One Grand Little Son

Grandma's Hands

East from West

Young and beautiful was Wabun;
He it was who brought the morning,
He it was whose silver arrows
Chased the dark o'er hill and valley;
He it was whose cheeks were painted
With the brightest streaks of crimson,
And whose voice awoke the village,
Called the deer and called the hunter,
Lonely in the sky was Wabun;
Though the birds sang gayly to him,
Though the wild-flowers of the meadow
Filled the air with odors for him,
Though the forests and the rivers
Sang and shouted at his coming.
Still his heart was sad within him,
For he was alone in heaven.
But one morning, gazing earthward
While the village still was sleeping,
And the fog lay on the river,
Like a ghost, that goes at sunrise,
He beheld a maiden walking
All alone upon a meadow,
Gathering water-flags and rushes
By a river in the meadow.
Every morning gazing earthward,
Still the first thing he beheld there
Was her blue eyes looking at him,
Two blue lakes among the rushes.
And he loved the lonely maiden,
Who thus waited for his coming;
For they both were solitary,
She on earth and he in heaven,
And he wooed her with caresses,
Wooed her with his smile of sunshine,
With his flattering words he wooed her,
With his sighing and his singing,
Gentlest whispers in the branches,
Softest music, sweetest odors,
Till he drew her to his bosom,
Folded in his robes of crimson,
Till into a star he changed her,
Trembling still upon his bosom;
And forever in the heavens
They are seen together walking,
Wabun and the Wabun-Annung,
Wabun and the Star of Morning.

---from the Song of Hiawatha

Down the break

Traveling on down the break. Those waves have kept their steady crashing upon that edge of the sandy line, that dropping off point where the little buckets of shells and the castle walls crash down and are taken. We have woven our bare steps in and out of the destruction going on about us, silent to the minute moments that once were kingdoms of grand sand.
The children are not just up to the task of keeping the house. They do their best, but in their non-engineered minds, they the little artists build the structures to a pattern not yet familiar to the laws of physics. And free from the pride in the finality, they lament not the day the waves come and wash it all away. Why, it is more of a glee than a tempered fit. They just build again, abandon again and the waves come again.
It matters not anyhow. We were never meant to maintain a stronghold upon the sandy line. In the universe, there are dead zones created, as in the green path between the razored barb, where freely the unnoticed can play without end. When we attempt our
sea walls and the privatized condobominations, it will not be long, but give the sea a hundred years if that is what it takes, and the grand line will be kept free from the intrusion of the dirted daubers.
It is not for us to ponder. It is only for us to come upon and weave among the shells and the washed up buckets and shovels and wonder.
And then upon the lifting of the breeze, pick up and carry on your flight down the eternal break.

From the Bleachers by john clare

It was not the best of days. Too hot to work outside, yet I worked outside all day. Emailed the Reporter in response to the editors email that they do not accept poetry. I should have refrained, but I said the paper lacked imagination basically, then replied back that I hoped the observation would be used as opportunity.
Why I continue to compose poetry, when I should be working on my writing lucid and interesting stories I now consider. If the paper does not accept them, there must be a reason. The reason is, most poetry is bad, including mine.
So here is another bad poem, written without a lot of thought, too vague perhaps. I should have just came out and said, I am currently struggling very greatly with sin and the inability to overcome it. In this struggle in this heat today, I cleaned the filters from the well, full of algae and crud. The serpent is not really a snake, but the representation of the struggle with sin.
But then, that would be too open, frank and lucid, and it would call into play my lack of maturity in the faith, that how could one, after so long a time in the faith, still be struggling with sin? The scrutiny would be frustrating and embarrassing as the brothers looked askance at my low state of being.
And then, perhaps not. But, no one else out there is confessing anything, so why should I ? And so we
struggle in our own private struggles. Others just cruise along and never commit anything to scrutiny. Too dangerous.

From the Bleachers    by john clare

It was a sink fang type of day
Losing the desire for everything
Except vain glory
To write poetry a chore
Wait for a hummingbird
A terrible bore
Hold the little one
Not very much fun.
Even work in the yard
Too hot and hard.
On the floor a stack of books.
Old and full of wisdom
May as well burn them
In flames all consuming
Eternal fire looming while
Wrapped around my hands
The killer snake slips loose
As I gnaw my teeth deeply in
X-marks cut and suck repeatedly.

The only saving grace
Is the misery of this
infernal place
The only hope
That as I blindly hope
The poison I'll purge
And crack some
life back into this
Snake pit of mine.

The crud of gangrene algae
The pain of knives rusty
The infection oozing in
Lock jaw misery with a grin
The bleach is crushed on ice
Purified white is goes down nice.

Fridays not all thank godits
After a week in hades prodding
Will Saturday be more of the same
Or Sunday find me profaning the Name?
And come Monday, when I am back at home
And that serpent comes slithering
around me here all alone
Who will believe Tuesday I'm dead and gone?

