The hounds of fear nip at winter heels,
whelping doubt and baying at the moon.
Cocoon prayers whispered across the fields
of becoming; this dark of the light is
contextually contrasted.  i am little and
young against the ages, something loose
and rattling in the box of reality and
afraid, fleeing the dogs of war.
i write post-it note prophecies and  
crumple them,  building a nest in
the trees, a mother's womb nearer the sky,
for when the sun comes it comes
first to the birds on high.

Something prehistoric does arise
approaching Mother Gator's birthing mound.
Reptilian brain, primordial pair of eyes
see naught but food or danger looking 'round
at local parents, tourists, kids, and I
as we stare back in awe.  We hear the sound
of striped-back alligator babies' cries,
seeking out the warmth of higher ground.

We move to see them better. Her cold stare
and shift in murky water lets us know
that not by grace of boardwalk are we there,
but her ancestral patience.  As I go,
I turn once more to see her lying where
she has been since a million years ago.

In Battalion,
Misery is served in a thousand ways.

Misery is served in buckets of rain
and hours of wind.
Unyielding, soul-******* cold and wet.
Porous jungle boots that invite the frigid water in and soften your feet for a relentless 30 mile march.

Misery is served in a stifling aircraft flying Nap of the Earth.
A nauseating rollercoaster ride that never fails to elicit
chain reaction vomiting from the paratroopers rigged to jump.

Misery is served at pool PT
When your arms and legs feel like lead
and drowning is a better alternative
than the aquatic torture that you’re enduring.

Misery is served during blistering Company runs
led by the Commander
who was a college decathlete.
Runs where the strongest of us
pulled aside, emptied our stomachs,
and rejoined the formation.

Misery is served by no warning alerts
separating families and lovers
for indefinite periods,
sometimes forever.

Misery is served by the Spec 4 Mafia
Unleashing Hell on new Rangers
testing their threshold for ****.

Misery is served by road marches, prickly heat,
Black Palm, and sawgrass. It’s served by desert heat,
Arctic cold, and the stench of the world’s worst places.

Misery is served by the loss of brothers in war and training,
gone too soon to join the Great Ranger in the Sky.

Through it all, misery hardened my body and strengthened my soul.
It made me a warrior and ushered me into a Brotherhood that will be with me until we all sit at the great table in Valhalla.

So on this Veteran’s Day
Embrace the ****
Endure the pain
Invite the Misery
For that’s what makes us
Men amongst Men

Rangers Lead The Way.

It was at the cottage, by the marsh,
Where the husband slipped through the threshold.
The Bass boots left marks of silt and clay on the worn wooden floor.
He dropped the shovel on the floor as well.
And globs of mud, sawgrass and marsh water seeped in the cracks, forever to stay there,
As a silent reminder.
He sat down at the dinner table, a table for two,
With only one chair.
The coo-coo clock chimed above his head,
It was dinner time, where was dinner?
His thick gruff hands made fists and smashed the table top,
Breaking the maple top in two, which now made it a table for one.
He just needs sleep, his temper was getting to him.
As the husband climb up the stairs to the spacious bed,
And laid his head upon the pillow, he fell asleep.
But if you follow the muddy tracks down the stairs, through the kitchen, out the door, into the rain,
to the marsh, you will see a pile of mud that looks misplaced.
The sludge will begin to shift and slide away to reveal a hauntingly beautiful women.
She will rise, and walk through the marsh, in the rain, to the door, through the kitchen and up the stairs to see her husband in a fitful sleep.
And as any good wife would do,
She'll kiss him and lay next to him to ease whatever could be on his mind at this hour.

Bone-white moon.
Lacrimosa caught
in the mechanisms.
Can you see me?

Of course not.
I blend in
with the sawgrass
and the catacombs.
With beach glass
and stones the color
of rust. I am a

microcosm.
Can you hear me?
My tragedy is in
the way I keep quiet.
Silence like ashes.
I am ethereal now.

