If I was a tree.
Which stood tall.
A monument to life.
Strong, gentle, and kind.
Wind would gently kiss my leaves.
I would be a prison.
A desolate grove of death.
Roots drunk with toxicity.
Trunk twisted, etched in profanity.
Just barren branches of thorns.
There is no tomorrow where
there is no yesterday.
We all came from somewhere
and we're all going away.
Forever is a long time
that encompasses the past
Forever keeps on going,
no matter what won't last.
How can you hate the rainfall
yet love what it may grow,
or hide out from the light
in spite of what that light may show.
The future holds more of the same,
don't even play pretend-
joy and pain walk hand in hand
only the dead have seen the end.
We all come from somewhere,
every acorn has its tree.
The past may not be pretty,
but it's part of who we be.
The story Clinton Jarvis - my father.
Isle La Motte Roots
There's a place of quiet peace
In beautiful Vermont
It is filled with history
It beckons you, and haunts
In pacific Lake Champlain
It's called Isle La Motte
The lake is long and narrow
A lovely gem-like blue
The Island lies within its shores
It is a jewel, too.
Emerald in the summer
In fall a topaz hue
Old style houses charm us
With plain stone quarry frames
There are many maple trees
In fall these become flame
Churches with tall steeples
All barns look much the same.
From Blanchard's Point to The Head
North to south we go
Clark's & Reynolds to Fisk & Scott's
These east/west points we know
From The Lighthouse & Fort Stann
To the marble quarries low.
It seems the rock on Isle La Motte
Was formed from glacial ice
Which pressed the clay beneath it
As if it were a vice
The marble from the quarries
Is especially nice!
Samuel Fisk founded some of these
Marble blue, black, and grey
Many used the sturdy stones
Solid houses in the way
They can be found everywhere
And still stand to this day.
There was an ingenious sawmill
Powered by a boat!
A large and hearty steamer
By The Dock would float
The "Utica" by name
As sawmill founders wrote.
The taverns and inns
Had distinctive place
It would be so heartening
To see a merry face
There the weary travellers
Could find warmth and grace.
Famous for its apples
There are many orchards found
John Bowman & William Yale
Planted in the ground
My father was one who picked from them
Folks came from miles around.
The Fleury Store had merchandise
Sold to people from their stock
Carson's Store and Naylor's
Store to store the folks would walk
Often a place of meeting
Where people stood to talk.
Elizabeth Fisk. Creative.
She had looms, and linen wrought
This fabric so very fine
Much of it was bought
There were also boats and ferries
On an island... used a lot!
Nelson Fisk secured the Post Office
James Ritchie built in stone
His relation, Cynthia
Maintained the library alone
Succeeded by M. LaBombard
For faithfulness much known.
Both Methodist and Catholic
Worship the Divine
The faithful go to churches
No matter what the clime
A place of fame on Isle La Motte
Is lovely St Anne's Shrine.
The original schools on Isle La Motte
We're founded by strong men
Created they back then.
Back in 1782 they had discerning ken.
The school my father went to
Only had one room.
He graduated the 8th grade
For his future groomed
But went to High School elsewhere
Back then quite a boon!
The Jarvis' were tennent farmers
Not much to be made
But the beauty of the place
Embraced them in its shade
T'was in this environment
Where young Clinton played.
Amongst the leaves - jade and fire
Honey'd amber caught
He found a love of nature
He was reared and taught
Here his story started
A place called Isle La Motte.
amount of research done. As you can see!
Sorry i haven't been around. This poem is
part of the reason why!
I'm going to present this to my now
hospitalised father this weekend. It will
be written out on posters in large writing
so he can read it... he's completely deaf and
going blind. It will bring back many fond
memories to him I'm sure! He certainly
deserves happiness about now!
PLEASE PRAY OR SEND GOOD THOUGHTS!
♡ LOVE YOU ALL! ♡
I'll plant a kiss in your lips,
So that a smile will grow in it,
Then its roots will reach into your heart and soul,
And that love will be its fruit.
© Earl Jane
OMG. Lol. I didn't realize this became the daily poem ON MY BIRTHDAY. Hahaha.. Lots stuff are happening today and I am really happy. Thank you everyone
She was the manifestation of underground roots,
Those seldom seen from which such gift can be given, bronze skin.
Her hair symbolized what I felt as our eyes connected.
Her voice lifted my spirit higher than it's ever been.
Without anything to return, How do I reciprocate such a gift.
A thank you would hardly do justice.
Where has this been all of my life, her- using my hands as a vase to convene.
Hearing her voice blossom from the bud of where I stood.
A question that went in silence.
For the light that shines bright inside her blocks out that of the sun.
A space free to fill with what you please.
These are the words I pictured her telling me.
Over and over again until I was full enough to be tilted over and water her just
as shes watered me.
The root that no one remembers to water
I lived at home so long
And then one move away
Makes home feel wrong
My new place I want to stay
Away from my old problems
I don't want to go back
A new experience blossoms
I finally feel on track
This new life feels better
Home isn't home anymore
The sun shines brighter
Allowing me to explore
Despite forgetting my roots
I am someone I want to be
Eating from life's fruits
To experience life fully
She lived and breathed in shades of green,
her garden flourished under the care of
her gentle hands: kneading soil into ceramic pot
after ceramic pot, bringing a new life to
each one, but each
droplet of nourishment dispensed to
them was one starved from her and
every one of her little green friends had
taken a part of her away from
herself more and more until she
let herself go and decomposed into her
bedroom floor, nothing more than just a
pile of skin pulled across bones that
were so badly aching to kiss
the earth six feet beneath everyone's
The future awaits me
I can't wait for it
Success for all to see
But then I trip
Looking at a mountain
The peaks I was counting
On the ground I lay
The dirt I breath in
In a state of decay
Pondering my sin
Molehills I didn't inspect
At my feet I neglect
Living in the future
Causes death in the present
Our intentions pure
Still we have our descent
For the roots we forget
For dreams we don't have yet
If you focus on the mountains ahead of you too much, you'll trip over the molehills at your feet. Don't forget your roots and to live in the present otherwise the future is meaningless.
I look at that Golden-Mountain
And I am reminded to know
That my Roots lie within this Land,
But who's Tongue I don't understand,
A couple of words, here and there,
Just by trying hard to compare
With the tongue I do speak right now,
Yet who's unknown to these People.
From riding Horses and Hunting
In the wide Meadows of Turan,
To Protecting and Reciting
Words of the Majestic Qur'an,
I've, Altai, become a stranger
To your Mountains, to your Rivers,
To your Music, to your Verses
And more that lies within your Hills.
By Arcassin Burnham
The waterfall turns bright green when enlightened
By a single tear that whisp away in the ambience of what
The future could bring, but don't go chasing it,
When you walk you feel the spirits crumble beneath your feet
And dissolve into dust , you were never good with trust ,
Plus you're antisocial , I am too so thats a plus,
As well as, your fascination with roots,
To ground they lie, plants never tell the truth , doing good
For peoples stomachs and tummys laying down cognition,
In this position, cris cross , Apple sauce,
The taste is so familiar just be glad it's not exhaust,
Winds blow clean Through these trees,
Are you gonna say anything else? Or have said enough?