So mamma here is the grocery list:
bleach, bandages, whiskey, razor blades
gauze and peroxide
Rope, tape, tourniquet and some shells.
I anticipate a serpent heading my way
And in order to survive
Just in case I come out alive
but until then...
One more round of bleach for all
Whited sepulcher's we all stand tall.

Foot Locker Treasures by john clare

since i was a boy of five, my father has carried these olive drab green World War Two footlockers with him. I remember in the early sixties moving the footlockers from Mr Emory Rudd's shed where he had stored them. We moved them to Monticello. From Monticello to Kentucky, then back to Florida to Crawfordville, to finally come to rest in Williston. From time to time over the years I would look in the boxes mostly full of old tools and various things and wonder then forget about them.
This past March, my father passed away, and we now have the sad task of having to disperse his property and things. Going through the hot metal buildings, I again came upon the eight stacked foot lockers. My son and I lugged and tugged and loaded them onto the trailer and hauled them to our home in Lake City.
Two of the footlockers were especially heavy, and these were filled with old books, some really old, from the early 1800's.
I look forward this coming week to getting these old books out of the dark, musty footlocker and into a more controlled environment. Problem is, our home is overflowing now with relics and what nots, my wife about to have a fit.


In Air Corp foot lockers from the second world war
The old books were stacked, forgotten and stored.
Today I opened the shed and recovered the gems.
From 1856 a copy of Isaac Watts selected hymns.
Older yet, selected notes from John Wesley's journal.
Old truths hidden again see the light eternal!
As guardian of the old volumes
May I be a worthy holder of these rare rods blossoming.
Too frail to read, we hold them in reverence.
As if from eternity to us they have been lent
To return someday to the authors of
the rare and faded parchment.


It was indeed an exciting and sad prospect, opening the old boxes, the old smell of the ages emanating forth from the relics. It was like opening sealed time capsules. Some of the old tools I remembered as a child. Others I had no idea what they were as technology had long updated them to unrecognizable objects.
Would that I had a mansion or a museum in my list of earthly possessions, a place to store the hoards of things I reluctantly hold onto. I am the only sentimental soul of our family, so I am the guardian, the last bastion for these visitors from the past. After I go, they also go. Perhaps Nathaniel will capture my love for things old and past and carry on. We shall see. We shall wait and see.

Son Hung Moon by john clare

6/12/2011   with a full moon coming on, it was my plan to paddle upstream from Cone Bridge landing and capture the moon in all its glory and profit from it. It was a well-laid plan and I am now a wealthy man....

The word leaked out
the moon was full
they tried to keep
it secret
It did not work.
My plan was launched
to paddle upstream
just where the river
bends and the
moon roosts by
night.
In the waning light
just under the tree;
I crept up and began
my work;
Out came the moon jack,
to lift it from the branch.
Then a tug on the
sky bar to loosen her up.
She began to roll into
the canoe
and before I knew
I was heading down stream
moon in tow.
No need for a lantern,
In my captives glow.
I made it to the landing
and took out the
night creeper and
hoot awl.
I then took the
gold chisel
to chip away chunks
of the moon gleams.
Before long the beams
were stacked and ready
for sale;
My first customer was
the Luna Tick who
needed a light to help
him in the flesh to stick.
Next came the
Moon Calf
in need of some light
in order to daydream
at night.
The Moon Flower
paid richly for a glow
to bloom come day
showing the
Morning Glory who ruled
the sunny day.
The Lunatic Fringe
needed a bit
Just enough to stave
their frequent fits.
The Moon Struck
came by and thanked
me for removing
the source of his malady.
The Moon Raker sailed
past toward the abyss
the simple soul aghast
the Moon was captive.
The final transaction
for the eve
was the Moon Blind
man who needed a
bigger beam to tap
his path.
I did not charge him
for the night stick
for I had plenty of
shine on hand.
Though tonight I made
quite a haul,
I look forward to the fall.
Word on the street
Is come the month of October
There rises a harvest Moon
larger, oranger
than any
moon hunter ever
captured.
Now that would be a
Moonish Dream.
My plan now I must
scheme.

Win,Place,Go by john clare

6/13/2011  many ways, this tongue in cheek satire on a girl who once worked with us, who was going through a divorce, was sad. we actually did bet casually how long the relationship would last, knowing from the start, things just did not add up, and they didn't.

The day you met
We placed our bets
To see how long
It would last.
Those star struck eyes
The lost in space gaze
Oh how smooth
He played
For it was not
You he cast his spell
But upon your mom
And we could see
By her giddy way
She was thinking
Back to her prom.
We'll he caught
His bass without a fight
Without even a lure
Reeled you and mom
Right in with just his looks
Never dreaming two
Fish were on the hook.
And who was it who
Wagered half a year?
Why, it would take that
Long just to unhook
Mommy dear.
Along around nine the
Kid came along
That put a crimp in the
Wagering throng.
For with the mom
and now the minnow
It looked more like the
Long term wager would
Be the winner.
All went smooth for the time
We forgot the bet and
Stood around tossing dimes.
You were seen in the big Tahoe
He was off guarding the
Foreign cargo.
Then from the blue came
The word that you were through.
We pulled our wagers and
Would you know
I was the one who said
You would make it to two!
Pay up you morbid gamblers
Of a life!
You home hating bums
Betting on strife!
What ever came of the times
We never would wage?
Knowing, what's the use?
Marriage was once for life.

