John’s Mother

 After Whistlers Mother

The picture on the wall is her fathers bus coming up the holler in Crumpler, WV, where she was born and raised until college.

Men of Steel

 Men of Steel 

John Clare Stokes

By night the broken men 

would sip within the cemetery

of Mann atop the hill overlooking

the dying town where once the

coal they said would never end 

lamenting or celebrating

we never knew

we only knew that they were

up there

like the ravens in the trees

leaving their droppings

too poor to be buried atop

the cemetery of Mann

moving on come the dawn

into the hills and the hollers

living off the welfare dollars

high above the dying town.

In days present past

 In days present past

John Clare Stokes

We thought our works would last

The bold colors so lovingly applied

But oh how the hues did subside 

to white canvas of a double coated past.

He told the youth of Lucy and Red

It drew blank stares of who?

The fame soon fades like the hue

The child becomes the old man led.

The Stucco fence

 The Stucco Fence 

John Clare Stokes

In innocence where once they leaned

to steal their first kiss deep beneath

their feet a rumbling earth gave rise to

coal to warm the homes upon the steep

holler steps the old Orander buses rusting

beside the narrow road that carried the

fathers and the brothers far within the

Crumpler mountains returning to the shrill

whistle of shifts ending unrecognizable in sooted faces

a mass of one shuffling men all laboring

below while above in white snow lingered

two near the stucco fence that kept them

separated, daring never to cross for 

mother Ethel saw it all from her upstairs room

the daily coming and the going of who

was returning from Northfork and who was

going to Bluefield even down to hearing

the soft purring in the cellar dank, Black Daisy lapping

the milk stolen from the ice box while

Ethel ironed the bus mans uniforms over

looking the first generation of the Italian

family in search of a dream within the

coal seams and steal perchance their

own first kiss to start a family living in

the yellow company home and if by hard

labor they saved up enough script they

too could move up the holler into a

house of blue where from their upstairs

windows they could count the coming and

the going who was meeting who by the

yellow stucco fences below to steal their

daughters away, far away from the 

separation of their fences, far from the

rumblings deep beneath their trembling feet.

Old Atget

 Old Atget

John Clare Stokes

Old Atget

No one ever told him

He was too old

To compete

No tattoos 

No criminal past

Clear diction

Just not mainstream

He didn't get it

Didn't notice it

In the long pause

Can you lift 

How's your back

Inquiring

But he's a 

Photographer 

They said

Yet not a clue

Ole Atget

Broken and broke

Sat before them

Camera less 

Thinking my

She has that dour

Pinched expression

Of boredom

The overworked

Stressed wealthy

Possess

Atget

Longed to be 

Above this all

Sitting off to the side

Waiting for her to

Make the right

Expression

So he could 

Capture it

Thank you for

Coming in Atget

We will be in touch

Atget knew they 

Never would as 

To the next

Candidate with 

The cheek with

To much blush

They rushed.

Strawberry moon

 I should stick with photographing Strawberry moons

Seems the slugs and pillbugs feast

By the light of the Strawberry moon

On the strawberries I never see.

At 11:15 Monday evening, perusing the thought of a D850 or not, Julie posted that the Strawberry full moon was beautiful so I put a new battery in the d7500, attached the 70-300 and had a look see. I ventured out to my chagrin without shoes and the myriad pine cone shavings from the squirrels smarted. It was cloudy and the moon came beautifully over Bobbi’s pines. Planes were active so I waited about an hour, when one came out of the North to Gainesville and hit the moon perfectly. I got off a burst of nearly twelve then gingerly made my stoked self in.

Df

 Magic? 

Why didn’t I get one new in 2013? It was a continuation of the film Camera Nikon FM2 and FE, both of which I had, the FM2 yet. Nonetheless after angst over getting another D850, I pulled the Amazon today for a renewed Df, all metal, dials, cable release threaded. Half the price of a D850. I hope for magic. 

RLS

 Something bright in all,

Flowers in the summer,
Fires in the fall.
–Robert Louis Stevenson (1850–94)

The hen pecked Cardinal

 Put on your big boy red pants

Nothing worse than being told to take care of the blue jays at the feeder

Time to roll

 Time to roll

The hasty journeyman, first to the field, first upon the tractor, ready to begin the gathering. Could it be the urgency of knowing the rain, or is it just the love of being there he cannot explain?

