Though kayaking is the vogue, I continue to prefer the canoe. I have an Old Town Royalex canoe and a Mohawk fiberglass canoe. The only thing that keeps me from taking them on my outings is the heaviness of them. My next boat will be an Old Town Pack canoe, light enough to carry.
I was at work and saw this customer walk in with an Old Town Tee Shirt with the nine bow ends of the Old Town Canoes. That got me to thinking about my canoe upon the rack back home.
The nine bow tee of the
Old Town canoe
Upon the man with the
left-crooked shoulder
Told me it's time to
Seek the blue waters
where the old crook
Paddlers ne'er grow older.
V tracks of Chippewa fan
out upon the smooth
stream as the bending
branch sings in muffled
shouts of splashion against the
scratched up stern.
Still the stroke but as the
waters narrow the V converges
on the closing banks then
returns to rock me in the wake.
And I am supple and the
muscles lean as the
crook lowers strong.
Old Town of old men with
the bending blade
The long to paddle through
to the dawn's desire
Slipping silently past the
clamoring crowds casting nets
Sinking them wholly in the
converging V.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Masters Keys by john clare
I continue today with the many,many poems(if you call them that)from Facebook Notes that mostly have gone unseen, unread, uncommented on...placing them on blog so they can continue unseen,unread,uncommented upon...life of bad poetry...
this latest entry relates to finding a set of keys from my fathers place. The doors,gates,trunks that they opened long gone, unknown.
I came upon the keys to the garden
Tucked deeply away in the tin box
Rusting and dusty were the closed
Master Locks
In brittle leather pouches on
soft brass hardened.
Once upon the hinges the gates
swung wide
The yellow Gravely passing
through to unturned fields
Neatly hung in the shed the
tools of abundant yields
The little boy hoeing at the
Gardener's side.
And then he sent me with the keys
The Master waiting patiently
in the furrowed dust
To the little one the keys in his trust
My first prayers, Dear God!
The Garden depends upon me!
And in a sweet click and a
quick turn
I ran with the precious water
for the seed
The Master pleased with the
little boys deed
As wide-eyed there was so much
to learn.
And so the keys to the garden
are in my hands
The old Gravely waits for me
to turn the key
But the gate is gone along
with the property.
I hope the Master understands.
this latest entry relates to finding a set of keys from my fathers place. The doors,gates,trunks that they opened long gone, unknown.
I came upon the keys to the garden
Tucked deeply away in the tin box
Rusting and dusty were the closed
Master Locks
In brittle leather pouches on
soft brass hardened.
Once upon the hinges the gates
swung wide
The yellow Gravely passing
through to unturned fields
Neatly hung in the shed the
tools of abundant yields
The little boy hoeing at the
Gardener's side.
And then he sent me with the keys
The Master waiting patiently
in the furrowed dust
To the little one the keys in his trust
My first prayers, Dear God!
The Garden depends upon me!
And in a sweet click and a
quick turn
I ran with the precious water
for the seed
The Master pleased with the
little boys deed
As wide-eyed there was so much
to learn.
And so the keys to the garden
are in my hands
The old Gravely waits for me
to turn the key
But the gate is gone along
with the property.
I hope the Master understands.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Hold Me A River by john clare
lately, the rivers in our region have flowed at all time lows. there are places upon the upper Suwannee River you can literally straddle.
Have you ever held a river in your hand?
Cupped the flow and made a dam?
Straddling the banks where I stand
Passes the Suwannee trickling lazily down.
Once upon this place the paddle wheel steamed
To lumber mills the cypress logs jammed high
Now I place a walnut shell vessel in the stream
And watch the ant upon the twig mast sail by.
Have you ever built a bridge out of sticks?
Spanned the Suwannee with your skills?
Then let it fall with just a little kick
As sands crumble and the pylon holes are filled?
Can the infant skip the smooth stone across?
Where once the man strained to cast aflight
the rocks into the far swaying moss?
