Teeth, and gums
A beat
Drums
Biting,
Tearing of flesh
Pain,
With "LOVE"
Ameshed,
Bleeding hearts
Pieces,
And parts

I once used words to build a girl wings,
Made her an angel who flew on false strings,
I wrote her endless passages of heartfelt emotion,
as I sat and stared out at the endless blue ocean.

But now I feel to much, to find the prose,
to compare your beauty, to that of a rose,
for it's incomparable, to all else I see,
but know that you, are beauty to me.

So though I don't write like I once did of her,
know that it's you, that I prefer.
For the right words don't exist, to say I love you,
but I assure you that, I truly do

Dream
Is
The
Key to open the  door of unexpected joys

We all are lonely
It is shame
We have been known to each other
For every word we write
Every thought we think
Even middle of same species
We are crying
For being alone
It is shame
Being alone
Lonely trees
In the jungle
Such a shame
Lame trees

I know I'm crazy..
Cuz, so said the doc
I'm sure, I'm crazy.
I love you and here's my ****.
But first, the daisies.
They're, I am, only for thee.

Said I was sweet
But no way in hell.
Slammed the door
What was I thinking?
Why'd I ring the bell?

Oh, the heartache, the agony.
Stupid, stupid, stupid Billy..

What'd I do? Can't go on living..
Think! For once... For once.
Razors! Yes!! Get 'em. Cut 'em.
Wrists lay limp and bleeding.

I tried to fly, far far away..
Landed where the cuckoos lay..

We sit in a circle. We're expected to talk.
Nurse in tight uniform, can't help but gawk.

Billy? Start the discussion, today?
N-no Mam. Got n- nothing to say.
Day after day after day after day.

In comes, the crook Murphy.
Nurse Ratched hates him..
Born a miscarriage, he liked to say.
Been away, said he, for a long time.
Girl he ******* was 15, going on 35.

Stole our cigarettes, turned the music down.
There's a game tonight, n I'm going to town.
Course, he didn't.. Fountain's too heavy.
Least I tried.. Did that much, I tried, didn't I?

They all hated him.
Envied him, but wouldn't say.
See, they'd all volunteered.
While Murphy, he really was crazy.

He became my mentor and i his protégé..
I laughed. I played. Had fun. I gambled.
I even stood up to Nurse Ratched.
That was the first time. **** it felt good.

Murphy knew. And told me too..
I wasn't crazy, don't need to stay
I didn't need doctors, nor lil pill gray.
I needed, a warm body, to make love to..

But how? And Nurse Ratched?
Why bother her? Why tell her?
She'll call a friend.. She'll call my mother..
She won't get it, Murph. She never does.
Billy, my boy, has she ever, the Big Nurse?

My friend was leaving. Party ensues in the cuckoo's nest.
Drinks, music, pretty ladies.. Crazies were in wild wild west.
Murphy whispers, she laughs. Heads my way, takes my hand.
I look back. Thank him silently. Craziest, kindest soul in all the land.

I wake up naked.. I'd made love. It was a new day.
Nurse Ratched looks at me. Like embers, her eyes were lit.
Aren't you ashamed, Billy? I was happy.. No, I say.
She says she's worried, how my mother would take it..

Emotions hit me from all directions.
Fear, guilt, shame all at once....
I beg her, Please don't call my mom
Have mercy please, won't you, Big Nurse?

All these days, I thought I was crazy..
In comes Murphy, makes me happy..
I wasn't crazy. I needed love, I was hungry.
Murph, was going out. He was a free bird.
He saw the whole thing. He didn't. Heard me cry.

It was kind of him to try on my behalf.
He's just a kid, he said, to all the staff..
But, I knew no one would cut me some slack.
Ratched wouldn't budge n I'd face the flack..

I'd had enough of this ****...
This life, this ****** pursuit.
I ain't crazy. Cuz Murphy said so, goddamit.
I lived, blissful, ecstatic. For just one night..
Wasn't that enough? Wasn't it alright?

I cut my wrists again, deeper this time..
No more drama, no pantomime..
I lived n I loved. Tis time for me to die.
I'm not crazy.. Not crazy. Or am I....??

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
Independent. Intelligent.
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.


SoulSurvivor
Catherine Jarvis
(C)1/11/2017