping, head banging
Hell raising, drop the beat!
Movers, shakers, motion master
Shocking? It's electrifying
Shake, rattle and roll,
Rocky horror all our own.


The Impressions of Depression

When we were kids we loved
the turns and the dips
and bumps, the click-clack
of the climb, clattering to the
concave bend and the
scream-worthy downhill descent into
the loop-de-loop, the cars following,
like tip-toppling dominoes, then
diving into a corkscrew twist.

Breathless, my brothers and I, our blood
pumped like the brakes as the
cars pulled in, announcing
our cue to exit.
Grin, then repeat, on loop.

After Dad left, the son set
on children's hi-jinx - transformed to
teenage attitude, rode the downhill.
And the rollercoaster was no more fun.

Up the game, up the stakes
Heightened track, he'd be looking
out-in-up-around, squiggling in his chair.
He'd be jiggling the harness, tugging at the belts,
screwing with the bolts, hands securely
outside the car.

There'd been the trek-trippin'
to the top, plateauing to a pathetic malaise
gasp, grin/grimace
uphill harrowed us with the threat:
stable is an unstable thing.

Threat realised and attempted
He'd been rescued from the fall before
Though he had been
trailing in the dips awhile, the trips
back up were alive with promise -
downhill dive less likely -
yet perpetual fear of falling always
a possibility.

Judgement in jeopardy
by a plethora of pills
and verbal spills by the ex
This time he made
sure that rescue was redundant.

He loosened the screws from the track ahead
Stealthy dealings in after-hours handiwork
The rollercoaster car trailed off like a runaway,
He had dismantled the desire to live,
met his end in the downhill, scream.

These were written by Lauren Brooking. (acknowledge where appropriate)

Poetry Portfolio Part 2

This part contains Losing It, May the First and all that, My Imaginary Friend.

Losing It

My name is Joy. Mum said
she called me that because I smiled
when I was born. She said it was
probably just gas but she was the happiest
mum on the planet. She said more
people should name their children
after a good memory.

There's a girl in my class called Serena.
When she gets mad she throws her hands up,
yells 'God, give me serenity!'
I asked her why
she said that's what her mum says
just before she loses it.
I asked her what 'serenity' meant
She said it was everything she wanted to be.

We're studying the state of Virginia at school
I told my teacher about my Aunt Virginia
Dad said she's was 'a royal
pain in the ass'
I wonder if, in Virginia, she'd be royalty?
I'll google it at home.

I went to type in 'virginia' but accidentally typed 'virginid'
and google asked 'do you mean virginity?'
Maybe I did?
So I read a bit. There were a lot of big
words I hadn't seen before
so I decided to ask mum - she'd know.

"Is Aunt Virginia named after a good memory too, mum?"
Mum was peeling potatoes.
"Mum, what's a virginity? Is it like serenity?"
She dropped the potato she was peeling
"Mum, what happens if you lose your virginity?
Is that what Serena means by 'lose it'?"
Mum's cheeks started going red and
she didn't say anything straight away
My little brother watching TV overheard,
he piped up,
"You go and find it again, silly!"


First May Then All That (Terror Rising)

The Patriot Puppet mesmerizes
the crowd
cries and raises
their star-strangled banner
Freedom sneaks
and Bravery spangles

Taleban flesh pounded
Heady tale, smells like
Pentagonal 9/11 cordite
Events conspired to plan
Benefiting whose insides?

The Prating Puppet proclaims:
"Truth - take it and eat!
It may turn the stomach sour
but it will taste honey-sweet"

Spin into control
Of - by - for the people
but which people?
Those more equal?
An eye for a lie

The Prayer Puppet seeds the march
God bless America
in justice, for taking life
for killing another’s wife

Defeated – but for how long?
Enigmatic enemy
Champion of hide and seek
Found holed up in cave
of luxury

The Print Puppet impresses
leading story, shows
late success
Pressed public weep
with just joy

Magnetic demagogues*
point 'True' North;
but navigating by that compass
leads in fool circles

All the world's a stage
And all the people in it
Merely being played.




*dem·a·gogue/ˈdeməˌgäg/Noun
1. A political leader who seeks support by appealing to popular desires and prejudices rather than by using rational argument.


My Imaginary Friend

When we met you hid
gold rocks for
me, I was Dorothy following
your lion-heart
to the evergreen city
of first times and like/love.

I dreamt about you last
night, as if
the decade between didn't
exist - we were again sixteen.
Even in my dream
I was nervous about saying
the wrong/right thing.

