Physical Therapy day. Worked on knee. During most of day worked in garden arranging and setting out some amaryllis. Gave up on squash. Some cucumbers may make it. Okra not dying. Strawberries coming along. Marigolds going like gangbusters. Tomatoes all but played out. Trash man picked up several cans of old things. Feels good to have some of accumulation over the years gone. Still much to go. Chickens getting along. Eggs picking up.
We were on our way from forty-nine...upon the intersection of Low Lake and Bulb Farm roads...the old Spanish style church was still standing....eventually crossing US90 and going into Wellborn...stopping at the Jiffy Store for the drink and ice cream...Roger would catch up on his girls....he knew all the clerks.....Bob and I would lag behind...Roger kept an up tempo pace on the Vitus....I had the yellow Cannondale...Bob the Super Sport Schwinn....we finished up at Bob's off Turner Road in Lake City...it was a typical Sunday afternoon ride of over forty-nine miles to forty-nine and back....Roger like the church no longer stands...Bob... was lost in a world of fading memory...making it to age ninety…..mostly spending his last days reminiscing...along with me at near seventy and keeping their pace....
Today Monday we are raking and burning leaves and trying to organize. The Melanie’s Place hens are laying, we worked in their pen arranging it. The Chick Inn hen Daphne was laying on the ground last evening. I thought something had gotten her. I put her in her pen and today she seemed fine. Emily of the Driftwood Hens wasn’t on the roost last night. I thought one of the Rhode Island’s was missing. But this morning it was Emily at the door wanting in.
There are few people beyond Democrats i don’t care to be around, but Herb is one of them. You’d think not as he is a fellow photographer. Problem is he is arrogant, elitist and not friendly to me. I dont know why. I’ve had a few others feel the same. I guess we all must have a nemesis.
John Clare Stokes
I walked along the sloping sand
Searching for the impressions of his easel
Holding his painting
Of the Suwannee.
It was here the artists like Theron roamed
Here that I was inexplicably drawn,
To catch but a glimpse of how he mixed the
Ochre and the cobalt
How in the end the blend of earth, God and men were so perfectly wrought.
It was here the tripod marks of Moran remained
When images emerged from
Darkness upon emulsion
The kindom of Kodachrome lasting long after our
Digital transience
The dodge and burn of earth, film and men eternally.
It was here before us all
The Timicuan dwelt
In every rock, tree and ripple their spear marks felt
And so like us, they embarked on downstream
Out into that Gulf immortal
Awaiting for the consummation of man, artistry and Suwannee.
Half past Cheely
John Clare Stokes
Once there was a time upon which you could set your watch in Williston
When Nettie Griffin and later NE would arrive at the Chick Inn
When one of Charlie Lewis angels would be at the dry goods
Mrs Valerie Blackburn would begin painting with her pet mockingbird
Travis Harris would pump some Standard premium for Chubby Pettaway
Doyle Crosby and Rossi Davis would arrive to repair the tube TV
Bruce Smith would grab his racquet from Crabtree’s and head up Noble
When the Seaboard would sound to slow the traffic down
When JH would come walking all about town.
It was time to…
John Clare Stokes
Let me return just once more
to the old Kentucky I’ve longed for
so long, the place of my first dreams
the Jessamine streams and woods
of fall, where we would walk in search
of the rabbits hidden by the slate fences
where we’d sit and rest for a spell
as the long whistle from the coal train
strained the cool air to make it over
the High Bridge into the pristine white
fenced thoroughbred farms where the
Chestnut steeds reposed in lush retirement
while all about the countryside on every barn
wall and driveway, backboards were kept
in top condition, nets unfrayed and white
as into the night, the sounds of swish was
heard, a ritual repeated all across the
commonwealth, the hope in every boy
to be among the number with ole Rupp
and his runts on the hallowed hardwood.
Let me return just once more.
What is the statue of limitation on such? But there I was again this morning with Pam sitting with me and the left hand was on the thigh and I was sleeping in the dream and wondering if Pam was minding that I was putting my hand and rubbing her leg above the knee? And what did Eddie think who was sitting on her other side?
Lord help us be the friend
That when all else abandon
We look back and say
Well, I’m here waiting.
Escape from Blanche
Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. Edgar Allen Poe
Johnclarestokes
Do you find me
attractive
In my skirt of
Papyrus?
Come
I’ve prepared
for us
A delectable
Sulphur butterfly
Afterwards
we can relax and
watch the orb
weaver spin
a web
Trust me
I’m not like the
Others
I’m no big shot show off when it comes to photography. I prefer to not let anyone know I’m even toting a camera. I loathe going out with my overly big and heavy telephoto, as it’s akin to a fisherman fishing for brim with a marlin rig.
I got great amusement watching this self absorbed photographer taking every angle possible of this one tree.
Tonight thanks to my friend Ray Carpenter we added six one year old hens to our flock. We have them in the side pen for now. Will have to make a roost and nest boxes. Also, Ray said we would have his goldfish and koi.
My sister and I went to vote today. Trump of course. I also finally got my photos from the Gallery for the art show.
Upon the walls of the dead
They scrawl in their sin
Seeking the Grateful Head
No world for old men
The fat they stare back
In the slaughter stalls
In one morbid whack
The fatted calf falls
Who are these bastards
Depraved Roman ones
Void of the redeeming Word
My son, your son, we shun.
It’s been fifty plus years since
this white boy dribbled up
The Red Devil court
Breaking again the press
passing off to Kenneth
or Calvin or Penny
never winning many
He still wears the
Mr Basketball award
from graduation ‘73
passes at the top of the key
long before it counted three.
Why do artists
Remain for so
Short a time?
Leaving before
The tapestry has
Faded in the sun
Long before the
Colors glow in
The shade
The jurors
Judge the work
Unframed never
To hang
Now all is
But a bright
Memory
before
time
Fades it away.
Farewell
Soni Fine.
I'm told she pass 'd away Tuesday in October of 2015
John Clare Stokes
Today I heard a knocking
It was at the degree
Of sixty
I knew he'd be coming
Burning day light, you see.
Upon the red Klein
Huret set to zero
A century I expect this time
Toward Moniac we go.
Resting at the East Tower
Huret at twenty five
Over the bars i cower
Seventy-five more I cry!
Sand and pines
Sand and pines
Will it ever end
Red Klein way ahead
Squares I spin.
Parched in a mirage
Moniac and the end
There sits ole Rog
Offering me a fig newton.
To Roger Kosch Sessler
March 22, 1932
October 22, 2011
John Clare Stokes
Take me back to October of eighty one
When we were free from all the devices
just sitting and talking as the day passes
fish frying with hush puppies soon done.
Luther R Stokes Evangelistic Association
1981 Annual outing
Crawfordville, Florida
John Clare Stokes
You entered my intersection
From the left of me
Somewhere in my past
Mr John's taught me
I was to yield to you
I've spent a lifetime trying
To obey Mr John's
Today I let you cut me off
speed
On through
I would have let you.
Sitting watching for jets to hit the moon, i had the camera in my lap when suddenly an eagle flew into the moon and over my head. And i missed it! I rarely see an eagle. It would have been the shot. There were few jets as well.