Reality

 Reality is but a narrow window opening

Depending upon who is doing the closing.

Tell me!

 Upon opening the black box

The imprisoned moon arose

The raven escaped screaming,

"Is there, is the Balm in Gilead?

Tell me! 

Tell me!

I implore!"

Quoth Malachi 

The Sun of righteousness shall 

Arise with healing in his wings!

Dawning

 Dawning Expectations

Back to back

 I did not expect to place first again in the Wally Reichert West Library show. I was stoked. On the threshold of a journey the winner. 

To the pen

 I've many friends

Some in the pen

I've other friends

Who need to be in pens

Had I the key

Some I'd free

Others 

I'd throw away the key.

I went to

  I went to Yeats for surely Yeats

wrote of the summer lilies

I went to Emily for surely Emily

told of the bee among the lilies

I went to Thoreau for surely Thoreau

lived less desperate by the lilies

At last

I went to you for surely you

would abide with me in the lilies.

Every journey

 Every journey begins with the prospect of never returning. Thus we count as loss all but that which would get us there, embarking in our symmetrical vessels for lands we've read of in words of red, upon linen pages, sacred, yet so down to earth we yearn to see it.

The old ways

 I have considered the day of old. Psalm 77:2

While scripture says forgetting those things behind, to press forward, there is much scripture that tells me to look to the past, to consider. Perhaps I’m guilty of spending too much time looking back, looking

to those who finished the course, of old paths, of golden days. It serves as hope for coming days, it helps keep me on the old, narrow path.

Masters Keys

 Masters Keys

John Clare Stokes 

He came upon the keys to the garden

Tucked long away in the tin box

Tarnished and dusty with the closed

lost locks 

In brittle leather pouches on soft brass

hooks hanging 

Once upon the hinges the gates swung wide 

the ole blue Ford tractor passing 

through the unlocked gate to unturned fields

Neatly hung in the shed the 

tools to abundant yields 

the little boy hoeing hard at the Gardeners side

And he would send the boy with the keys

the Gardener waiting patiently 

in the furrowed row

To the little one which keys he must know

his first prayers, “dear God, the Gardener

depends upon me!”

And with a sweet click and quick return

He ran with the right tool for the seed 

The Gardener pleased with the 

little boys deed

As wide eyed there was so much to learn

And so the keys to the garden are in his hands

the old Blue tractor waits for him to 

find the key 

But the gate is long gone along 

with even the property

The Gardener rests in the cool of eternity

I trust the Master understands.

Secret place

 Secretly there remains a peaceful place

  Tucked down the far lane 

 Perhaps a southern Thrace 

 Where summer snowmen yet remain

2018 trip

 Mr Ern’s way

Melanie and I are seldom the adventurous couple

But tonight we are setting out on the double

For a brief weekend meeting with some Mississippians 

Mr Ern’s people 

My grandfather 

The man who had two families 

Of which my daddy was one of the first

Jeanne, Joe, Tony and Sue too

Jimmy and Mary of the second living 

And quite a host yet remaining

Cousins and such I hardly know

 But we deemed it most important 

To keep Mr Ernest Stokes bus line running

Not let it fade into an Guthrie type of dream

Tell Jim we came to see him

Stand with him if only for a moment

But just as important 

Even if we had to stand our years in far off Florida

For he is family

They are family

And family is worth the long haul

Name

 There’s an old name written down 

My father was good at engraving, stamping and writing his name or initials on his tools, for he knew their value and sticky fingers as well. I cannot recall what this nameplate originally was on, but I put it on the old syrup mill.

Mr Foote

 In 2012 when I was a meter reader for FPL, one of my many walking routes took me monthly to Mr Foote’s little house on Rose Terrace. Bob, my trainer, told me he always stopped and left Mr Foote a treat.  Once on my own, I continued to bring him a granola bar or something not too sweet, as he was diabetic. Always on his front porch, it was one of the highlights of my year meter reading. His old home was eventually torn down and was replaced with a nicer single wide.