I was sold out on you
I thought, in love. You
an island's length away,
mostly MSN's 2D fantasy - yet real.
Your ghost is a biased truth.

The fact to my fiction is:

Awake, you teeter the corners of reason
Asleep, you invade my dreams
True/False - you loved and
left me well.
Now, I'm captive to an idea/l.

I want to see you,
shatter the perfect picture,
I crave that the fantasies end,
Come, return reveries into reality;
Whatever that may/may not be.

Poetry Portfolio Part 1

So following will be the 10 poems that I've submitted for my poetry portfolio this term just gone, haven't gotten marks back from it, kinda don't want marks back from it - it's all just a bit scary to have that kinda thing strongly critiqued or what have you, but something about this is what I signed up for, so deal. Some of the poems have slightly adult themed content, what can I say, I like the shock factor. For the record, none of these are based on any of my actual experiences, just an overactive imagination.

This part contains Dream Girl, See a Penny, Pick it Up, Fondu

Dream Girl

Tonight it chimed in when she tuned out
Girl Friday, all there, waiting, just for a moment
there was a nanosecond between her and defeat
as she stood there shaking to the beat.

Girl Friday, all there, waiting, for just a moment
she wanted to shine, stop traffic
as she stood there shaking to the beat
her grip on reality was poles apart from his

She wanted to shine, to stop traffic
attention seeks wallflower, notice finally given
her grip on reality was poles apart from this
and she flung herself into her routine, full swing

Attention seeks wallflower, final notice given
high ideals, heels to match
and she flung herself into her routine, full swing
she bent over backwards to please.

High ideals, heels to match
assume the role, get a grip
she bent over backwards to please
herself. She grinned her satisfaction

Assume the role, get a grip
there was a nanosecond between her and defeating
herself. She grinned her satisfaction -
tonight it chimed in when she tuned out.


See A Penny, Pick It Up

She called me back! Opportunity for a life
with style. Interview with the fashion
goddess! The secretary's voice pinballs through my
mind - 'Important', 'must be there', 'can't be late'
It's like the rabbit's important date

Late - 12 minutes to be precise.
Fucking public transport!
Finally, the bus comes -
number 7 - to carry me to this
potential metamorphosis,
idle to fashion idol
Penny v 2.0

My Snapper card out, I rise to the occasion
I shadow the bus stop, foot claps
concrete, wave until I lose a button,
earnest eyes fasten the driver.
He smirks, drives on
until my flailing fingers
turn to one.
I missed the bus,
(just like dad said I would.)

But this isn't over yet.
The driver must make his next stop;
I must make him stop.

Yes! Pedestrians!
A quick sprint down to the paused bus
knuckles rap at the door
I try to pry it open -
this interview is worth a broken nail.

The driver ignores me
So I mimic a pedestrian, sidle out in front
I drop my Snapper which I must pick up
The 'bend and snap' gives
me more than I bargained for.

The top one, two, three buttons ping off
and with more than cleavage in sight
the driver's jaw drops and
behind him, the passengers whistle, cheer.
My face, radiant scarlet, matches the berets

of the officers that fill the bus.
I see the number 7 and
read 'Trentham Military Camp',
a laminated NZ Army logo mocks
from the dash.
One gallant soldier sees me - damsel
undressed - pushes the emergency
button, door opens,
"Where are you headed?"


Fondu

The mottled melting pot
of colour and taste
bubbles invitingly
flame tickles bulbous pot
wanting in on the action
skewers awry, stabbing
fruit specimens into molten
chocolate develops a skin if left
too long. Kiwifruit plunged
beneath into the creamy rich depths
Fondu for two,
Pacific flavour if you please.

Peruvian mangoes
Philippine bananas,
Hawaiian pineapples and a bit
of coconut rough.
Fusion of flavours
from all corners of the globe.
What is a kiwifruit these days?
Previously a chinese gooseberry
now synonymous with Zespri -
holding global hands
or just political handstands?

The settlers have settled
and now when others claim 'kiwi'
feathers get ruffled.
Us 4th, 5th, 6th generation kiwis
know the lay of the land -
we can help you find where
you stand.

Welcome to New Zealand
The oceania melting pot
Here, delectable and delightful
fresh fruit, F.O.B.
Skewer them into the white
chocolate sea,
heated by the gentle flames
of passive aggression
a side-plate of racial tension
sprinkled with tainted tolerance

Technicolour multi-cultural fruit
salad in the making
baked with a few other bits,
it may become a rich paradise, tart.