Shroud of Tevis

How does one explain? In the sprinkler the face of the Christ, as depicted upon the Shroud of Turin. The mystery of photography. The unintented consequences. It is what keeps me keeping the little camera or the bigger camera at the side.

Life of Hummer

This poor little female rarely gets to taste from the feeder. The male hummingbird dominates the feeders by the window and tries his hardest to maintain sole ownership. You would think it would be to his best interest to let her feed, but he will have nothing to do with fair play. I spend up to an hour each morning trying to capture these hummingbirds in the right light and pattern. They are so fast, that rarely do I get one that is acceptable. I use the D40 Nikon since it has a 500 shutter speed that syncs with the flash. This helps freeze the action. I also like to use a slow shutter speed under 15 with the flash. This gives a nice ghost image. Mainly though, I am just contented to get one hovering or sitting on a limb next to the feeder.

Icon Tree Truckers

It was one of those photographs I have taken, only to realize, upon further investigation, there is more to it than first seen. My first impression as I followed this tree truck to work one morning last week, was the little branch hanging over, and the large trunk. They were like being taken prisoner, slaughter, cemetery, etc.
Then, I got to looking at the rust patterns and clearly to me, on the right side panel, a distinct graphic depiction of Jesus as drawn by artists. He has a sad countenance. He is looking off to the right. Am I the only one who saw it? I certainly did not see it when I first took the photograph.

Fawn Upon Suwannee

Worn from the humidified heat, having walked up to the Big Shoals for a look about, I had made my way to the low lying shoal below Big Shoals. Taking inventory of the camera bag, wiping condensation from my glasses and lenses, I sat and just caught it all in. Then, along the not so distant bank, this little fawn, not knowing I was sitting at waters edge, romped and ran back and forth along the bank , in seeming play. Truth is, she had probably already spotted me and was trying to make it out of the clearing, panicking that the opening she remembered was not readily found.
I had enough time to pull the D40 from the bag with the 55-200 and follow focus her for about ten frames until she bounded up into the palmettos. She would do well to stay high off the bank, for just below her, down stream a bit, lurks the eight foot alligator I see each time I come to his spot.

Monday Sway

I am not even attempting to rhyme anymore. I am simply writing lines, suppose you would call it prose.
It is a prose about my journey to the Suwannee River at Bell Springs yesterday afternoon. It was a call to heed. A call needed. A friend came by the store the other day, who happens to be a 'photographer'. I shall call her a fair weather photographer. She made several comments that kind of caused me to ponder and say huh?
When I said, have you been out photographing lately? She replied, too hot. I said, I have been upon the Suwannee. She said, Too low, everyone is doing low water photography.. Then I said, Do you always carry your camera? She said, No. And she will probably make the cover of Rolling Stone.

Monday Sway   by john clare

Three-thirty overtook me and drew me away
In a familiar track the wheels turned toward Suwannee
Who cares the day grey and the rain on its way?
Waters upon the lens makes diffused spots of interest
And a wet camera upon the river
beats a dry camera in the bag at home any day.
To the grassy lot of Bell Springs I parked next to the red pick up
It looked as if Monroe had moved from his home to my right.
It is never a happy sight to see another vehicle in the lot
If usually means noise and the scattering of the creatures.
But today all was quiet except the rain in the trees
Once upon the shore the pattered sand showed no tracks of men
Upstream a large alligator floated in mid river facing south.
Further up the tobacco hopper posed atop a cypress knee
Each time I focused he moved so I kept placing him back.
He grew weary of this game and fled to quieter knees.
And the nerve of me to blame others for ruining tranquility.
I could walk no further on the edge as the water had risen
So I back traced the way I entered and up the steep bank
Into the sparkle berry and palmetto I blended.
My shadow appeared at last as the sun broke but for a moment.
Shadow said quicker now, there may be rainbows appearing.
Under the canopy of green two passion flowers  opened instead.
They had the best view taken high upon the bank to the passing
river below them.
On the way out I glanced over to see if death was still watching.
He was, but the moccasin let me pass with my life to carry but
for another day.
And the man said it was good to get away
if but for an hour.
for an hour with the camera beats twenty-four without.
And it was good.








.

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.