Of much

 of much we never spoke, of loved ones gone, of our journey home, of hearts broken, always the lilies listened, taking in the unspoken, petals wide open, our 

silence born willingly.

Prodigal

 Keep the old paths open

There are prodigals about

Forever running

Home without....

Crescent contemplation

 Of Crescent constellations and contemplations

Focus

 Focus Man

I post this as you would never know that this Coopers Hawk at Alligator Lake is captive and flying just above many heads into his cage.

I post this as I have another shot of a fellow photographer from the side this hawk was on, and he said people were in the way, that the photo wouldn’t sell as it would show the jesses, etc.

In other words, he didn’t bother.

I guess that was the beauty of his ultra expensive get up he had, the Nikon D500 with the 200-500mm lens on monopod. He could afford not to bother. 

With my amateur get up of the Nikon D3300 and the 18-300mm, I was free to be bothered and shoot away. 

Just saying.

Just because you can afford to drive a Lamborghini, it doesn’t make you a race car driver.

2018

 A few from today 4/17/18

Crow above

 Crow mentor

And I was given a tormentor

A crow above me

To buffet me 

Lest I should think more highly 

than an eagle should be

What I carried

 In the Tokina

Trying to vary what I carry

Today the D850 with 70-300 polarizer 

D40 with 11-16 polarizer 

GoPro Hero5

Iphone6

Extra 18-300 lens

Batteries, etc 

Two belt bags 

As usual, too much.

Little Shoals

 Little Shoals

Suwannee River

The River recedes 

Nikon D40

Tokina 11-16 2.8

Polarizing filter

6MP

Vivid setting

Lise

 Following a most satisfying time at Restaurant Carrel

Bouquet boy made his way to Montmartre

There in the field he met Lise Treholt

The lover of his friend Renoir

Girl Gathering Flowers 

Renoir

1872

Void of one

 Void of one

Is the scene one to stand alone?

Does the scene depend upon one?

One says,  for the one I so long

Another says, let’s rejoice ones gone.

CR 333

 It was one of those idyllic great days in April, akin to today, that the road led to Madison Highway 333, or Cherry Lake Road 53 to Quitman. Somewhere between Bottle Tree Trail and Barney Fife Blvd with Duval Pond and Sheriff Peevy’s place nearby, we came upon this scene. It was a car stopper.

All thy works

 All thy works shall praise thy name

Have you heard the Amaryllis play Holy! Holy! Holy! upon the fernaphone, have you walked quietly by Mary and the Christ child? If so, then you will never know why I sing the Song of Songs. All thy works shall praise thy name

Unless you've heard Amaryllis play Holy! Holy! Holy! upon the fernaphone, then you will know why I sing along.

Through the sloughs

 the slough is mere temporary 

 await at the edge of bog 

 flying ferns will carry

  over the cypress log  

through palmetto kingdoms  

above slash pine candles 

 to the dwelling of new sun 

 to water pristine beyond pure

No finish line

 No finish line

Johnclarestokes 

On the morning of the cloud Angels singing

The Thunderbirds taking wing

We were out at Mt Carmel gathering

The Chaplin he tried his very best

Not knowing who he laid to rest

The men in blue saluting one of the finest

friends a fellow will ever in life know

So many the miles we did go

Cameras, canoes, bikes in tow.

We both painted the same scenes

Listened to our Will McLean

Dove beneath the clearest streams

He could spot a chirp or a shard

Unearth history in any yard

Tell of the old Wellborn days hard

In Okefenokee we took my little son

Down River Narrows with Gators sunning

One of our many don't tell mamma son.

Lost in Osceola training for River Run

Hitching a ride with a hunter returning

Not concerned the daylight burning

Nearly a century you almost climbed

They were the best of times

Those hands joyfully raised crossing

That marathon line!

Tie rods

 Inside that quiet well coiffured facade 

Bouquet boy wasn’t all the world perceived

For he was more Vincent and Edgar and Magritte 

Than the marble faced triton among tie rods

Fulton Suwannee

Palmetto Trail, Big Shoals

It was mid April of 2011. Riding along the Palmetto Trail, I abruptly came upon a Forestry Service worker in his truck with bulldozer. He said, you may want to hurry on, we are about to do a controlled burn. I agreed and then something inside said, take his photograph. I asked if  he would mind if I took a quick photograph. He said it was OK. I took it, thanked him and moved on. On June 20th, 2011, Brett Fulton and Josh Burch were killed in the Blue Ribbon Fire in Hamilton County. Upon comparing newspaper photographs of the two men, I realized that I had taken one of the last photographs of Brett. The photograph now hangs in memorial at my friend Rick Bringger's Firehouse Subs in Lake City, Florida.

Doodle land

 Doodle Land

Johnclarestokes

Can I find the place

the boys memory traces

beneath the creaking steps

where the doodle bug slept

til time for slipping slant in

sand the wandering ant

swatting yellow flies feeding

them to the ants soldiering 

not wandering from the well

marked line where larvae dwell

to emerge to choose the single

file or the cool dark dwelling

of the doodles wild.

Can I find the time 

the boy held the line

to mark the row where

the acre peas would grow

with the old dego hoe

keeping at bay the weeds

imaging himself a Yellow Jacket

halfback like Walt defeating Sneads

to hear a father call him back

from the field of dreams to the task

of making this earthly garden the

best this Wakulla soil ever knew.

Can I dwell for just a spell

to trace again that sweet smell

wafting from the off plum line kitchen

of morning bacon and pancakes

waking the boy on the top bunk

awaiting the call so he could jump

to dress and load the brown vest

with the four ten shells 

to fell the chattering bushy tails

down by the old drainage pond

the aroma of spent shot heavenly

to a boy always hungry for

the wonders doodle land could bring.

Just a lot

Just a lot

That door at the end of the Williston United Methodist Church Sunday School wing was my fathers workshop where he kept the tools from before I was born and I  now own. That large oak once had a large compost, worm bed of which we sold 50 for a dollar and used to fish mostly in the Whitehurst lakes. The next oak once had a tree house my brother and I spent much time in. The end of the ramp was the place we would climb to the roof and lay out, mostly my sister doing that. I would use it at night to look for UFO's and girlfriends coming to the A&P. There once was a tree in front of the workshop door where I would sit with my father and where I taught myself harmonica and composed many poems. And the lot too once held our home, the old white wood parsonage. It was moved toward Ocala I'm told. So when I park upon that spot where the garden grew, the gophers roamed, the boxer Goliath kept basketballs for himself from the brothers, the fishers came for the worms, the tools were used by a father who loved them, I walk quietly and reverently.

Calla

 Calla Promenade 

The Calla need not go to

Extraordinary expense

With makeup and apparel

Need not hire the top

Photographer to try and

Capture the beauty

No, they just arrive 

At the promenade 

Ready to cause all

Eyes to turn in

Wonderment.