One thing that often irks me with posting photographs, people are not interested in the photo as composition, as lighting or any of the things I look for in a photo. They always have to remark like where was it taken, what kind of camera, I was married there, etc. It’s not a composition, it’s just a record of a place they know. The quality doesn’t matter.
Let the water and the word
Ever abide within the soul
A vessel with which to go
Eternal words forever heard.
Thorns worn from her words
She wrote over and over
The wind I have heard
I have heard
I have heard
I have heard
by john clare stokes
Strike the bells of praise... For today the invasion was stayed... Strong upon the wind in all their glory... Flew the Loggerhead Army... To impale the swarming maelstrom... Butchers from heaven come... By night the victory fires we light... Offerings to Jehovah.... for His Loggerhead Shrikes!
With canvas clutched he comes
To hear the coveted well-done son
The little Vincent of starry eye
Swirling on the primary oils
With hours long the artist toils
From the studio he runs
To hear a father say
Well done son
But the words never come
And so the artist caps the tubes
No longer to a father runs
Who never found time to say
Well done son
Take time to tell someone
Well done
You may be the only one.
Mashes Sands
I do not know how the sand
Came from Mashes Sands
To Sopchoppy
But my father got it there
And it was my kingdom
My perimeter I only left
Whenever I would swing
And jump past the pure sandy
Border
Flying about into the evening
Til I heard mamma calling
And I would park the fleet
Open the sluice gates
Post the little real plastic man
With strict orders
To guard the Mashes Sands
Kingdom in the county
Wakulla
The township
Sopchoppy.
john clare
you were never one
to dwell upon the lower
rungs
from a child
dangerously climbing
toward to sky above
and in a fathers love
letting you climb
always with a ready arm
in case you fell
and so you loved
to dwell far above
in the heavens
looking at the deer
bear and turkey
passing below
poised silently with
your handmade bow
chirped arrow pulled
taut eye focused
and then the string
would relax and the
sight window would
rest upon an Indo
wave and you would
descend to skim over
the surface of a long
breaking hollow outrunning
the men in the grey suits
locked in
truck keys lost resting
in a tidal pool
fashioning stick and cord
to make a beach fire
blowing the embers to life
thinking of Hawaii's epic breaks
Guaranteed
that on your bended knee
was no way to be free
lifting up that blazing fire cupped,
you asked silently
that all your destinations would
accept the one's that's you
so you could breathe
and so i let you climb
to the upper rung
just do not my son
forget a father holding
a steady arm below.
Johnclarestokes
In the land before time of man
The dinosaurs roamed the land
Creatures larger than imagination
Primordial acts of Gods creation
Our little son rode his plastic dino
T Rex tamed by a young Lando
At night the stories were read
Of lands where giants tread
A wallpaper was finally found
Now the creatures did surround
Years passed and so the theme
Dino deflated with the dream
The dinosaurs were covered in brown
With deer and bears all around
Later, Danny and Gator glory
Then Tebow's inspiring story
Next came Kelly and the ocean blue
Surfboards galore of every hue
Finally to shades of modern gray
No hero found to guide the way
The little hawk with wings had flown
We paused to recall the Dino song
Yesterday, the gray border tore
Revealing faint tracks gone before
We chose not to repair the Dino print
The priceless uncovering of a lost moment
Ride Dino! Ride Dino! Happy song of the boy!
The layers of a life peeling back to reveal the joy!
Landon Randolph Stokes with his son Nathaniel Manoa
August 25, 1988
by johnclarestokes
My the splash you made upon the shore
Trying to drown us in your under tow
Losing the glasses I just got from the store
Leaving us spinning in surf to and fro.
You were born for greater shores than these
We imagined you as a Tsunami wave
Raging to a boil from Oriental seas
Lifeguards frantic the many to save.
Instead you came gently to the shore
For not all waves are born to kill
A playful push to the ocean floor
Come so far just our joy to fill.
Thirty-six years hence we stand
And as a new wave roaring comes
We brace and clutch our glasses in hand
My how you splash my gentle man.
