The sting

 The sting

In the midst of the birthing 

Always lurking the sting 

Whispering, your dyings coming

Clinging, to the promise given

Not so, not so, o sting.

A poem

 A poem

is when you have the sky in your mouth.

It is hot like fresh bread,

when you eat it,

a little is always left over.

A poem

is when you hear

the heartbeat of a stone,

when words beat their wings.

It is a song sung in a cage.

A poem

is words turned upside down

and suddenly!

the world is new.

~ Jean-Pierre Simeón (from the book This Is a Poem That Heals Fish

Foolish Pleasures

 Wild the Mare

John Clare Stokes

 In Williston sand longing

to conceive in

A field of record yields 

Beneath a September rising and falling over and again

The burrowing owl came 

From below eyes wide open

To the commotion turning

Totally around as if looking back was acceptable while upon the hill in the stable

Kicking against the stall

The wild mares mane trembled from the rising and

The falling

Wanting so desperately to

Join the conception 

Bringing record yields

In fields under cover of night

While in far away Kentucky

Came the one

They would call

 Foolish Pleasure

Conceived amid owls and sandy legumes galore

To gain glory in a derby

Far from the wild mare

Kicking desperately.

Path of most resistance

Beyond the Blue Blaze

Every hike is usually from blaze to blaze, following the well trodden way. There are times, when water is low and the blaze not clear, we dare venture beyond the blue blaze, to find perchance, a path of great resistance with wonders never known.

 

Road Side Song

 In every roadside ditch the throng 

of bloom and blossom lifts in song

Humbly with exuberant praise lifting

To this wondrous life His gift

Speed on to the byway of praise 

Head on toward the eternal day

Blazing Stars beneath cobalt heaven 

Swaying grass we in a moment given

So Praise! praise! All creatures sing

Lift up! Lift up! Too soon to wing!

In Kerwin Country

 Moonball 

It was a rather disconcerting event

And I do not think I was meant

To witness it

But upon the rising down Mallory 

Swamp way

The dead oak took the sap

And began to toss back and forth

A hapless moon.

Kaintuckbreaks

 Kaintuckbrakes

Deep in the wild never glade

Where moccasins and bull gators stayed

And even Seminoles dared not wade

We came upon this lair of despair

Where in the oaken trees hung effigies 

To which these padded blueskins prayed

O give us great Ruppking a victory

To prove we do not follow Thee vainly

But the Ruppking was tauntingly silent

And into extinction went the Kaintuckbrakes

While Gators and moccasins mocked their fate.

Up the holler

Up the holler 

John Clare Stokes

So grateful in the fall of twenty twelve

We were able to take mamma to see

The old holler where she came to be

As we rode to Crumpler she would tell

now that was where Evelyn and I 

took that poor snake and burnt it

And there is where we paid with script

Where up Crumpler Mountain we’d slip

There’s the Methodist Church where Rev Looney

first suggested I should attend Asbury

Where Luke and I were later married

Where Gerald always held in my heart a tune

The old whistle post just beyond the church

Still towered rusting, once calling miners home

Out from the Pocahontas hills into the stucco homes

Or roused at night, the wailing telling that deep down something

had gone terribly wrong

Turning to return to Bluefield then Princeton

Rounding slowly another steep switch back

In my imagination I could clearly see

Her daddy’s bus full of miners and one

found kitty named Black Daisy

Bringing it home for his sweet Clara Jean.

Nectar moon

 Nectar moon 

Fall Blues

 It’s the 2nd day of fall, I should be enthralled, but I’m not. Is it the days still hot as summer July? Is it a stroke struck body that hobbles about? Is it a spiritual malaise that barely reads the word? Is it the long, long years of silence from a Son? Is it no sales at the Gallery? It’s all.

It’s fall. 

The wood of God

 Morning Meditation in the Wood of God

And from the arching gilded lichen limb

Palmetto spread in fronds of praise

The Tibia flute parsed the morning hymn

 as moss bearded seers in rhapsodie swayed

to the song of the ancient of days;

Hushed in the Gloria Patri wonder

the congregation of the understory:

Con Amore! in the wood winds he comes

as the canebrake trembles at the feet

 of the blessed wild One.

Come freely to the tree of life

climb boldly to the azure heights

In the haven of the wood of God

where ne'er the proud dare trod.

New Years

 Rosh Hashanah

We the Christian know so little

We don't even follow our own seasons

Ignorant of most things of mystery

Living in this world rationally 

But today begins a new year

Did you take your sweet honey

Dip the apple in it

Prepare for the King to come

To survey in the field His flock

To see whom He deems to keep

To cull?