This is my requiem.
Send my regards
to Mykonos.
Burn the screaming harp.
I am subterranean now.
Someday it will all turn
to gold.

There are colors yet unknown in my finite view of Earth , artistic wonders undiscovered , to this day quite alone .. Geometric shapes where Sweetgum trees silhouette the majestic Dawn .. Enchantment with every turn go I , to study my religion by day , collect my thoughts and observations by night .. To interplay among life undiscovered  , to revel someday in its happenstance ... The weathered profiles of a million botanicals unknown or forgotten . An ocean whose riddles remain unsolved , seventy percent of our precious world where exploration has barely scratched the surface .. Dark , rainy afternoons reconfigured with burst of light , the surface of oceans ever mysterious , highlighted by the Moon on hazy nights .. I flew over Moccasin Creek to sample fresh water and take in mountain greenery ..Walked the treetops of the Oconee Forest to witness the floor of the woodlands as a squirrel , crow or eagle ..Slithered along the Georgia clay like a Black Racer , cautiously studied each image before me with the curiosity of a Red fox .. Enthralled with the Savannah Dancers of Tybee Island , precious gulls , blue ***** and brown pelicans .. Welcome every change of season , Dark pine thickets tell of death and renewal ...

                                                          II­
Jagged , blue grass approaches , green straw tops , quiet
cinnamon needle oceans connected by silver streak spider webbing ..
Warm winds divide earthen cover , lifeless termite ridden forefathers lay in testament to bitter destruction ... Our Noon star nourishes bold , sylvan seedlings , beneath her languishing February predicament however ... Grassy field roads lay locked in period of service , daylight path corrections , marble land buoy sentries within thistle , dandelion and Sawgrass .. Gold , knee high cover caresses , reaching skyward beside the field road , lying forgotten , left to the mercy of kudzu , marble and granite .. Scrags reclaim rusted encroachments , tin in battle with the tepid wail of afternoon wind as stick pines mimic the Appalachians , gently roll toward the awaiting lavender blue horizon ... As pasture returns to woodlands , blanketed in hues of brown with forest echoes , carry whispered voices into tomorrow ... Lively crows live to tell their wintry tale , resting among scuttled pulp wood entanglements , to be born again , covered in the pity of lingering broom sage ...                                                              ­                                                  

                                                        III    ­                                                                 ­Across the edge of twilight where soft lavender hues lay at
rest atop her riparian horizon .. Dandelion blooms pepper the
red clay embankments , lone bucks survey brown fields of harvested
corn ..Mourning doves cry for the end of day , wild hogs lay tracks at the rivers edge . Toms sing of their loneliness  , persimmons lay bitter along country lanes , the meat of Chestnut not harvested , the final years of tall , stately Pecans go shamefully unnoticed .. Barbed wire divisions etch Winter burned pasture , Morgans and Appaloosas graze the fertile , ambrosial green narrows .. Manmade pools dot the Crescent lady , cattle ditches appear along creeks and rivers holding Rock bass , Shell ******* , Yellowbellies and Bluegills ferociously hunting the waters surface , Alligator Snappers and Mudcats work the turbulent bottoms ... Hayfields , peach and muscadine arbors flourish , boiled peanuts and sorghum syrup , collards and sweet potatoes ...Blackberry , grape , watermelon and okra ..Water oaks have taken command of the front yard ,  moss and honeysuckle line fence rows , flowing patches of wild grass and snake berry , rocks from Cotton Indian Creeks line hand built flower beds and walkways .. Rhode Island Reds , Buff Orpington's and White Leghorns work these plantations . Sassafras and dewberry , wild plum and rabbit tobaccos . Gardenia , Crape Myrtle , Magnolia , Pine and Chestnut trees  flourish to this day .. The Old Bridge behind Millers Mill still visible , what stories this elder pass could tell before the confluence of the Indian Creeks .. Crayfish , Bream , Largemouth bass , Crappie , Yellow perch and Flathead catfish ! The tale of the Crescent lady lives forever and ever ..

