Last updated July 8, 1997.
Jewel has included some of her poetry in Pieces Of You, Save The Linoleum and You Were Meant For Me.
She also read some at JewelStock.
The following poems are available on this page:
I I have blonde hair I pluck my eyebrows I have my father's nose my mother's hands I have crooked teeth and green eyes I play guitar I used to get sick alot I like the color of wine I've cheated on boyfriends I've owned fake ID But my hair is still blonde and my teeth are still crooked and I probably won't always like the color of wine II I have firm breasts I have lips that always smile I have veins that bleed I laugh when I'm nervous I feel the pain of others but cry for no reason I like open flame I've been selfish since a child I'm from Alaska but hate the cold I've cheated on diets I've faked applications But I still bleed and my lips still smile and my breasts won't always be firm III I have strong shoulders I have olive skin I have a Swiss face I borrowed from my grandmother I have long nails on my right hand which break regularly My little toe is strange I write I used to make wreaths from dandelions I brush my hair before bed I cheated on tests I faked flirtatious French accents But I still have gold skin and my nails still break and I probably won't always have strong shoulders and I may not always write But maybe I'll start making wreaths from dandelions again
(a poem about Faith) I don't know how to do anytthing I am trying to move mountains with words But I am an ant I scribble I drool I move like a worm whose world (words) encompassed a mile How do I rise above? Where will this worm find wings? I look in the mirror and I see filth Who is that? Where did The Angel go? Why is there dirt staring back at me? Why is the soil of incompetence beneath my nails Why does doubt paint blue rings beneath my eyes and stain my skin Why does my spine assume failure Why do my lips flirt with they sky; why do I try to lasso Beauty with such a pitiful rope? Where is the hair of Rapunzel or Samson? Where is my sling Where is my stone, My gun? Where is the weapon with which I may fight this apathy that feels like sleep in my limbs that loosens my brother's smile That kills my neighbor's daughter This pen is scrawny and hardly seems able to ink out or erase this plague that infests my Generation This Giant, This Ogre This Beast, This Death that assumes a million faces, that borrows my own.
Bill, Butch and Bart Swapping penis size in the front seat while Thelma, Theisel and Lou Lou up there bouffant hairdos and secretly go where Blue eyeshadow has never gone before
The savages are upon me and I feel my flesh Burn beneath the teeth of their indifference
I saw a woman whose teeth were straight like White picket fensces Until she looked at her husband- They they looked like Shattered windows
Joy, Pure Joy, I am What I always wanted to grow up and be Things are becoming more of a dream with each waking day- The heavy brows of Daily Life are becoming encrusted with glitter and the shaking finger of consequence is beginning to giggle Grumpy old men have wings Burns sport Halos and everyday dullness has begun to breathe as I remember the incredible lightness of living
There is a pretty girl on the Face of the magazine And all I see is my dirty hands turning the page Little breasts attached to skinny ribs and hungry bellies determined legs persuasive swing careful hands she stands a greater threat to herself than the cigarette she consumes
Women who suck their cigarettes as though they were giving their hatred head
For the sweat of my father and the tough nails that broke his heart for the sun on our backs and the water on our brows the heat on our minds for the silent miles of dirt roads Our eyes busy reading the signs (on the days we took the car) for bad meals turned good by hunger, everything beatiful in the red hot heat of our coal stove for an honest sleep in an old bed in an old house built of hand and log (had nothing been said all day?)
I i miss you my teeth ache my bones are confused they'd grown so close my flesh cries like children i speak to them in hush it's not fair they say bring him back! beg him stay! it's not up to me. i try to explain but mind can't make heart understand it does not whimper its one lashed eye keeps blinking it insists simply with quiet disbelief LOVE IS NOT WITHOUT YOU II I go back today back to where I must move from my toothbrush no longer welcome my clothing canker sores my altar a wound whose bleeding can only stop when there's nothing left to remind him of me (I don't wanna go)
Jewel wrote these poems one night when she could sleep because she was sick from smoking her first cigar.
I added the titles for most of these
God knows what time it is, and I awakened by what? Perhaps a noise unsettled me, or a fitful dream filled with sour grapes and snowstorms. I could have sworn it was all covered in ice, limbs torn at the joints with a heavy and translucent burden. He was on my lips again, haunting me. Soiled linen, bloody and tangled, about my intestines. I want to get out. So I sit, in a sweat, a blonde flame of a refugee throwing up words like gravestones in the bathroom.
This cigar will not leave me and I too lazy to get my book write on random pages to further dizzy and dilute any scrap of discipline I had dreamt I had gained by this silly age of 22. Not even coated in nickel, or copper. Just a harsh brass, that stares me down, in the mirror. On nights like this, while my lover sleeps His razor-sharp princess dissillusioned by falling stars. And hunted by tulips at three am.
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. It's humid couch and sweaty palms. It's fleshy carpets ablaze with conquest. But when conquering is complete, the blood leaves its limbs and it becomes disenchanted. Disappointed even to the point of disgust with its subject, who sits then, like a hollow trunk, emptied of its precious cargo and left to fade like defeated naval ships. A seed relieved of its transparent husk, to dissolve finally on a rough and impatient tongue.
I read a book, and the man thinks I cannot see the wrinkled posture of his son as he is nudged. He thinks I cannot sense four eyes upon my flesh, as the father tries to bond with his teenage boy by ogling my breasts.
I guess what I wanted was to hear you'd stay with me always. I guess what I wanted was to see those hands vowing never to leave my own. I guess what I wanted to know was I am not loving in vain.
There she sat, a mound of flesh with just two eyes to comprehend the extensiveness of her being. She made a mountain of herself, so no one could look down. So no one would miss or fail to see the tiny woman hands that talked desperately of delicate things. Through a fist full of rings to all who would stop and listen.
Burn her eyes, without hope of understanding them. Kiss her mouth, that you may fathom its strange tongue. Indulge in her brown skin because it reminds you of mother. Rape her mind, because it is not your own, but so sweet, so familiar. Like coming home to a native land your pale and inbred hands can only faintly fathom.
Lost is a puzzle of stars that breathes like water and chews like stone. Alone is a reminder of how far your acceptance is from your understanding. Fear is a bird that believes itself into extinction. Desperation: the honest recognition of a false truth. Hope: seeing who you really are at your highest is who you will become. Grace: the refinement of a soul through time.
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 I approach my days and my work with vaporous consequence a touch that is translucent, but can violate stone.
As a child I walked with noisy fingers along the hemline of so many meadows of back home. Green fabric stretched out, shy earth, shock of sky. I'd sit on logs like pulpets, listen to the sermon of sparrows and find god in simplicity there amongst the dandelion and thorn. Now I frequent hotel lobbies, like a chain smoker having a bad day. A nasty habit that breathes itself. Delivering each day to the needy next. Each with the promise of glitter and glory. But how my tiny heart aches to return. Like a daisy rooted in rot and rubbish asked to grow in strange rooms. Fed neon and cold pizza. I fear I may wither with forgetfullness. So I pull these pages close about my ears Tiny, leafy limbs pale with impression. My pen a single flame to keep me warm like a beacon holding memory. Until I am able to go back to my lovely mountains, or until I am strong enough to bring their essence to the rest of these hungry people who long to remember the simplicity which lies beyond the cities inbred streets and the godliness which resides in us all.