I didn't think so.

Ole Miss

"And the parched ground shall become a pool, and a thirsty land springs of water: in the habitation of dragons, where each lay, shall be grass with reeds and rushes." Is 35:7.

Alligator Lake South

Columbia Co Lake City

Journey beyond Toar

 Journey beyond Toar

john clare 

Gently, gently the waters part,

Silently, silently we slip downstream.

In teardrop cradle the sailors embark,

Hush crickets! The little Pindar dreams.

Miles, miles the stream carries us along,

Tranquil, tranquil the mirrored ripple.

Above, the Cicada's con calma hum,

Sleep, sleep little ruddy sailor still.

Who? Who? Passes in tiny sloop?

Tis he! Tis he! The poet of streams!

Pass through my poetic little flute,

Old Owl sees why the waters sing.

Down, down goes the little canoe 

Deep, deep through icy shoaled sea.

Awake tiny sailor, see us through!

Cause terrible Erebus to flee!

Still, still sleeps in tempest land,

Row, row we against Aeolus strong.

Into the gale rises a little hand,

Calm, calm again the beautiful song.

Scene no more

 The hay before the rain 

I had hoped for sunlight illuminating the tree and the hay bales with the rain in the background, but it never materialized. Nevertheless, I was stoked chasing the sun up and down. I used probably four different cameras and several lenses. This was on the iPhone after ditching the Nikons and GoPro in frustration over not getting what I wanted.

Slow down

 Halcyon days

It was over so quickly

We didn’t do enough together 

In my old age of ponder

I still hear, slow down daddy. 

A ride with Landon

Ginny

 "Baker Act"-ing Mama

by Aurelia D Wallace.

Because I can't remember

What I had for lunch, they

Think I'm getting senile.

I hear them whispering

About the Shady Elms.

Good God, I'm not ready

For Shady Elms! I can

Still read Greek, I know

The whole score of Lucia,

(Though they don't take me

To music anymore since

I've had to wear these paper

Pants). I can make Martha Washington's

Own recipe for Sally Lunn,

Without once peeking. I can

Recite the names and birthdays of all

Nine grandchildren, and I know

Franklin Roosevelt is dead.

                                 All they ask me, though,

Is my street number backwards

And what I had for lunch, what

Day it is. Of course I know

Where I live, silly: inside these bones,

This bag my skin. No one needs

To know is it they don't know

All days are Sunday--

As long as I can breathe

This spendid, cautious air?

First day

Ginny at the Villages

Lucille’s Ledger

 Lucile’s Ledger

John Clare Stokes

The ledger of a life was closed after ninety nine years, her last decade blind, the ledger of little use, consigned to the dusty smokehouse.

It daily gives me pause to ponder my ledger yet open, the daily entries marked, to be opened upon eternity dawn and read.

My only hope lies in the words written over in red, redeemed by the blood.

Tell me

 Tell me

Tell me daddy of the latter years

Tell me of the way it used to be

Tell me of your father’s family

Tell me of your joyous tears

Tell me of your love then new

Tell me of the new old home place

Tell me why one left without a trace

Tell me how you two made do

Tell me things I never knew

Tell me things  I never remembered 

Tell me of the presents of December

Tell me of the letters sent to you

Tell me over and over again

Tell me so I can tell it to my children

Tell me so when by graves I’m tearing

Tell me so I’ll forever hear you telling.

Stokes Oaks

 Stokes Oaks

Some folks take their oaks 

For granted

They have always been

A part of

The family

Life has grown on

Never a thought for 

The stately oaks

There once were oaks

In my life

Even had lightening rods

To appease an awesome God

But it was as a wife of Lot

Just grains of salt grating

Upon me now

As the Stokes oaks

Dwell among stranger folks.

Song of degrees

 Song of degrees

Johnclarestokes 

I sing a song of degrees

From adjunct poverty

To stately royalty

I sing a song of degrees

From total blindness

To vision piercing

I sing a song of degrees

The heart of burning desire

The heart frozen entire

I sing a song of degrees

The childlike wonderment

The elderly wanting it

I sing a song of degrees

To sea

 

I am here

 I am here

I am in the first light of soft dawn

Giving direction to the way of day

In the first slant of sun ray over

the lawn

Cut low for you to romp upon

In the high noon straight shadows

Watching in the cool, dark shade

Awaiting the coming afternoon shower

Where in the puddles we will splash

Then dry to the fading light of evening

Knowing this is a great cycle of light

We have been so blessed to partake.