I returned from three days of golf
At Lake Orion, with a philosophical man.
A PhD talked the ear off me,
And spoke so deeply on the meanings
Of life as we approached the green.
Across the fence in a sawgrass meadow
I saw a doe grazing in spite of us.
I don't remember much of his diatribe
But the ball and the doe stuck.

He continued on the fallacy of memory,
Asking me to name the cities of the Olympics:
Mexico, Rome, Beijing, Montreal,
I think I was able to name them all;
But the ****** pup swimming
Beneath the walkway
Dragging a branch underwater
Cleared the air,
Like a thump on my chest,
Took my breath away,
And stopped my ear.

Harvest Moon effigy , ivory in subtle contrast to pearls tranquility along windswept confident shorelines , tousled charcoal locks wrapped in silken bonds , violet attire that relays the waters reflection from a million stars ..
Sable Palm within the kindred of Oat and Sawgrass , warm Gulf
nightfall , diamond waves explore the pier , where lovers embrace ,
where romance directs the eve .. Amber lit vessels grace her southern horizon , Mexican breezes brush raven hair beneath the canopy of night ..
Breakers tinge the ocean West , ebony Aphrodite features are
aglow tonight . Unwavering and forever recalled ..

It took fog to realize
There is no use in growing
Things that grow will always be cut down
Dew on the grass, peppered by spider webs
Hills full of red angry fire ants

It took fog to remember
That I could always go back home
That I could skip the canal
And pick an orange straight from the tree
Peeling it with a rusted pocket knife
Would you sit in the grass with me?
The stick of the juice between your fingers

It took fog to show me
That I can still walk down the rows of sugar cane
After playing hide and seek
That I can still **** snakes
And get cut by the sawgrass

It took fog to remind me
That the mangroves were
Full of mosquitoes and fish
And the yellow sun
Was only a round disk
Through the fog

I returned to the place
where I use to escape
from the pedestrian affairs
of life in suburbia.

Many nights spent
collapsed on the pavement
swapping humdrum stories
of teenage angst.

It was the end of a road
just north of town
with nothing but swampland
in two directions.

Far enough away
from the sprawl of the city
to understand quiet
without getting lost.

An abundance of stars
made us feel insignificant
and the freedom of isolation
gave us confidence and strength.

It was balanced and beautiful
like we were, back then,
just the right amount
of elation and confusion.

So then it was silly, I guess
for me to expect
that a place like that
would still be the same.

It's a strip mall now,
sleek and amalgamated
and the unkempt sawgrass
replaced with pigmented mulch.

Deep in nature the boardwalk turns
Through maple swamps and giant ferns
So many creatures there are to see
amazing for photography!

Along the canal odd sounds are heard
A frog, a gator, or native bird
A snake may slither atop the moss
A turtle may make its way across.

Under the bridges a limpkin may call
The Heron, ibis, or dragonfly small
All hunting and fishing together for food,
Observing, put’s one in a joyful mood.

Adventuring deeper onto the sandy trail
You may see armadillo, lizard or apple snail.
Small creatures energetically on their way
Even a fox or panther may be seen at play.

By chance or careful eyesight, you may detect
The wondrous habitat of a tiny insect.
Eagle, osprey, hawk, even a kite
May make a magical overhead flight.

The colorful flower garden can light up your eye
When it lures the fluttering butterfly.
All creatures have their own distinct power!
And you must view sawgrass lake from the tower.

her presence crescendoed
a wind strumming sawgrass.

rustling into symphony
a hot summer melody.

velvet stains, sawgrass breath of junebugs over again

Waiting for the ransom of daybreak
For Oak boughs in care of Wisterias child ,
for warm ploughland breath seeking the chilled morning address ,
Sunbeams held in gray cover , windmere hillsides
in earthly redress
Lorn , incognito Cottonwoods hosting the Mourning Dove
rituals , Sapphire flowers mingle in wetted Thistle ,
Crescendo showers telltale an oxbow brook with
clear quartz reflections , bathing the Sawgrass banks
Crimson , Nutmeg , Sassafras scent surprise , Wild onion teasing
the Dawn palate , dark earth fragrance in colorful green disguise
Gravel road , broom sage borders beneath Hickory canopies ,
leading to home