Little David's all felling the giant once mighty.
Can the man outrun the river once swift?
When raging it carried him in uncaring abandon?
The white waters churned, the canoes did lift
Tossing the contents, washing ashore in distant landings.
I lie in the cool tannic and slowly I drench
The once under toes now jutting to a dry reach
All about me lies the death of a rivers stench
The water lost man unable to drown upon the dried beach.
Have you ever held a river in your hand?
Cupped the flow and made a dam?
Straddling the banks where I stand
Passes the Suwannee trickling lazily down.
Once upon this place the paddle wheel steamed
To lumber mills the cypress logs jammed high
Now I place a walnut shell vessel in the stream
And watch the ant upon the twig mast sail by.
Have you ever built a bridge out of sticks?
Spanned the Suwannee with your skills?
Then let it fall with just a little kick
As sands crumble and the pylon holes are filled?
Can the infant skip the smooth stone across?
Where once the man strained to cast aflight
the rocks into the far swaying moss?
Little David's all felling the giant once mighty.
Can the man outrun the river once swift?
When raging it carried him in uncaring abandon?
The white waters churned, the canoes did lift
Tossing the contents, washing ashore in distant landings.
I lie in the cool tannic and slowly I drench
The once under toes now jutting to a dry reach
All about me lies the death of a rivers stench
The water lost man unable to drown upon the dried beach.
Koh-i-noor by john clare
Persian for Mountain of light, Kohinoor is also the brand of a rapidograph pen I used to enjoy drawing with. It is also a priceless, grand diamond held in trust currently by England, much disputed over through the past five hundred years.
To the mountain of light you must journey
The voice within the cloud to me spoke
No staff, no purse, all you must empty
It shall take your all to carry my yoke.
All I had I sold and gave away
Still there was not enough for the trip
I asked with what now can I pay?
Thyself I require! Sealed with coal to the lip.
And with the joy of a slave
A kiss and then the journey long
My words lost in order to save
Koh-i-noor! Koh-i-noor!
I sing thy joyful song!
To the mountain of light you must journey
The voice within the cloud to me spoke
No staff, no purse, all you must empty
It shall take your all to carry my yoke.
All I had I sold and gave away
Still there was not enough for the trip
I asked with what now can I pay?
Thyself I require! Sealed with coal to the lip.
And with the joy of a slave
A kiss and then the journey long
My words lost in order to save
Koh-i-noor! Koh-i-noor!
I sing thy joyful song!
Tour Time by john clare
Each July I am in front of the tele with Versus on watching the tour de france bicycle race. Naturally, I must compose a poem to my favorite sport, next to track and field....
July and time for the Tour
Will it be another podium for Contador?
Can Schleck keep from jumping the chain?
Will doping rear its head again?
I'll root for Basso and Liquigas
or Team Garmin and the Americans
Danielson, Zabriskie, Van Velde and Ferrar fast.
I hope Leipheimer or Horner win a stage
Remnants of Armstrong's legendary age.
Hincapie on BMC in his final Tour
Never again to lead the peloton up the
steep Col de Tourmalet.
On his wheels the young Garderen and Pate glide
The Highroad welcoming the white jersey young riders.
In twenty-one stages the yellow jersey is crowned
And hopefully I'll just be inspired to pedal around.
98 years of cycling through France
Still they hate the Americans and Lance.
Kids and trikes grow into men on bikes.
But in our country it's all in fall football hikes.
No matter, come July second I'll be glued to Versus
Eagerly listening to Paul and Phil
call the race for us
Me in my tight lycra attire
the seams about to bust!
July and time for the Tour
Will it be another podium for Contador?
Can Schleck keep from jumping the chain?
Will doping rear its head again?
I'll root for Basso and Liquigas
or Team Garmin and the Americans
Danielson, Zabriskie, Van Velde and Ferrar fast.