Flow over me

 Flow over me

I want to be like Itchetucknee 

Clear and cool

Everyone wanting to float

Over me

Giving them pleasure

Them paying me big bucks

Just to be with me.

Forest

 Drawing a blank

Oh how sobering to see the strong men drawing blanks, the mind fading away ever so incessantly.

Saw Forest at the dealer today, confirmed to me he is living in the assisted living facility, after the wife died, the house sold. Always the consummate yard man, lamented the new buyer, a single mom, letting the grass grow.

I promised I’d come visit him in room 38, or was it 36.

I’m drawing a blank.

Forest Wright

At the hour

 at the hour of eight 

 the red bell was rung 

 quickly now it's late 

 the chariots of fire have come

  and from the homes

  they poured into the streets 

 not a child left alone 

 all agaze as heaven and earth met

  then on into the east

  the trail of fire glowed

  and from the greatest to the least 

 the glory on all bestowed.

O Williston

 Oh Williston, today for the Noble I long, home of so many loves, let me but name them,  but no, I may pine too long for them again, and I would sadly, have to spend, another cold eve, in the old oak tree....my father, the late Rev Luther Ray Stokes, pastor of First United Williston sits in the side yard studying his sermon. My brother Lewis tree house and gopher pen seen.

In passing

 In passing

In Itchetucknee 

I tried in vain to explain the attempt to take it all in, and they just said, it would still be there tomorrow. But I was here now and today it must all be taken in. So I returned tomorrow and sure enough, it was gone.

Go low

 Go low My Suwannee

I do not blame thee

Times I too grow weary

Of carrying the current

And just desire to dry up

Into a trickling stream

Where only water bugs 

And tadpoles can swim

Grounding the kickers and

The paddlers always loudly

Intruding over you

Go ahead Suwannee

Lower yourself if you need

Make the vapid  conform to your speed.

Conjuring love

 Conjuring love

In the stillness of the early 

mornings first light

Before the wind begins

it’s swirling of the rays

Over the old Columbus

incantations are prayed

the rain waters are so smooth

it’s not long the Homewood 

throng comes for a spell

today with us do you come

to dwell?

the scene is so inviting

Soon, pappa Ern, soon.

For as such

 For of Such

John Clare 

On the wood worn 

the children whirled on

whirling to the hymns of old 

spinning graces golden

we gathered the dust

laid it upon the altar

precious glowing pure

offerings worth much.

Crawl space

Crawl space

Johnclarestokes 

Seems lately many are down in the crawl space

Down low creeping lest the head hits a beam

In search of the waters continued leaking

Down low the pipes trying to trace

Above the ones your presence enjoying

The love to you they have given

But you’re in the cool sand crawling 

while above for the water they’re calling

Seems it’s in the dark of the crawl space

Where into the low we are so often going

that we at last find the quench for the thirst

a thirst not found in the mending of pipes. 

Hello walls

 Walls talk

john clare stokes 

They often ask in cliche tones if only walls could talk.

And I tell them again, they do, you just weren’t taught their language

The manner in which they speak,

Continually telling those who know, with every creak in every shadow; telling you, 

Take the time, stand ever so still, perhaps you’ll discern;

Listen, from the cool sand below the porch, the sound of playing, the lift of laughter:

The peeling paint above revealing the layers of many cheerful coming over greetings,

The haint blue porch ceiling, the spooks confusing,

not wanting to be sent into the water,

off the silver now brown tin the rain pattering in unison

to the old dog fennel hounds howling to the familiar tune.

In the crisp fall the old screen door spring snapping open and shut, 

The voice to the ones in the field loudly calling them in

Some summer sultry days the conversations swell louder than the myriad cicadas dictating the words,

Rising to abruptly fall in silence as the invisible 

conductor lowers the sycamore wand. 

In winter you can hear the burring of crackling words in the chattering chill

Swear from the cracked chimney a fire was yet glowing 

Sending sweet aromas of curing one could cut and taste,

the front room always kept warm for the ones

outside wandering afar

Wondering if the inner wars they were battling would

ever come to terms of restful peace

The smooth glass door knob turning in the evening gloam

Those huddled about the hearth determined they recognized the steps of one long ago journeying 

But it wasn’t the traveller returning after all

It was but the talking of the walls 

Yes, the echoes off the walls telling it all.

