The flower in the glass peanut bottle formerly in the
      kitchen crooked to take a place in the light,
the closet door opened, because I used it before, it
      kindly stayed open waiting for me, its owner.

I began to feel my misery in pallet on floor, listening
      to music, my misery, that's why I want to sing.
The room closed down on me, I expected the presence
      of the Creator, I saw my gray painted walls and
      ceiling, they contained my room, they contained
      me
as the sky contained my garden,
I opened my door

       The rambler vine climbed up the cottage post,
the leaves in the night still where the day had placed
them, the animal heads of the flowers where they had
arisen
           to think at the sun

      Can I bring back the words? Will thought of
transcription haze my mental open eye?
      The kindly search for growth, the gracious de-
sire to exist of the flowers, my near ecstasy at existing
among them
      The privilege to witness my existence-you too
must seek the sun...

      My books piled up before me for my use
      waiting in space where I placed them, they
haven't disappeared, time's left its remnants and qual-
ities for me to use--my words piled up, my texts, my
manuscripts, my loves.
      I had a moment of clarity, saw the feeling in
the heart of things, walked out to the garden crying.
      Saw the red blossoms in the night light, sun's
gone, they had all grown, in a moment, and were wait-
ing stopped in time for the day sun to come and give
them...
      Flowers which as in a dream at sunset I watered
faithfully not knowing how much I loved them.
      I am so lonely in my glory--except they too out
there--I looked up--those red bush blossoms beckon-
ing and peering in the window waiting in the blind love,
their leaves too have hope and are upturned top flat
to the sky to receive--all creation open to receive--the
flat earth itself.

      The music descends, as does the tall bending
stalk of the heavy blssom, because it has to, to stay
alive, to continue to the last drop of joy.
      The world knows the love that's in its breast as
in the flower, the suffering lonely world.
      The Father is merciful.

      The light socket is crudely attached to the ceil-
ing, after the house was built, to receive a plug which
sticks in it alright, and serves my phonograph now...

      The closet door is open for me, where I left it,
since I left it open, it has graciously stayed open.
      The kitchen has no door, the hole there will
admit me should I wish to enter the kitchen.
      I remember when I first got laid, H.P. gra-
ciously took my cherry, I sat on the docks of Prov-
incetown, age 23, joyful, elevated in hope with the
Father, the door to the womb wasopen to admit me
if I wished to enter.

      There are unused electricity plugs all over my
house if I ever needed them.
      The kitchen window is open, to admit air...
      The telephone--sad to relate--sits on the
floor--I haven't had the money to get it connected--

      I want people to bow when they see me and say
he is gifted with poetry, he has seen the presence of
the Creator
      And the Creator gave me a shot of his presence
to gratify my wish, so as not to cheat me of my yearning
for him.

                                   Berkeley, September 8, 1955

I want to first thank all my
supporters and readership.
I will read as soon as
I have the time and I can
give your work the attention it deserves.

I've been overwhelmed.
I have to make my presents this
Christmas. But I found out I'm in
excellent company...

FROM APPALACHIA WITH LOVE

Gra'ma Annie had a mission
to help children in need
she lives up in the hills
where they grow their food from seed.

They have no running water
no facilities indoors
still heat and cook with wood
don't buy much from stores
there are folk so destitute
they still have dirt floors.

Li'l Annie was a scrapper
90 pounds if soaking wet.
But her heart is just enormous
as big as one can get!

She found out 'bout a drive
for children overseas
in Africa and Asia
Haiti and the Belize

How the people in those countries
had no presents for to give
their children at Christmas
they could barely live!

She contacted the charity
and said she'd send some toys
as many as possible
to the poor girls and boys.

Annie had no phone
so she walked far and wide
and asked all the hillfolk
throughout the countryside
to whittle and to paint
toys in which to pride!

Those people got together
and carved ponies and dolls
that had joints that moved
and real hair that falls!

They whittled and sanded
painted with rainbow hues
and when they had delivered them
it made world news!

The children overseas
who got them still recall
they kept their homemade presents...

THEIR FAVORITES OF ALL!


MY FATHER "NEVER HAD A CHRISTMAS"*

My father was a child
in a place called Isle la Monte
winter's are quite brutal
in that part of Vermont.

His family were farmers
they lived off the land
they had gardens and stored their food
they worked hard with their hands

They had to really struggle
to make the frayed ends meet
dad walked 14 miles total
through the snow and sleet
to get to his schoolhouse
sometimes with frozen feet

Every year at Christmas time
his mom would be in tears
she would never say much
but stated that she feared

there would be no Christmas
no presents and no tree
it was always the same.
Grandpa would agree.
So the children went to bed
every Christmas eve.