I hope Leipheimer or Horner win a stage
Remnants of Armstrong's legendary age.
Hincapie on BMC in his final Tour
Never again to lead the peloton up the
steep Col de Tourmalet.
On his wheels the young Garderen and Pate glide
The Highroad welcoming the white jersey young riders.
In twenty-one stages the yellow jersey is crowned
And hopefully I'll just be inspired to pedal around.
98 years of cycling through France
Still they hate the Americans and Lance.
Kids and trikes grow into men on bikes.
But in our country it's all in fall football hikes.
No matter, come July second I'll be glued to Versus
Eagerly listening to Paul and Phil
call the race for us
Me in my tight lycra attire
the seams about to bust!
Homewood Hymn by john clare
this poem reflects my thoughts upon my father who passed on this March. Homewood was his birthplace in Mississippi in 1924.
Does a new day bring light?
Has the light swallowed the dark?
Come day a squint into bright
The beams still painfully sharp.
On goes the gauze again
In streams the soothing dark
Not ready to walk in gleams
of light beams deadly sharp.
Many meant for the night
Few called to walk wide waking
Freed from the terrible fright
Always giving, never once taking.
In countless wards the halt
The little wars raging on
Light brigades assault for naught
the darkness ever so strong.
Allured to the prospect of sight
we wave the white flag and stare
into the binding beams of night
as captured we fall into the lair.
Hand on shoulder on shoulder on
the line of the lame snakes along
Til all glimmers are finally gone
No one remaining to recall home.
And in the darkened chapel quiet
Faint songs from opened hymns
a remnant chants into the night
Stokes the embers and remembers
Jim and all of them.
Does a new day bring light?
Has the light swallowed the dark?
Come day a squint into bright
The beams still painfully sharp.
On goes the gauze again
In streams the soothing dark
Not ready to walk in gleams
of light beams deadly sharp.
Many meant for the night
Few called to walk wide waking
Freed from the terrible fright
Always giving, never once taking.
In countless wards the halt
The little wars raging on
Light brigades assault for naught
the darkness ever so strong.
Allured to the prospect of sight
we wave the white flag and stare
into the binding beams of night
as captured we fall into the lair.
Hand on shoulder on shoulder on
the line of the lame snakes along
Til all glimmers are finally gone
No one remaining to recall home.
And in the darkened chapel quiet
Faint songs from opened hymns
a remnant chants into the night
Stokes the embers and remembers
Jim and all of them.
Foot Falls by john clare
Often in my journey through i recall the foot falls
the gentle, soft steps in the night,
Soothing the frightened calls in lightening squalls
Putting to flight my youthful fright.
In the deep swamps of a hammock by the Gulf,
lost and calling for father to rescue me,
The familiar foot falls through palmetto's rough
as safe we compassed back to old Camp C.
On the long marathon course there came a wall
I came to a crawl, the legs screaming quit
Then from behind the familiar foot falls,
My old runner friend to pace me through the final splits.
In the grand sanctuary upon my knees
Crying out in my agony of sin,
Came the hushed foot fall to pray beside me
We rose and to a new walk began.
When you pass through along this journey
What sounds do your foot falls bring?
Do they ring with grace and mercy
Give the heart a song to sing?
Pause and listen above the din
For the foot fall that ever trods
Walking ever on to never's end
Ever calling the shoeless to shod.
the gentle, soft steps in the night,
Soothing the frightened calls in lightening squalls
Putting to flight my youthful fright.
In the deep swamps of a hammock by the Gulf,
lost and calling for father to rescue me,
The familiar foot falls through palmetto's rough
as safe we compassed back to old Camp C.
On the long marathon course there came a wall
I came to a crawl, the legs screaming quit
Then from behind the familiar foot falls,
My old runner friend to pace me through the final splits.
In the grand sanctuary upon my knees
Crying out in my agony of sin,
Came the hushed foot fall to pray beside me
We rose and to a new walk began.