But a mare

But a mare

john clare 

O ye who calls the wind to rhyme

The waters to flow in meter'd time

Suns to shine in light sublime

Moons to rise on hearts that pine

In dream the words you find

Rhymes to cause a world to mind

You awake to command the stars

Shoot o'er the lovers from far

Come nigh moon to the mourn

Sun give warmth to forlorn

O the heaven alas does not forbear 

The dream was but a mare.

Suwannee Bonnie O

Bonny Suwannee O!

john clare stokes

Adapted from John Clare poem, Bonny Lassie O!

O the evening's for the fair, Bonny Suwannee O!

To meet the cooler air and join an Ibis there,

With the dark dishevelled Clare

Bonny Suwannee O!

The bloom's on the briar, Bonny Suwannee O!

Seed cones on the cypress; and wilt thou gang to see 

The shoals that roil for thee,

Bonny Suwannee O!

Tis agen the running stream, Bonny Suwannee O!

In a sandy nook hard by, with a little patch of sky.

Beneath a button bush to keep us dry

Bonny Suwannee O!

There's the milkwort’s all the year, Bonny Suwannee O!

There's the Jessamine bright as gold, and the Otter never cold,

And the Iris flags unfurled,

Bonny Suwannee O!

O meet me at the shoal, Bonny Suwannee O!

With the Wood stork flying in, 

And the wild Azaleas like thy skin

Blushing thy praise to win,

Bonny Suwannee O!

I will meet thee there at e'en, Bonny Suwannee O!

When the bee sips on the tupelo and Barred Owls on

Branches lean

And the moon beam looks between

Bonny Suwannee O!

Like a painting

The faster the boy biked

The land seemed a painting

It was a world he liked

Quite enchanting

Loser?

 In this life

There will always be the

Connected

Astute

Savvy

Shrewd

Tuned

Focused

But do not let it

Deter

Or stop you

Yes

To the banks 

May go the money

And to the walls

Of others adorned

But as a friend said

Losing doesn't make one

A loser

Anna Belle

 Anna Belle

And for a moment

She was an artist again

Deep breath wonderment 

Ink flowing freely

Down Pounds

 Down Pounds 

Once was the time

A ride down Pounds Hammock

was something looked forward to

the pines lining both sides of the

often about deep enough to get stuck in sand

road with tracks bearing turkey and deer

butterflies and honey bees swarming

on the flowers in the zone between ditch 

and pines, stopping often for just watching

jets passing through the myriad stars above

but not today for in the recent seasons the

timber men have taken about all the pine

pesticides or something has gotten the

butterflies and various insects

Just a lone dragonfly escorted me today

I’ll be a much older old man

by the time all these empty tracts fill in

the barren Pounds Hammock again

with planted pine.

Lotto land

 It’s getting too late in life for winning that mega million

Having homes in Mississippi 

Kentucky

West Virginia

And Sopchoppy when I’m in

Flaridy 

Buy back that old home of ours I would

Set it up with plenty of land

For grapes and sugar cane

Wouldn’t even have to find a mill

Or a kettle 

Being a mega million man

I’d have plenty of family

Company

Those willing to help me

Grind out a cooking come 

Thanksgiving

Sunday after the grinding

We would gather in Verbenadale

Restored down to the 

Prepare to meet thy God sign

Upright piano, red muslin curtains.

Wish I could again see

Doyle and Pearl there.

Joy of poetry

 Joy

I once had friends 

Who shared poetry

With me

From Katie to Joy

I remember them all.

Angeline

 926-1371

Calling Angeline Donaldson

On Highway 61

In Buckhorn

The little boy we learned

Has been burned 

Scalded with coffee

He's asking for you

Please come

Hold him in your

Black arms

We are so alarmed

We may lose 

Little Jumpy.

Cats in the cradle

 And the cats in the cradle

In the iPhone consumed

Little boy blue and the man

On the itune

When you gonna look up Dad 

I don't know when, but by then, the wind will be gone

But then you'll be scrolling.

I know you'll have a great time scrolling.

I floundered

There are memories etched deeper in the plate and one is going floundering with Sam Dunlap and his father. We went to Mashes Sand beach out from Panacea. Mr Dunlap gave us a gig and a head light and in the shallows we waded looking for the one sided fish in the sand. It was a magical time with the head light illuminating the life beneath the tide. 

Race with time

 one mile of life remaining....the poison in the vein coursing….too far along I had come....so the final mile I would run....set the timer to zero....time to go....crossed the line in four thirty three...some minutes later time caught up…...what a great

time to enter eternity....

In my life

 In my life 

In my life of moving vehicles to photograph them, one of my first tasks after setting the A/C, is switching the SXM station if a vehicle is so equipped, from the various obnoxious rap stations laced with profanity, to channel 18.