Cinder Memories by john clare

Steve Plymale, my old running friend from the eighties called from Valdosta and wanted to meet up with some of the old runners. The few we could muster on short notice met at the Firehouse Subs for lunch and some good memories. Steve, Rick Bringger and Forest Wright.

Where went the fleet of foot?
The swift sprint from the blocks?
Spikes stabbing the cinder track
Rounding the oval nine never looking back.

We inhaled the rare air of the sub five
The last gasp spent to touch the thin line
How brief the push of the starters time
As landed fish our gills aflame cried.

On dusty shelves the tarnished trophies remind
When feet were fleet and fast the times
Batons relayed to the last man
The fading photo of personal bests so grand.

And to the track the old harriers forever meet
They hear the final call for the measured mile
Upon the staggered lines they edge their way
Then step back and let the youth win the day.

Cloud Flowers by john clare

we had returned from Alabama from the wedding. along the way we were stopped by the Highway Patrol with a speed warning, then caught under a red light camera in Tallahassee. My spirit sagged. Then I got to recalling the days of blessings past and wrote something to lift the spirit.

When tickets add up and things just do not seem to be going any way...6/14/2011

In fields of blue
I picked a cloud
Just for you
Put it in a prism jar
Glittered it with
a dash of star
wrapped it in
a sheet of wind
tied it off
with a strand
of sun beam
Laid it at your
steps and rained away.

I took a ticking clock
and set back the
hands of time
At the strike of one
we woke from mats
and ran to recess fun
At the stroke of three
The happy hour
on bars of monkey
Never giving it a thought
that hands below were
spinning time.

Down by the bubbling sink
Where seers and sages
went to think
We laid our thoughts upon
the sand
Scribbling messages only seers
could understand
and sages would sweep so we
could lay our thoughts
all over again.

In attics lost I found
the magic set
I waved the wand and recited
the spell
And from the top hat the
rabbit fell.
About time, he said, How
could you forget?
Forgive me
My mind was
sand upon the sink.

In plein air we stretched
canvas taut
Made some lines from the
lightening bugs we caught
Splashed on colors from the
rainbow pots
Hung it from the cloudy tips
Gave the angels something to
enjoy between their trips.

So down to earth the bouquet
blooms at your door
Only I rained but I rain no more
The clock has spun and now
its nearing three thirty-three
It seems I've left the rabbit
with the monkey
And the angel says, the work
is tainted with a purple haze.
While I stand drenched upon
the playground
And no one comes to play.

Fathers Day Long by john clare

6/18/2011

While going through the past relics at my fathers place, I came across the little Daisy pop gun resting in a nook, rusted and quite worn. I recalled when my son's used this little gun before moving up to a regular Red Rider version.

Do you recall that Father's day past
When dad's so young with little boys
Crept so quietly with the BB poised
How times would always last.

It came so quickly that March day
The first Father's day without a dad
And all of a sudden I'm the grand dad
And how I miss the young Luther Ray.

I'll wear his bolo with the arrow head
Hold the little one and shed a tear
Tell him as I was told, don't fear
With dad's old brass compass we'll be led.

So to you father's in our Old Town canoe,
Who recalls the days of landing bluegill
If I was able but for one wish to fulfill,
To be with dad, aiming the Red Rider true.

Suwannee Threnody by john clare

Do you recall the day the Suwannee died?
The only water found were the tears we cried.
The Cooters climbed the rocks and wailed
Overhead in missing river formation the
Sandhills sailed.

In perilous pockets the gators baked in the mud
Fifty years to wallow from the hundred year flood.
The bluegill and the bass swam for the Gulf
Only to float in the brine of Fowler's Bluff.

Under the cypress the racoons knelt upon the knees
No prayerful cleansing of crayfish in the river reeds.
The Sturgeon leaped onto the limestone banks
Died their eggs as the egrets picked through their ranks.

Way upon the dried up river bed
Where once the river otter fed
The old folks mourned no more to roam
In baptism pools the Baptists had to sprinkle on.

From Fargo to Big Shoals the pall bearing
portage of the canoes
We set up camp upon the wake of the sandy slew
Just at the coming dawn we journey down
Past the meeting place of the Creeks hunting ground.
Where Wildcat and Osceola heard the gurgling sound.
The white sulphur springs of abundance held in renown.

From the Itchetucknee a trickling vestige of the flowing years
When in the cool depths we floated past limpid eyed deer.
The loggers came and pulled the old growth cypress out
Once home to moccasin and catfish lurking about.

The treasure seekers left their little piles of sand askance
Sifting for arrow points or Black Beard's buried cache.
And so ends the threnody way down upon the Suwannee
Our hearts sad and weary as we lowered her into the sea.