Flavors of blackberry ,
of muscadine and persimmon ,
of brine collecting at the trunk of
tall oaks
Flesh salted in wild abandon
Lovers feasting upon air ,
upon one another along the
marsh , the shrieks of conclusion
borne of March
Naked receiver , child of April
Call o'er cattail , sawgrass and -
Savannah dancer* ..

Where is the soldier
who floundered in his backyard?

Amidst the windswept sawgrass,
(Which, by the way,
Cut so hard against his skin)
He felt the sensitivity of his own lost soul,
So on the surface,
that it was hurt by its own feeling.

He, who dipped and swayed,
And felt angry, perverted, and *****,
lonely, now,
He lets his mind wander,
When he's never done that before.

Now he is away,
Careening through space, time,
and *****.

Peicing together destruction,
and how much humanity and evil,
Well up from us
as a reaction to death,
How so frail we are,
How ***** releases a man.

Where the horizon finally finds itself, he has been lifted,
Too heaven,
Among God and Gods and monkeys
and clouds.

Too where gunsmoke rises eternally,
With the heartbeat of man,
A slow, hollow drumming,
emptiest,
The emptiest.

In the brotherhood of the melting sunset,
Where molten horizon simmers overtop the edges of the pines,
And the whole world is finally pure chaos,
sadness and beauty.

He reaches the bottom of his dreams,
and still wandering,
Goes back into the house,
To ******* so much and hard that it hurts,
To sleep.

Hysterical Robins coerce the midday sunshine ,
What bedevilment and gaiety fosters in Springtime
Teeming kingdoms under leaf cover , mistletoe , Angel hair ,
powder filled breaths of mystical warm air ..
Mischievous Pucks running amuck , locking eyes with
a Centaur 'neath the tall Pine , a shy Sprite up high , blowing good wishes unto you and I ... A whimsical Raccoon giving a good belly laugh , a tickled turtle cat-napping in the sawgrass ..Old Mister Maple telling tall tales of Lemonade oceans , powdered sugar beaches and Gingerbread whales  .

Sawgrass roots in sand.
It moves like
the waves on
the sea

ii
Blue/grey and silver crystals
adorn the waves
They move like the dancers
in the harem
of Neptune.

iii
Winking at us
as we sit on the verge
of swaying grass
at high tide. The chill of autumn.

iv
The voice of blowing sand
singing low and of sylph sirens.

The waves clap.


SoulSurvivor
aka Write of Passage
aka Invisible inc

Catherine Ĵarvis

I ride upon an eagles back,
feathers whooshing in the wind,
diving toward the mirrored lake,
Yellow talons extended for fish.

Diving deep into the ocean,
down into the abyssal trench,
searching for Architeuthis,
I swim with the blue whale,

From limb to limb swinging,
under emerald green canopy,
my Gibbon host stops for juicy fruit,
rain forest views Tarzan style.

We lie in wait just eyes showing,
among the sawgrass we hide,
Everglades water warmed but the sun,
alligator senses tuned to a deer.

Gliding through the desert sand,
one s curve after another,
following a viper pheremone trails,
suddenly tied in knots as we mate.

White fur on white snow we can not be seen,
large strides and large feet, only tracks left,
Himalayan winds whip climbers hi viz jackets,
we watch, and walk by, a movement on peripheral vision.

Gasping, I awaken in a pool of sweat,
tent fly slowly ***** in the breeze,
red glowing embers smoke nearby,
I go back to sleep.

