Cinder Memories by john clare

Where went the fleet of foot?
The swift sprint from the blocks?
Spikes stabbing the cinder track
Rounding the oval nine never
looking back.
We inhaled the rare air of the
sub five
The last gasp spent to touch
the thin line
How brief the push of the starters time
as landed fish our gills aflame cried.
On dusty shelves the tarnished
trophies remind
when feet were fleet and
fast the times
Batons relayed to the last man
The fading photo of personal bests
so grand.
And to the track the old harriers
forever meet
They hear the final call for
the measured mile.
Upon the staggered lines they
edge their way
Then step back and let the
youth win the day.

Travels with Melanie

Is it any wonder at all
When in that far off summer
Wind swirls of curls caressingly
calling ocean breezes bluffs
Melting the gales with but a puff
The miles mere marbled spins
upon the round
A glance eternal bliss from
treasures found
It was no wonder this mystery
that blew upon the
heart afar
It's why we continue to the sea
Wet locks of love dripping
all about me.


by john clare

Fields Far Away

Snuff, or ground tobacco came about around 1870 with Garrett's. A myriad of brands have since come and gone. Tops, Rooster,Railroad Mills, Square Snuff, Red Seal, Stokers and many more.

This old tobacco barn shows the tobacco hung from the rafters ready for curing. I always loved the smell of the curing tobacco in the barns, and the pipe smoking from the old men gathered about under the shade trees.

The old barn was built to withstand anything the ages could throw at it, though a mere child could pull the old wooden latch and enter the dark crib.

The fall was the time my friend Robert Jones and I would visit the hills of North Georgia and North Carolina to photograph the fall colors. This old barn with the stacked corn was photographed around Cherokee, North Carolina. The barns below were photographed in North Georgia, location long forgotten, the barns perhaps long gone.

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Fields Far Away

Who can recall sitting upon the old porch in the heat of summer and swatting the silent yellow flies? I would stack the flies killed in a row and wait for the ants to come and carry them away.

This old covered bridge was off 441 somewhere in North Georgia, off the main road. It was no longer used for traffic, as noted by the fence in the background.

This lady and her dog were photographed in North Carolina along a rocky,winding back road, seldom traveled. Robert and I stopped and she proudly posed beside her barn.

In a field in North Carolina stood this silent sentinel overlooking his corn crop. He was quite the soldier and I do not believe any crow or starling dared enter the scope of his wooden rifle.

Another angle of the yellow flies shown laid out for the ants to feast upon. Such were the long, slow days of summer when the cares of life seemed so distant, that the main occupation was the riddance of the yellers.

Fields Far Away

My sons Landon and Jordon scamper up the steep incline on the Appalachian trail  in North Carolina. This was taken when Melanie and I went to North Carolina.

Bob and I got the old man who rode this tractor many a year in his fields in the valley of North Georgia to pose. Somewhere I have his name, but have long since forgotten where.

This was the type photograph Bob and I were after. With our Nikon and Kodachrome atop tripods, we took many photographs together in the eighties.

This is Robert photographing the fall colors along a back road up in the Pisgah National Forest. Bob was the ultimate slow photographer, taking great pains to get the proper exposure and composition. The photograph below is one of my favorites of Bob, and tells much of me, that I was already back at the old van waiting for him to finish up.

In the eighties, my friend Robert "Bob" Jones and I would travel annually each fall to North Georgia and North Carolina to photograph the fall scenery. We would travel up in his VW van, camping along the way in campgrounds if found, but mostly in out of way places.
It was the height of the film era and we shot Kodachrome 25 from our Nikon cameras. Bob had a vintage Nikon F from his WWII days as a Navy photographer and I had the newer Nikon F3,FM2 and FE2.
Our styles were quite the contrast. Bob would slowly survey a scene, meter with his Weston, compose, recompose, focus, click the cable release. I was not as patient, and would go about snapping away, taking perhaps ten photographs to his one. I was always completed and waiting for him to finish up. Looking back, I too needed to slow down and take my time.
Robert is now in his upper eighties, me in the upper fifties and often think back with fondness on those days roving the back roads of the Smoky Mountains. The last photograph in this series, End of Wayah, is atop Wayah Gap on the Appalachian Trail. Bob is walking out of the mist toward the van, where I have competed and have been waiting for him.

Jars Apart by john clare

Pine Gone by john clare

Pine Gone by john clare

Pull strong tailwind through the Osceola Still
Shimmering mirage tempts those who pause
Lost in pine rosin scents a spiny chill
The siren beautiful beckons with her calls.

This steed of tubular steel he brakes
Alone in the scant remnants of temptation fought
The Scion window lowers expectation's to take
The broad highway is what she sought.

In lycra and lace the pines needled sharply
With palmetto fronds fanning their heated need.
The rare cockaded clung to the sticky pine tree
And then the tail wind rose and he was freed.

Wobble and weave in pine from East to West
Behind him the memory of the Scion friend
Along the deserted road came the test
Where he abandoned the search began.

In evening routes along the winding still road
They call out for the rider in the barren pine
A faint sound is heard in the Pileated's abode
It was the siren song from the passing Scion.

Crook of Sages by john clare

Crook of Sages

by john clare


Cradled in the forward crook of the gentle arm

We journey through the yard in happy venture
First stop along the path our favorite flower

Mrs Bee hovers over and you feel no alarm.


You raise your eyes and what is it you see?

My cloudy eye peers but cannot discern
In my waning years so much to learn

And from the crook a voice, I'll teach thee.


There upon that limb sits our guardian friend

It may seem like the little mourning dove
But close your earthly eyes and look farther above

See the mighty Holy Spirit upon the wind.

We bowed in worship at the glorious sight

Through an infants eyes I could see
I held him and cried out for mercy!

Before us the transfiguration in uncreated light


Then all was well my soul was at rest

The cricket chorus and the pink streaks of sunset
bore witness to the wonders we had met

And in marvelous majesty we simply praised and blessed.


The favorite flower bloomed a brighter hue

The mourning dove perched upon a higher limb
And in the crook he spoke to all of them

And through the infant I heard them too.

The Earth Crieth

Shroud of Tevis

Oscillation of Time by john clare

Oscillation of Time

Stacked on shelves forever still
the objects of a life,
Things forgotten, left to the
sure fade of slow decay.
Entombed in silent abandon with
a shroud of dusty grey,
The six point wrench unturned,
the dulled tang of the Barlow knife.

Hung in suspended oscillation the
sprinkler dry,
Park seeds unplanted, weeds long
tenure taking the upper hold,
Silently arcs the bow over
emptied pots of gold,
Long the drought of times high
parched cry.


The coiled garden hose hisses by
the galvanized well.
In knee deep briars the sprinkler
is laid.
A turn of brass and a trickling
sputter is made.
Around the pulse of water
emerges a living
magical spell.

As the first squirt from the
stream touches my eye,
Again I am the child time took
quickly away.
In prism's of rainbow beads again
I play,
Caught in the abandon of
moments swirling by.


Too soon the sputter and the
loss of prime
The thorn kisses to reveal a
rusting red,
As dust and blood mingle on my
dizzied head,
Wasn't it grand to dance all soaked in suspended time?