When you pass through along this journey
What sounds do your foot falls bring?
Do they ring with grace and mercy
Give the heart a song to sing?
Pause and listen above the din
For the foot fall that ever trods
Walking ever on to never's end
Ever calling the shoeless to shod.
Wailing Hall by john clare
returning to the nursing home environment, where we spent many weeks with Melanie as she went through rehab, the lonely ones came to mind again.
Against the walls in halls from home
The gentle hearts cry all alone
In diapered dependence they cling
to dignity behind the curtained veil.
In silence they weep as those about
howl and wail.
To make the climb past eighty only
to tumble to the treating as a baby
With trembling hands
faint vision
muffled sound
unable to stand alone
And all they want is to be at home.
Pray for the gentle hearts left
to die in the institutions of the aged
Conveniently forgotten assuming
their needs are met.
But what we fail to see
or hear
or smell
As we repose in our summer places
resting under the shady trees
listening to the gurgling brook
muffled fro their weeping
in the halls at night
Far
Far
From home.
Against the walls in halls from home
The gentle hearts cry all alone
In diapered dependence they cling
to dignity behind the curtained veil.
In silence they weep as those about
howl and wail.
To make the climb past eighty only
to tumble to the treating as a baby
With trembling hands
faint vision
muffled sound
unable to stand alone
And all they want is to be at home.
Pray for the gentle hearts left
to die in the institutions of the aged
Conveniently forgotten assuming
their needs are met.
But what we fail to see
or hear
or smell
As we repose in our summer places
resting under the shady trees
listening to the gurgling brook
muffled fro their weeping
in the halls at night
Far
Far
From home.
who will sit by john clare
this poem is autobiographical of sorts. It was i who sat with Melanie several months as she suffered through H1N1 and acute ARDS. Then it was my father, whom I sat with as he had the massive stroke and died a month later. It was my son Jordon, whom we sat with a collapsed lung. It was my mother, who we sit with now from breaking her leg on the fourth of July. She is at the nursing home in rehab. Then it was I in 09, having the neuro cardio syncope episode, needing a pace maker for a blocked artery after a stent. Since 09, much sitting.
Who will sit beside the bed of the dying
Hold the hand that once held you close
Search the closet for the burial clothes
See the smiling photo and not stop crying.
Then who will sit beside the bed of a wife
Too young to die and leave her children
On a ventilator with kidney failure setting in
The doctors beyond all they know to save her life.
Who will sit with the granny in the nursing home
When late in the night she cries in the hall
Ignored as senile after repeated calls
Spending long, lonesome days all alone.
Who sits with the teen in the addiction
Screaming for help so softly
Ignored by all so completely
Engrossed in the videos fiction.
Who will sit with the young newlyweds
Struggling just to feed their child
No one seeing the need so loud
Clinging to their abundance instead.
And who sat as I lay upon the table
The athlete trying to run the race
A heart in need of a helping pace
Wanting so fast to run, but unable.
And who will sit when your race has run
When down the laurel you lay
Miles to run before that day you say?
Look again, quickly your finish line comes.
Who will sit beside the bed of the dying
Hold the hand that once held you close
Search the closet for the burial clothes
See the smiling photo and not stop crying.
Then who will sit beside the bed of a wife
Too young to die and leave her children
On a ventilator with kidney failure setting in
The doctors beyond all they know to save her life.
Who will sit with the granny in the nursing home
When late in the night she cries in the hall
Ignored as senile after repeated calls
Spending long, lonesome days all alone.
Who sits with the teen in the addiction
Screaming for help so softly
Ignored by all so completely
Engrossed in the videos fiction.
Who will sit with the young newlyweds
Struggling just to feed their child
No one seeing the need so loud
Clinging to their abundance instead.
And who sat as I lay upon the table
The athlete trying to run the race
A heart in need of a helping pace
Wanting so fast to run, but unable.
