My demise

 Dead men working

I will keep on photographing

Writing so called poetry

Until the day I’m gone

You can find it in the

Middle room

Stacked quite haphazard 

Enough to make

One fine fire if perchance

It’s the wintry season

Of my demise

Ring Around

 Ringing around the Posies 

As the Eastside PE instructor had the third graders circled, my hands tightened upon the wheel. Again I was on the Monticello playground. The instructor telling us the last one to fall down would have to tell who their girl or boy friend is. Terror seized me. 

They must not know who I secretly liked.

Kingdom of Anole

 

Bug and Buckee

 All alone home home on the range

Bug and Bucky rocked  to the flames

Seldom we thought we heard

An encouraging word

The skies were quite clear all day...

Swing high

 Swing High

by Johnclarestokes 

To the skies above with the

hawks I swing

Below my bare feet brush the

sand and stings.

Pumping hard to reach above the

dogwood blooms

Each passing arc nearer and

nearer to blue I zoom.

And as the butterfly fusses

and flits

The locust looks and his

tobacco spits

Bees buzz and struggle under

their pollen load

Dragonflies swoop and taunt

the patient toad.

I swing in ever widening circles

The blues, the golds, the browns

all one swirl

and I leap

and I am but a speck

way above the cloudy world.

I am a hawk.

Stetson man

 

Palmetto halo

 A palmetto halo

John Clare Stokes

It’s about the only crown

This shadow of a man shall adorn

No goodness found

Of all self righteousness shorn

We men the earth born

in the darkness and shadow dwell

Can the fallen leaves ever adorn

The green of life before we fell?

Soar

 There are those called to fly

Before they ever take wing

In womb hear the Sandhill cry

Or feel the oceans roaring

There is a softer wind

There is a quieter song

There is a darkness fleeing

There is a coming home

Magic Brownie

 The boy and the magical Brownie

Each day the boy and his Brownie

would set out in wonderment 

to see what magical scenes unfolded

before them

and it wasn’t long

I’d say around seven frames

they’d find a cloud beckoning

to rest upon it for the next

Seven wonders to visit them.

Bert and Cora

 Burt and Cora

John Stokes

Last evening on public broadcasting network they replayed the documentary of Joe Hutto called, My time as a turkey, about his study of a clutch of turkey eggs he incubated, who imprinted on him. The experiment took place in 1991 in the Apalachicola National Forest, near the farm of Burt and Cora Roddenberry in the Mt Beeser Community. It was years earlier, in the early sixties, that on this Thanksgiving morning my father, the late Rev Luther Stokes and I went on a turkey hunt on Burts property by the Deep Branch. It was before the stores sold the butterballs, and when my dad beaded in with his old Parker 12 gauge double-barreled, we knew we would have wild turkey for dinner.

We spent many Sunday's at the Roddenberry's, our favorite time in November when many would gather for his annual cane syrup making. It was from "uncle Burt" that my father learned to make his own syrup, which too later became our tradition on his little farm in Crawfordville called Homewood, after his birthplace in Mississippi. We called our syrup "old Homewood". 

In this photo, which my father took, Cora oversees the making of a chicken wire fence around her roses, no doubt to keep the turkey out. My dad was conducting a revival at the Methodist Church he served in Sopchoppy from 1955-1962. His good friend, then President of Asbury College my father and mother attended in Kentucky, Dr Zachary Taylor "ZT" Johnson, is in the background. He was the evangelist. Kneeling with Burt was Lawrence George, his friend from Asbury too, who with his wife, led the singing.

My fathers new blue Dodge DeSoto, 

Bought on trade for the old Packard, is in the background.

Today we shall gather and I shall dwell long in those cold deep woods of Wakulla next to my father, then move on over and sit beside him as he stokes the old Homewood fires.

Lucille’s wheelbarrow

 Lucille’s wheelbarrow 

For years it rested in the cool sand beneath the old raised cracker home in Wakulla County, home of Lucille Towles, blind, later owned by my father, now me.

The wood now gone, all that remains is the metal wheel. 

Paradise

 She dreams of paradise 

I told her

Close your eyes

Click the heels twice

She opened her eyes

Said, why this isn't paradise

I said, my bad

''Tis mine.

Tell me the story

 Tell me the story

John Clare Stokes

Seems the further from the once sharply

defined scene

The more it blends into a dream

The lessons once written in plain 

black,white and red

Permeating skin, blood and bone

shaping within the Way herein we

so walk

no longer in the harsh light of law

but in soft beams of grace enveloping.

Corinth Methodist Church

Columbia County

Florida

Take Me

 Take me

John Clare Stokes

I stood knee deep in the outgoing tide

I said, take me, as it rushed out to sea

I stood arms outstretched in the wind

I said, take me, joyful in the lifting 

I stood upon the rivers edge

I said, take me, as to the gulf it ebbed

I stood in the stream so clear

I said, take me, past the wide eyed deer.