Mashes Sands
Johnclarestokes
I do not know how the sand
came from Mashes Sands
to my sand pile in Sopchoppy
But my father got it there
And it was my kingdom
My perimeter I only left
whenever I would swing
and jump past the pure sandy
Border
Flying about up into the evening
Til I heard mamma calling me in
And I would park the fleet
Open the sluice gates
Post the real plastic army men
With strictest orders
To guard the Mashes Sands
Kingdom in the county
Wakulla
The township
Sopchoppy
the state Florida
Ruled by the kindly
Tow head king.
Johnclarestokes
You could call it the bitter end
of the rope
the point beyond where the fire
fused the strands
the unraveled part that did not
go through the ring
In the taunt the line turns astern
in a vertical load the lift
as the sea claw is freed
then a straight yaw as the
drift begins
Into the beam sea they go with
memories of mooring
Above the laughing terns
mock the folly
In cabin crafts they ply on
in dead reckoning
Paying the price of anchors rejecting.
Johnclarestokes
I proudly shot daddy's Purple Martin that day
Not knowing they kept mosquitos at bay.
Mamma told me quickly! Go bury the bird!
And to your father not breath a word.
I dug a hasty grave behind the shed
Then hid the Red Rider under the bed.
Each evening I looked in fear as Martins flew
That somehow daddy counted and knew.
Such the guilt on a little boys brain
That a tiny bird could cause such strain.
Years passed, the Martin houses rotted and fell
Now I'm old, but bless mamma, she never did tell!
The first kill haunts us through our days
Till at last, Martins keep mosquitos at bay
Above our graves.
The deer of Della
If the scene does not work in color
Then remove the color
Maybe it was meant for shades
For contrasts, for tones
As Ansel would have said, Zones.
Again you were there
Still in your forever young
From which I’ve long come
from, as my time grows tidal
rushing below me out to eternity.
When Beach Bums...and Nikons...grandpaws and grandsons....converge...gulls laugh...waves clap...beyond all words...now the waves recede...the tides cry...gulls lull...and the waves pray....a loss for words....we hold the shells to ear...in hope to hear but one whisper...
john clare stokes
sit with me
in ninety-nine degree
humidity
atop a drain field
the view is grand
sans the yard debris
from years of accumulation
growing each year
less dear
as the memory fades
and the lure of youth
no longer bides me stay
and play torture
content for the time
given to steaming situations
to wait out the fritillary
intent upon being elusive
invading his comfort zone
sit with me
in ninety-nine degree
memory
mounds of my making
views of neighbors yards
their accumulation
equally as dear
to them as mine
one content simply to
sip the tall neck
giving up on the belly swelling
surrounded by his goats and
chickens
not understanding his neighbor
who sits atop his drain field
wondering if the sun has
not gotten to him
listening to the other neighbor
yelling at his granny
and in the distraction
comes the fritillary
and he misses his shot.
‘Sero te amavi, Pulchritudo tam antiqua et
tam nova! Sero te amavi.’
S. Augustine
While awaiting the hummingbird, I took a double exposure of the rose. First focus on the rose, second focus on the background. The result to me made the rose look as if it had an aura of scent.
john clare
lately I've been thinking
of horses bits
and words that slip
and of reigns
and of telling the
horse to go and to
whoa!
and how to the barn
the horse yearns
despite the pulling
upon the reins
and no matter what
you do
he is barn determined
so goes the tongue
as teeth gnaw and grind
upon the bit
trying to spit it out
to go our own way
in search of barn hay.
Thing shall we share
Today with the masses?
Things the masses
Have no knowledge of:
We would tell of sweet
Things, how we strained
The juice to boil it down
To its essence,
Bottling it up still hot,
But I think not.
It would only remind
Of some old time
Who gives a damn
That once the cane
We did grind?
More than talk to me
I could tell he wasn't listening
Wasn't interested in me
Oh I babbled on a bit longer
But finally just shut up and
Apologized
Went my way
So he could get back to his word
What a spiritual guy
He is.
There he sat with the far away hollow face
Offering little in the conversation
Wondering what was I doing in this place
I imagined him reeling back at my inspiration.