But they weren't sad
because they always knew
that Santa was coming
and so they weren't blue.

Sure 'nuf in the morning
they'd tumble out of bed
and in the once-bare corner
there was a *tree instead!

There were many presents
most carved and painted things
grandma got the practical stuff
no perfume or rings.

But the Christmas meal was cooking
and all through the home
the smell... that sumptuous dinner...

well. That's another poem...!

But before the feast was eaten
grandfather said Grace
and thanked the blessed Lord
and ALWAYS SOUGHT HIS FACE.


SoulSurvivor
Catherine Jarvis
(C) 12/23/2015


MERRY CHRISTMAS HOLIDAY!!!

I still have presents to make...
see you SOON!


~~~<☆>~~~

folks  
this is the last song of the evening  
time for one last round  
so pick 'em up and  
slam 'em down...  

couples headin'  
to the dance hall floor  
some lonesome doves  
walkin' out the door  
take a look around  
into the lonely fa-ces  
broken hearts  
yearnin' for tender gra-ces  

see the hopeful eyes  
lookin' back at you  
you've seen each other  
from across the room  
if you act now  
you wont be turned awa-y  
another day  
might be too la-te  
  
oh i know  
life ain't been kind  
we've got - wounded hearts  
but there's still time  
so - here's a chance  
ya never know  
tho it's  
just a dance  
it could be more
  
so ya  
take her hand  
pull her in real close  
music playin'  
soft and slow  
you close your eyes  
as she softly si-ghs  
  
starlit shadows  
from a disco globe  
we fade to black  
on this winding road  
lost and lonely  
we pay the toll  
just one last dance  
before we go  
just one last da-nce  
before we go  
  
and these bitter days  
we watch them waste away  
into the whiskey nights and  
the smoke filled haze  
we're singin'  
Willie -n- Waylon  
pray the music keeps playin'  
as we drift away  
into this whiskey haze  
shadows of a memory  
keep draggin' ya down  
one last round  
you slam it down  
you close your eyes  
as she soflty si-ghs  
gently swayin'  
across the floor  
  
starlit shadows  
from a disco globe  
we fade to black  
on this winding road  
lost and lonely  
we pay the toll  
just one last dance  
before we go  
just one last da-nce  
before we go

Deep perfume seeps still from the fallen rose Down down endlessly  
filling the air with all that is pure, and soon all that is not    
diamonds glisten upon its skin Sparkling in the summer heat, he  
knows this won't be the end

moisture condenses around his roots, the tree growing up into  
heaven, life surging around him, springing, growing, ripping  
through the thick and crusted earth. Pun i ca gra na tum is such a complex word for what here has come to pass. the roots shooting     down and spreading, their mirrors filling the sky, soaking up our  
shining beams of phantasmal brilliance.

Only those loved have names wouldn't you Agree some are special 
to the producing world, and Others are left to rot, take the fruit of a morning lily, no one loves her, yet she bears all the same

something stirs within his being, some new body grows out from  
inside, some new some new some new something new. The sky fills
with blood espousal carillon, their pods filling rich and new,  
chiming out for all to hear the dawn rising, the birds flying, yes,
hear them fly above as you watch their song paint the sky in cool
purples and blues.

Color is so trite and love is so outdated and there are those who
wish for the end of the world as well Creation falling to the Ground
as the rosebud does in winter

united in final ecstasy, the bells descend as dying mistrals unveil
our sinking crown, sound-bow dripping away

Craving one's cinnamon zest
To pull mine hair
To showeth me to her caress
To maketh amare in moonlight crescent
To whirl the fellow sun
To steameth up the castle window's
On telephone drenchy fun
To walketh in lost forest's
To Mardi gra's brine soaking,
Of ourn brim to floweth over by the ounce!!!!

.
                              " Oh
                       grandmother"
                     she said,  "what
                    big ears you have"
                    "All the better to
                      hear  you  with
                      m y dear." "But
                      gr and  mother,
                      w hat  big  eyes
                      you have. " "All
                      the  better to se
                      e you with""But
                      gra n d mother,
                      what     a   b i  g
                      mouth  you  h a
                      ve" All  the   bet
                     ter to    eat    you
       o  u  t    w i t h."  "B   u t    g r  a  n d
    m  o  t  h  e  r,  w    h  a  t    a     B   I   G
       ****    y o u         h ave."     " All the
          b etter to               *******  you."

The grand canyon runs between
the part of Mohave County blessed
with coverage
after the fallout
from the fifties,
and the lower part, south of the river,
east of the bend, there at Topock swamp.