And who will sit when your race has run
When down the laurel you lay
Miles to run before that day you say?
Look again, quickly your finish line comes.
Death and the Angel by john clare
this is a poem that tells of the moccasin that i almost stepped upon on the upper banks under the trees of the Suwannee. He more lunged away than struck, but i added poetic license to the story. He could have struck, it all happened to quickly to see.
My death met me today
on the banks of Suwannee
Palmetto upon rotted stump
Suddenly a jump
Toward my bared calf
The moccasin sent fanged wrath
The inner voice said stand!
Striking safe into Florida sand
Into the spring death scurried
And I live to tell
How there was no time
to be worried.
Beady eyed death
You had me today
Again I give thanks
For the angel that puts up
with my
photography.
My death met me today
on the banks of Suwannee
Palmetto upon rotted stump
Suddenly a jump
Toward my bared calf
The moccasin sent fanged wrath
The inner voice said stand!
Striking safe into Florida sand
Into the spring death scurried
And I live to tell
How there was no time
to be worried.
Beady eyed death
You had me today
Again I give thanks
For the angel that puts up
with my
photography.
Heavenly Atlantis by john clare
On this the 42nd year since we landed a man upon the moon and on the eve of the space shuttle Atlantis returning from her final voyage, I sent this poem to the Lake City Reporter. As expected, they never published it.
Soon Atlantis sounds her final sonic boom
As dark side of the moon landings revert to a memory of history.
Our dreams crashing upon the globe of gloom,
Dimming vision down to a earth bound misery.
Will they have perished in vain?
The Flash Gordon's who pierced the stratosphere,
The latter-day Elijah's who in their fiery chariots came,
To give the huddled masses something to cheer.
To drink from the fountains of a Milky Way,
Fathom first hand the cradle of the Celestial dawn,
Embrace it but for a moment creations day,
Compose from the Martian sea a new song.
Far beyond the life of today's narrow men,
A Sagan shall rise and point to the skies,
To heavenly Atlantis we must sail again!
As a gleam returns to the huddled eyes.
Soon Atlantis sounds her final sonic boom
As dark side of the moon landings revert to a memory of history.
Our dreams crashing upon the globe of gloom,
Dimming vision down to a earth bound misery.
Will they have perished in vain?
The Flash Gordon's who pierced the stratosphere,
The latter-day Elijah's who in their fiery chariots came,
To give the huddled masses something to cheer.
To drink from the fountains of a Milky Way,
Fathom first hand the cradle of the Celestial dawn,
Embrace it but for a moment creations day,
Compose from the Martian sea a new song.
Far beyond the life of today's narrow men,
A Sagan shall rise and point to the skies,
To heavenly Atlantis we must sail again!
As a gleam returns to the huddled eyes.
Empty Promises by john clare
we came upon a burnt out bush consumed from flames
lapped some morning dew from the deserted sand
bowed to the golden idols set out in the latter rains
then laid us down and wept for the promised land.
it wasn't how they said it would be
this desert full of scorpions and snakes
no land a flowing in milk and honey
this promised land no one wants to take.
suppose we shall turn back from this pain
return to the sand from which we came
at least they fed us three onions daily
who needs promises when hungering so greatly?
and so the empty ones soon were gone
with fires bright by the golden calves they did feast
yet the inner hunger lingered with a bitter groan
a kingdom within stirring in the belly of the beast.
lapped some morning dew from the deserted sand
bowed to the golden idols set out in the latter rains
then laid us down and wept for the promised land.
it wasn't how they said it would be
this desert full of scorpions and snakes
no land a flowing in milk and honey
this promised land no one wants to take.
suppose we shall turn back from this pain
return to the sand from which we came
at least they fed us three onions daily
who needs promises when hungering so greatly?
and so the empty ones soon were gone
with fires bright by the golden calves they did feast
yet the inner hunger lingered with a bitter groan
a kingdom within stirring in the belly of the beast.
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