I stood amid the rising smoke,

I said, take me, as through rays it broke

I stood in the shadows growing long

I said, take me, before the light is gone

I stood within the rushing crowd

I said, take me, from clamor loud

I stood in the wide open field

I said, take me, to your bidding I yield

I stood in the Holy presence

I said, take me, and thus began romance.

Imprint

 

Thanksgiving

 

Revive Again

 Revive again

John Clare Stokes

Revive again the recalled when

Revive again the autumn cane grinding

Revive again the low smoke wafting

Revive again the glad homecoming 

Send again the wide open screen

Send again the sound of children

Send again the halcyon scene

Send again the life that sings

By George!

 By George 

John Clare Stokes 

All our days we suffered the George’s, my fathers friend from college, a fellow pastor from Quincy, Lawrence and his wife and son and daughter. The entire family had the affliction of what we have, do, think is better than you, yours, theirs. It was bad enough that even mamma, one without an unkind word, let us know. That bad.

One Thanksgiving I decided without premeditation to pull a trick on Wesley the son of Lawrence. We went hunting behind the camp in Gulf Hammock Thanksgiving morning and spotted an armadillo. It was there I decided to appeal to his ego. I told Wes it was prized in the camp, akin to a deer, please let me shoot it. Naturally his I’m superior personality wouldn’t allow it and he shot it. Please let me carry it into camp. Nothing doing. So he marched into camp beaming and carried it over to Mr Duane cooking on the bed spring grill.

Mr Fugate promptly said, boy, get that nasty critter out of here! It pleased me greatly to see the look on his face. Mamma would have smiled at that one.

Prime lens

 Prime Lens

john clare 

And in the end

It was just our

Reflection in the

Bargain art

The kind that

Adorns the

Corridors of the

Aged

Beyond the budget

Of original 

Given to the 

Greater need of

Depends and

Bed pans

Needs of body

At expense of

Souls

With the prime lens

We looked long

At the image

imagining ourselves

Before

Steichens

Atget's

Bourke-Whites

Soon the creak

Of wheel chairs

Came

And we slipped out

Of the frame

Bargain art

Again.

Silence of the limbs

 Silence of the limbs

john clare 

If trees could talk

They wouldn't 

Why should they?

What would they 

Tell you?

Leave me alone

Long after you

Are gone

I'll still be here

Listening to

Another jabbering

Like some pileated 

On my bark

Enough

I do not talk

Quit wishing I would.

Wilmore

 In my now sixty quick years there have been many Thanksgiving memories, from getting up early Thanksgiving and going with my father to Bert Roddenberry's property in Sopchoppy and shooting a turkey for dinner that day. Of waking early in Crawfordville and starting up the Gravely tethered to the mill pole to grind the Homewood cane syrup we made for years. I think this year to the two years in 65 and 66 in Wilmore, Kentucky. My Uncles William and Billy were both in college, living with us in our Asbury College duplex in the one room apartment in the back yard. They were two of my best years of my life.

Making the grade

 Making the grade

159th

White Springs

Warbler

 Pine Warbler

Without the exotic prime lens to make the subject more a sharp scientific study worthy of a Stokes  Bird Guide, It becomes concentration upon composition and surrounding scenery. I’m not sure in the identification of the warbler, it really isn’t important, it’s not going in the Guide Book. 

D850 with 70-300 lens

Memory

 Thanksgiving memory

I’ve written on another page, the many Thanksgivings there have been, and how I loved all of them, from shooting the turkey with daddy in the woods of Sopchoppy, to the two story in Monticello and the duplex in Wilmore, Kentucky with my Uncles and mothers mamma, to Williston and Gulf Hammock camp C to our family making syrup in Crawfordville and Williston. Today we travel to Alabama with Melanies mother for our first Thanksgiving there. So many in the family now gone, estranged and out of range gathering again.

I am sure it’s the same in all our Thanksgivings.

Santa Fe Crossing

 White tails crossing Santa Fe

Standing still where once two exchanged vows

Downstream the three white tail were crossing

Into the woods they went after awhile

I do I do rippling with every pebble tossing.

Pounds field

 The fields of Pounds Hammock

Often I journey down to Pounds

To hear perhaps the turkey sounds

But mostly it’s silence that surrounds

But no better place I find is found.

Monarch light

The Monarch and the light of night

Born from night to light of day

The Monarch emerged on time

It’s all in the Creators wondrous way

From the fire perfection refine. 

Blue straits

 Through the blue straits

Through the blue straits

we ply

Unaware we exist within a scene 

So many are the compositions passing by

Never wake me from this dream

Race of life

 The race of life begins

Were I of fleet feet once again

The old man would strike out

the young one so easily passing

Slow down! She’d loudly shout.

Contemplation

 Contemplating the end of day

We think of what lies below

Contemplating the reflection of our life

Of where beyond we shall go

Or maybe just being here is nice.

The two were one

 The two were always one

He had to keep a grip upon his bride

For memory couldn’t keep her by his side

He thought back to times before the stray

And longed for times of walking the same way.