And I am for a short duration, back to February 9, 1964, watching Ed Sullivan on the black and white television announcing, “ladies and gentlemen, the Beatles!”

And the world began screaming and hasn’t stopped since. Up until that time, I never put much thought into music. My sister had her 45’s she and her girlfriends would play at slumber parties, groups such as Jan and Dean, the Dave Clark Five, The Beach Boys, nothing they’d scream over.

I did not aspire to become a Beatle that night. I wanted to become a Bart Star Quarterback of the Green Bay Packers. And in that summer of ‘63, when in Monticello I took second in the Pafford Motors Punt, Pass and Kick, winning a Washington Redskin helmet, I was let down it was burgundy with a feather. I considered painting it green and yellow. 

Then in the Spring of ‘68, after four of my 4th grade friends won the Jefferson Elementary talent show, impersonating the Fab Four, down to wigs from the downtown toy store, seeing how the girls even screamed over them, Bart was a falling Star.

I begged mamma to let me buy a Beatle wig. I now listened with my sister and her 45’s.

But like all fads that last a lifetime, we moved from Monticello to Kentucky that year, and the Beatles were no longer played much. I think the only album I ever owned, from one of those record clubs, was Rubber Soul.

But their music never left me, all the way through The Monkees, through the Cat Stevens years, the Pink Floyd Metal Years, The Bee Gees disco out of joint right up to today where I paused maybe a bit too long in that cool F-150 King Ranch, totally immersed in the Beatles singing In My Life, and of all the faces I remembered sitting there.

Exit

 Seldom do we stumble going in

Putting our best foot forward

But oh the stumbling going out

Snubbing and cursing without 

a word.

Sopchoppy

 Let us labor

Johnclarestokes 

I think of those now gone on

Some to eternal worlds

Others yet remaining here 

And I’m ever grateful for their labors

In the kingdom not of calloused hands

Men as ZT Johnson of Asbury 

Who helped usher me into the kingdom

A father, Luther Ray, who welcomed me

At the altar of repentance 

There were many following

Razziel at Florida Southern my brother

Mentoring me so lovingly

A long chain of laborers 

From Russell and a community praying

Melanie back to us

To Aaron singing softly to a dying mother

Touching beyond knowing this

Heart prone to hardening

So grateful for the workers in the vineyard 

So looking forward to drinking in

The fruits of their labors one day.

The “first” church

This was the first church my father oversaw the building of, the Sopchoppy Methodist Church. It replaced a grand old wood building upon hindsight I wish they had preserved, along with the old wooden Baptist church behind it. Our white block parsonage is beside it. Today the parsonage is gone, it’s no longer a Methodist church, as years ago they purchased the new brick Baptist Church beside it, who built a new church west of town.

Death Bed Confessions

 Death bed confessions

Upon the death beds

Heard confessing

You were the one

Never in my possession

Though I carried you

All these years

Locked up deep inside

Where we'd abide

In your fine longhand cursive 

Writing down the poetry

For only our eyes inside

Our confines

In my final dying

Take the words so secret

And scatter them liberally

About the wondering ones 

Don't fear our uncovering

The words rhyme in a 

Dialect foreign.

Impale me

 If I dare

Good friend

 John Sauls is becoming a good friend. Today helping me install a porch ceiling fan.

The Word

 One word

Prodigals

Like the ole farmer before morning dawn

The poet quietly went about his orisons

Searching pastures for those not returning home

Setting out provision for the anticipated coming

For words and images were important

Even if the congregation was but few

He could not force any to the nourishment

Convince any that manna was in dew

It's always been the way of the givers

Always the way of the prodigal wanderers 

Starved upon the husks of the swine

Provision before them of water to wine.

Lost shoals

 He tracked the three patiently

For he was hungry

Come late night fall

To the campfire he did crawl

By dawn's early red canoe

They only found two

So if you make it through Suwannee Shoals

Better pack Jack Links I'm told....

Steichen

 Steichen

Old Steichen was

Losing his mind

Never knowing 

Once in time past 

It was him who made

The memories last

By some quirk in the

Wheel with every third

Revolution it would click

Akin to a sound distant

He vaguely recalled

Some days when Steichen

Was in a good frame of mind

He would click the wheels

Like a motor winder 

Not pausing or even 

Contemplating direction

Other days in more the 

Pensive melancholic mood

He would slowly click then

Look

Look then click the wheel

Smiling at the capturing

A foot entering the frame

An orderly passing

The pattern of shadow on 

Carpet

It was the unknown click

In that wheel that kept

Steichen from totally 

Becoming lost in this

Place.