Cancers above the line made by the river,
were rewarded, cash in some cases,
class actions and such, after the bloom
in GI Bill Law School Degrees…

leukemia in babies,
Downwinders in Mojave County,
just ended, dead, of northern afflictions.

Things like that and Julia Roberts,
got the voters to agree,
Lawyers should advertise,
- leading to what we have today
free speech, facing a true Kuhnian shift,
Directly presented, plain
for all
to see,
What freedom of the press was
to the owners of all means of exploitation,
freedom of speech, after internet, aight, is to any.
Any who, even you.
Who,
should any ask what Marshall McLuhan
continues to do, through 'is link to all you know,
text in context, denoting informed consent, you
think, as you read, and so
doing you do the deed, done so. We read,
thinking back
only one long mortal lifetime ago, we mostly did not.
On the whole,
have you never imagined
how many more of us know,
what was against the law for beings of the baser sort,
to learn, long
a tradition among the power elites, owners,
of all the national resources,
in a global syndicate,
entities, interests, trusts 'n'such, which
follow the pattern of the jewel merchants,
control the sources.
Restrict library cards immediately,
Carnegie is laughing from his grave… his will
- he did appreciate his Kipling
written in Indian Ink, under the Raj, If inspires yet,
as does Gunga Deen.
Film. Yes. Won't last. that medium,
too much trouble to watch it again, when
one can read a play, or a novel, or a poem per
haps forever, if the terminii are all out of sight.
As a lad, I was allowed to watch all the television,
I wished, and I wished I had a thousand channels,
in 1955, when Wyatt Earp got his life and legend
projected

into the worth cube at the core of mankind…
for all American boys, pun is there, naturally, all
of us American boys, no matter what our mommas were,
we, 1955, had been pledging five days a week, aliegiance,
we were sons of soldiers who had won the last war,
the one in all the inspirational Hays code cleared war movies.

Realist mind game art, in context, humbled,
by the giants tuned into, before the contest began, Truth
who dares, all comers. Common mental trope, all comers
come on, oppose my point and fall across my edge.

Little children, keep your selves from idols, such as
hold I role in all active avatars at any given point
in time, in tyranny over your bit in the mind of man,
taken to play mind games that are crafted for enjoying
the peace of selective reality powers we all can attain.

Write your self a tower to watch from, and watch,
Carnegie reading Kipling
by kerosene Rockefeller sold… meld into if

if you wish, imagine lampblack ink, or better,
squid ink, infused with carbon so pure, it seems
invisible, finest dust of diamond waste, used once
to shine a patterned steel san-mai blade.

Imagine the very smartest, not Einstein, person
alive when decisions were being discussed, crossing
swords with science use and useless social controls,
e.g. you know,
gra-acious example, interesting times, sifting selectors
goodness gracious, we have, in point of fact, too much
to filter with no reason,
why should one care to know why secrets are de rigueur,
poor soul asked what is going on, replys,
regular stuff, I suppose… ah, ag me on, suppose,

I invited Ben, Voltaire, and Nieztsche to cheese,
as I morphed into the Disneyified U.S. Certified myth.
The mouse in Ben and me, was the voice of the NPC.
- we had Verne's spinning disc libraries since
- drop a name from the hagiosphere of AI and IT
- Grace Murray Hopper… she's a memory.

Such books, we hold, as factual data, they hold words,
we, the current people, the fluid factor through which
CG NPCs pass in movies and games and entertainment,
- each pass think
who notices other people?
All the time, I mean, who cares, most of the time?

Crazy edgies, mad folk, filled with insights some time
passing left as artifacts, if you can believe this,
your world view shall encompass all one need know
about
why
we speak of the fall, and of original sin, we allow
priests and politicians and attention pimps, to lie.

Today, own self, and whole self,
declare adaptive lettering tech, publishing far and wide
art insisting, dare do,

think it through, couple thousand words,
what if you learn one cool new way
to think unthinkable things good
to know… post hoc.

Drawling to a jaunty swing number, down on bourbon street. People everywhere at any rate , of and at all times. The night aglow with neon signs of every angle. Trepidantly set upon Gatsby like quality of novelty. Trendsetting a fictitious wonderment for all to enjoy with anticipating excitement.

Star Boats Floating
Upon Water Clear
Starry Night  Girl
Oh Starry Night

Intention Set
By Fires Flame
Long Ago Girl
Yes Long Ago

Returning
Waters
Of Love Divine
Starry Night Girl
Ire Starry Night

By Red Your Dark
Still **** Mine
Turn Your Eyes World
Turn Your Eyes

For Her
This turn
Dru Shift
Gra time

Gratis Oman Gratins OEM