Mamma doe said rest here beneath the grapes
Whatever you do, don’t run, I’ll be near by
If it’s time to run, I’ll make a sound of escape
But little fawns are hard of hearing besides
How can I be sure mamma is nearby?
And what if that black thing is a gun?
What does mamma know?
No, I will run, run, run, run!
Johnclarestokes
On the fields of Trenton far away,
In the fading fall of sixty-seven,
From the sky a ball spiraled his way,
Lost in the vapor lamps under cool heaven.
In the bleachers of away sat a father,
Cheering the son on his long route,
Can this time in young arms gather,
the falling ball hidden by light?
Into the end zone of home we reached,
The clutching of pigskin in outstretched hands,
A sound arose grander than any sermon preached,
A father cheering his son from the stands.
First touchdowns, victories, falling balls,
So far from the fly route once ran,
But the one thing near he still recalls,
A fathers voice above the cheers in the stand,
Way to go John!
John Clare Stokes
For years they dwelt beside the shady quiet road
Kept the front yard neatly swept
The petunias and posies in the clay pots
Dressed their best for worship down
At the Greater Poplar Springs Missionary
They were part of the good times
Before the naming of the shady road
after brother Martin Luther King
When in the neighborhood, before it
was a hood,the children were good
Minded a daddy who was there
There with granny and her husband
Didn’t need no ole Lyndon Baines to
Rebuild this already great society
But he did as the old ways died
And so the remnants of how it was
Linger about
Exposed for those who can’t recall
How warm homes hearth used to be.
I knew you
Through a
Purple haze
You were the
Only one who
Ever my poetry
Really read
You understood
Copying them
On purple lined
Paper in a spiral
Notebook
In a world of
Age reversal
We were out of
Sync
I don't think
I'll ever make
Purple my favorite
Color again
The color was for then
Poetry from a dried up
Purple pen.
That is why mostly I need to study more psychology.
Is not it the proof of God,
that only I saw it fall,
and even thought at all,
of one leaf in the yard?
And days since that fall,
and a million leaves later,
I esteem this one no greater,
yet single it out above all.
Only God could give the man,
sympathy for the one leaf,
help us blind in unbelief,
to recall the leaf and understand.
Moccasin silently slid along beside,
Limpid-eyed hare struck a frozen pose,
Lanky-legged raccoon hastened stride,
from this foe they know.
Came a man laden down,
in shadow the slithering snake,
in failing to slow and look around,
on his leg the snake did partake.
Hare lived to eat more grass,
Raccoon washed his meal that night,
for the man, while his life flashed,
Moccasin recoiled at the bitter bite.
In the darkness slithers a man-slayer,
it was a strike never meant,
the creatures marvel this redeemer
man whom heaven must have sent.
The magnificent magnolia blossom is for only
a moment opening in the still cool morning
giving its scent as bees visit the marvelous
shades of white so quickly turning in the
warming light until by the end of day we
reflect how this brown array was so soon
ago upon the nadir of its glory.
Melanie asked what I wanted for Father’s day
And in my mind I thought back wistfully
Of the happy opening of boxes with ties fine
Of little boys handmade cards signed
The good dinner of bacon wrapped chicken
All so undeserving
And since I no longer need the tie thankfully
Handmade boys now grown and gone sadly
Walking about the yard slowly
Daddy’s Swiss made Felco pruners with me
It occurred perhaps it time they retire
Preserve them for the possibility of future
Needing
Long after I’ve gone
Few recalling to whom they belonged
How they served so long
So I’ll see if Lowe’s or Amazon has the Felco3
With the rotating grip
Easy on the hand for less blistering
Store my fathers in a safe place
Perhaps with some written history
Who this man was we called daddy.
We saw them in the distance out in the fields
A wonderful soothing breeze so we pulled
up under an overhanging shady canopy
and got out to watch the display
when out of no where it seemed
a swallowtail came too close for focus
went down the dirt road a ways then
Turned and flew straight to us.
It was a moment of slow motion
over as rapidly as he came as he
again disappeared
Lou Witt was an artist.I visited her home to deliver oxygen once and got to see some of her work while living.
In the days of old Williston High in the late
night the fire siren would hauntingly wail
long and frenetic at the station through all the town until one or two of the volunteers were mustered from slumber to crank ole engine two and off
to the rescue they’d go.
Today as we drove slowly past a soon gone old Williston High, emanating from the remaining structures was a strange siren like sound, haunting.
In the night long the siren will call, but in these
latter days, no volunteers will heed this siren.
The old gym door a thousand times I swung will go to a particular pile, the fast break from the
past complete.
Sing me the song of Williston again, sing it for those
fortunate to not see the day of the siren wailing.
So glad, so glad the rain has come.
For without the rain
The sun would fry his brain
The Spirits such a kind, kind friend
He comes to us in our darkest mares
And for a spell tarry’s there
To listen to the tormentor telling
Do you not remember his hitting
How his words were so hurting
And you turn to deflect the blow
Frantic with no place left to go
Then the Spirit tells the tormentor
Enough of your blows upon this soul
And breathes into the wounds healing
Deep, deeper while you are sleeping
And in the morning waking anew
A faint whisper comes to oppress
But somehow in the night to you
The terrible fist was turned to caress.
In the early hours of the deepest slumber
The little boy was wakened with a whisper
Calling him to come and join their number
It was a whisper once so familiar
But the little boy was fearful to obey
And told no one of this whispering friend
Lest they chide him as when in vision
He once said he saw angels visiting
The following evening at the same hour
Came the whispering one only much urgent
We haven’t time to tarry! For you I’m sent
Rise and we shall find the lost moments.
And so the boy arose and he did gladly go
With the night caller all was relived again
There was time with never a moment parting
He knew deeply all the passing scenes
The morning sun awoke him after many years
Was it a life upon lives lived so brief
Whatever it was the whispering one said
Eternity he was certain was but a continuation.