My mind is a swamp.
Sometimes there is daylight. The Sun illuminates the murky green water. The color glows like a neon ember. An almost steam lifts off the bog, as if the water is ablaze. You may see all of nature then and admire each blade of sawgrass.
And then there are nights. Moonlight bathing insects who scream far in the distance but seemingly all around you. Some tiny being you can’t see plunges into the water with a plop.
The eyes of a crocodile peaks above the waterline. Is it looking at you? Fear, you can’t tell. The pungent smells are animalistic. You don’t belong here.
Or do you? Only another native of the swampland could stay here.
You wade into the dark waters. Unsure how deep it goes. What creatures slither beneath.
To see if you’ll float among the cattails. Lily pads cover your face and moss decorates your body. You’ll float here forever.
Or sink, to lie at the bottom in permanence. A mummified vessel where algae and minnows call home.

Did he like beer
After a day
Under coconuts
Making shots
With his dreams
Of Africa
Or
How he made
Cigars
With whiskers
Growing
Like blades
In sawgrass
Rising in heat
The puffs
Erupted
It's alive
The rebels retreat!
Holly John F Kennedy
What a roast
Tell the Russians
Let the world
Speculate
Who the hell cares
Lifes a forgotten
Time.
We can't afford to smile.

In the deep, dank, dark expanse,
stinging scorpions and crawling ants,
empty-eyed skulls stare
into swampy phosphorescent gasses.

Creatures with slumped shoulders
and heads hung low,
mumble quietly,
covered in oozing blue-green algae.

The moon glow shadows
show us unwanted images,
movie projected on the ever present
wind blown, glowing mist rising.

A lonesome howl in the near distance,
like a warning siren as the tornado approaches,
bring heads up, and sets the scene in chaos,
anguish, and terror, palpable and tasting.

Alligators with golden eyes glide
through frothy waters,
waiting on the edges,
in the sawgrass, in ambush mode.

The rest of us simply disappear,
burrowing into the muddy ground,
to anticipate safer junctures,
and the light of the new sun.
(If it ever comes.)

Beyond the glaze of headlights
On rain-slick onyx streets
Beyond skyscraper canyons
Where auburn smog's discrete
As it blends with the raindrops
The dirt & clouds there meet
Beyond the filthy City
There is a place so sweet.

Beyond rose scented Gardens
Filled with honey'd dew
Beyond the Cypress Colonnades
Where the Italians woo
Beyond the sugar beachpaths
Where the Sawgrass grew
look up where the Moon is
You will know it's true.

Beyond the small town quaintness
Mornings in the Sun
Where people still get to know you
You can greet everyone
Beyond delicious Bakery smells
Of bread and hot cross buns

Beyond the crime filled crucible
Where it's understood
You only live to 25
IF your luck is good
Beyond the rat **** jungle
Where evil is afoot
Beyond the teeming tenements
The place that's called The 'Hood

Beyond the farms and wheatfields
The ranches to the West
Beyond the Red Rock gullies
Where are you can, your soul, divest
Beyond the Eagles Echo cries
Beyond the doves white breast
There is a place for you to go
As time will attest

A place above the billows
Above the speckled sky
Shivering with sequins
A place so very high
Where space and time lose meaning
And matter is a sigh
Won't you travel with me?
Must you always question why?
A place where you are lost & found
Beyond the nebulae

Here on Earth we stumble
This weighted world to plod
It seems we've leaden sandals
As we go roughshod
We look to our leaders
And others to applaud
I find it very humorous
Yes, so very odd
That we should look up always

At everything but God.

Catherine Jarvis
7/8/2020

https://www.facebook.com/100004866559141/posts/1473874339451437/

My ashes blew away long ago
On autumn winds bound south by southeast
Back home to the sawgrass swaying
Marsh hen awkwardly ascending
Now I rest in the old mans beard,
and the branch it calls home with
The wings of the morning dove
The bullfrog burps me after a meal
The sandgnats love my zesty spice
I see all this from above as a speck
On the *** of a giant albatross

Nettles on your legs,
sawgrass in you speaks,
can't you see
for all your weeding,
your garden overgrows?