Last light

 The last light upon Alligator

To frame the scene in fleeing light

Before the perfect white takes flight

Who saw the play upon the day

Before the curtain of night held sway?

Pause

 A pause upon the bridge at Alligator

When crossing the bridge to pause

Search for trolls and creatures below

Bridges are good our pace to slow

Soon enough the long trail calls.

Trail head

 Trail head

These days of lament we keep our distance 

Each in our own world we exist

The scenes only seen by me alone

Pause until between us distance grown.

A welcome spire

 A welcome spire

Never do I tire looking toward the spire

For atop the steeple is a cross

For when the sin rampant and I tire

I claim alone His cost.

Home in Mayo

 What is it of November?

Of the old place I remember

That Sandhill song draws

and to the home place it calls. 

In the garden of the greens

 God said, walk with me in my garden,

I bet you didn’t know I was decidedly Southron 

Why else do you think I created collard greens?

and cane syrup to boot for

cold frosty morns. 

Thigpen

 Old Thigpen had Christmas up always early

It wasn’t plastic and tacky tinsel inside

No, it was by the back door for Santa to see

Merry and bright with his smile so wide. 

Gathering

 i heard there was a gathering...of the Stokes family..they said Billy Ferrell was there...Curt and Grace,Marzell and Luther too...even Irene, Hazel, Joe and Parks....i do not know why i missed that eighty-three reunion....i would have liked to have been there...to see William Clark in yellow...Jimmy in the matched socks...Clara such a mountain beauty...Rose and Barbara equally....that baby and wife of Billy...the child hiding behind Jimmy...Luther Ray what ever distracted thee?

What to remember

 What to remember

Aurelia D Wallace

Woman remembers the yearning, not the getting.

Man remembers the gift, not the giving.

Babe remembers the sucking, not the breast.

I remember the living, not the dead.

Tomb remembers the dead, not the living.

Governments count the fed, not the starving.

Child remembers the answer, not the calling.

Rain remembers the sky, not the falling.

Tide remembers the shore, not the rising.

I remember the living, not the dying.

Iris Jeanette Pueschel

Timing

 Timing

I really dislike how

In this life

Our timing is so off

When my grandfathers 

were in their prime

I was just entering

Didn’t really know them

Sketchy at best

Just a few summer days

with them

Then they were gone on

And so it is with

So many others

A day 

A week 

A month with some

One

Two 

Years 

And we part

I’m not certain 

But it would be nice

In eternity if the timing 

Wasn’t off 

But then 

It’s not earth

And it probably is a thing

We will not recall

Sopchoppy Thanksgiving

 A Sopchoppy Thanksgiving

It was the early sixties. I was around seven. It was before you went to the store and bought your butterball turkey. It is was Thanksgiving morning and we were going hunting. We went to Bert Roddenberry's farm, beautiful Wakulla bottom land where years later Joe Hutto would do his study of living with a flock of turkey. He told of the time with the turkey in the book Illumination in the flatwoods and later a PBS movie, My time with the turkey.

Daddy had his Parker double barrel 12 gauge with the ornately engraved barrels. It was given to him by a friend,Everett “Dutch” Fisher in Boyd,Kentucky while he was student preaching there.

We walked along the Creek bottoms listening and looking for signs. I knew not exactly what, deer or turkey, maybe black bear. 

We came to a rise and daddy motioned me to be still. I do remember the time he let me shoot the gun, him holding it behind me, for the recoil would have knocked me flat.

I don’t recall if this was the time but we took aim at a turkey and to our delight hit it. We gathered it up and after showing Mr. Bert, took it home to dress it out. Daddy saved the legs for desk ornaments and the beard.

Upon dressing it mamma baked it and that Thanksgiving day we enjoyed the dinner we bought home.

Verbenadale

 Verbenadale....

perhaps the place of destination for me in the Lost in Levy is to the once vibrantly alive in old time gospel worship...the community church of Verbenadale. With each visit, the encroaching and eminent collapse draws nearer. This visit found someone posting no trespassing signs all about, in an effort to let the church building die in peace I suppose, keeping those who would pull a board or drape for memory sake. It looks as if the end is destined, that who ever owns the little church has no intention of restoring it. It has always been a source of consternation with me, that those with the funds, who hold these treasures in their grips, let them slip away, while we without, stand beyond the trespass line and watch. This is repeated over and over, with a little church at my home in Lake City, historical in value, used as a hay barn, no concern beyond feeding of the cattle.  We did not linger long here today. The sun had already passed from its walls and on toward Otis Bells place it set, somewhere behind the Harris home and gone.

Star carrier

 Star Carrier

john clare 

And from the blackness of darkness reserved forever

From the shadows of Remphan

Emerged a mysterious figure

Carrying in his right hand a star

And LO, this star which he held, went before him and came to

Rest where a young child lay.

And we redeemed

From Remphan rejoiced

Our wandering ceased

As he set his day star beside 

This child to arise within 

Our hearts.