Right of light

 Right of light 

John Clare Stokes

Watching over the cucumbers

climbing up the hog wire

A familiar figure I think I see

in the back corner of the garden

Oh, that’s just the scarecrow!

I just nod and agree,

You can’t convince many

of mystery.

My father often told

He would visit him

In his garden

I believed him.

Calling all

 Revival time at Round Top

John Clare Stokes

Calling all mules

Halt ye fools!

Calling all mares 

Cast your cares!

Calling all donkeys 

Why kick ye!

Calling all cows

Tarry but awhile!

Calling all goats

Halt your boast!

Calling all sheep

His word keep!

Calling all men

Revive Round Top again!

Little artist

 You can spot the artists early on

The teacher tells them

Not so much glitter

And they are deafly pouring

Ignoring 

For the work calls for globs

Of stars 

The teacher scolds 

Within the lines stay

And the little artist strays

For the work did not call

For lines just in there

But everywhere

And the teacher reminds

It's a primary

And we must not make

Our heaven secondary

But the little artist

Sees the Angels upon

The celestial beams 

Descending

And certainly knows

The colors teachers

Not seeing.

High dive

 High Dive

I did not mean 

To applaud your

Fall

The backflip

Down

Was wonderful

I gave it a ten

Shows you

What men

Know of diving

And falling

Of knowing 

When the pools

 half empty

Or totally.

Heat of rhyme

 Heat of rhyme

It's not wise

To take up

Poetry in the

Heat of rhyme

By line if you

Haven't 

Found sonnet

You may as

Well prose up

And die.

Scream

 Scream

Awesomeness

Even when

You piss

Be a star

Player

Even on a

Team of 

Suns

Be full-speed

And you

May just win

This lucrative 

Position

Just send us

Your best

Self-centered 

Sales pitch

In one paragraph 

Of course

With that

Unforgettable 

Resume

Can I go pee now?

Aligned

 The planets

Aligned

Just in time

For the end

Of time

Glad I was 

Here before

The spinning

Out of alignment

Then the

Hurling us

Toward to North

Pole only now

Antarctica

Giving us relief

In this heat

Kingdoms come

Just when we

Need it.

Message in a sonnet

 Message in a sonnet

johnClare stokes

For years I HID the way I was feeling,

The heart WITHIN at your sight in turmoil,

In THE unguarded moments a glance taking,

The SONNET then never a thing of toil.

It was in THIS thought today I dwelt,

The MESSAGE years ago I should have sent,

OF how it was I truly felt,

ALL these long years in silence spent.

With THESE words time and again unsaid,

Of SEEING ones content in the telling,

I visit the graves of these long dead,

How they LOVED in open together dwelling.

And I never raised to YOU the toast,

To tell all that I loved you MOST.

Man foot

 Man foot

I stood at the edge of the puddle

Pondering the path of the herons feet

Circling about the reflected sun

And I wondered

Why man would step in it

And intrude.

Landon

 O Lemuel 

I can vividly see the day in the grape arbor chapel daddy constructed in his backyard, where mornings he’d sit and meditate, often upon a sermon he was to deliver that Sunday.  I do not know what he told Landon that morning, I was out of earshot and did not want to intrude upon the conversation.

It’s now going on ten years since daddy went to Orange Hill, ten years since hearing any word from Landon. Father’s Day is one of those days of hope, that we will get the call, the card, the message upon the messenger, but we kind of know, like daddy resting with mamma at the cemetery, some things await the resurrection day.

Lament

 Fathers Day

It’s not the fathers we think of

upon this day

but the mothers who took time

to bake those oatmeal cookies

who made the fathers feel part

for few the sons

who compose the card

who pick out the tie

No, it’s their mothers who say

Sign this card to your daddy

Call your father 

I don’t care

you haven’t spoken in years

Tomorrow I will not expect

the card 

the cookies

the call

for you see

My mother isn’t here to remind

Anybody.