Portals Below

Portals Below by john clare

Nathaniel and I took a stroll
We came to these portals down below
Beckoning to the two
Smiling at us through the blue.
Well, we took a deep breath
And from the world above we left.
First we saw this leopard frog
And then the little talking dog.
He told us we were just in time,
This is the spot for the cloud journey line.
So we stood and along came an Owl,
He said, "Tickets! Tickets! with a scowl.
"That's just grand!"
I said to the little talking canine,
How in this world
Can a ticket be unfurled?
"Silly ones!" he barked, "Old Owl is
just calling for the fat, little ticks!"
Soon the bloody little boogers arrived,
And we embarked on the journey into
the watery skies.
Hooked tightly upon our little cloud
Oh My! We were full of eeews and wows!
We swooshed about through the air
We even dive bombed a cat and
gave him stand up hair!
We rode for what seemed hours and hours
Then we gently set down among some dogwood
flowers.
We thanked Mr Owl for letting us ride the
little clouds.
He only smiled and so politely bowed.
And so we walked about till we found our
portal place
It wasn't long before we pushed up into
the world of haste.
We were only gone but for a blink,
And as we explained our absence,
We gave each other a knowing wink.
Now if you find us one moment on a stroll
down the puddled road
And then all of a sudden you see
a hopping toad,
Wait a wink and n'er fear
We are only visiting the world of
n'er a frown and n'er a tear.

Pondering the Puddles

Pondering the Puddles
by john clare

When in puddles deep we once did ponder,
The images of those reflected blue.
In watery worlds revolving down under,
The birds shimmering as away they flew.

In puddles calm and transparently tranquil,
We sought to join the watery throng.
The movements of day so strange when still,
The wind in liquid trees swaying slowly along.

To puddles we ran and slipped away,
The looking-glass friends we grew to know.
A reflection growing clearer in calm of day,
The long good-bye, the yearn to never go.

When in puddles stirred from salt circling tears,
Old and broken we dimly gazed just once more.
Turn! Turn away from the rapidly streaming years,
Too soon we meet our watery friends upon their shore.

Golden New

Golden Model 2

Goldens No.2

The mill my father ground upon in
the frosty morning fall
Today tumbled from the trailer to
rock to a rest
Golden's No. 2 new model.
Will the cane ever press through the rollers
How shall we hoist the cast iron
body back upon the stand
Attach the counter pole to turn the gears
Fire up the kerosene rabbit burner
Pour the 60 gallons of juice into the
iron lipped Columbus kettle
Skim down the cooking to the specific gravity
of sixteen
Place the dregs in the galvanized pale
Skim some more with the moon hubcap dipper
Pull the fire and quickly dip the amber
syrup from the vat
Careful not to scald
Seeing the edges of the dipper form
hard candy drops
High neck bottled and ready for the breakfast bisquits
Fresh from the old gas stove oven
On a cold November morning
mourning the loss of the
father who ground upon the Golden mill.

Guardian of the Flow

Just down from Bell Springs, hiking along the Florida Trail, you come to a dip in the path that leads down to the Suwannee. If you step gingerly over the Blue Moon beer bottle resting under the cypress knees, you come to a stop. It is there you meet the guardian of the flow. He determines your inner motive, your inspiration level, and decides whether you shall continue or not.
Often, if he is slumbering, you may slip past, but soon, one of his many kneed scouts sounds the alarm and the bank is called upon to impede your passage. Under foot, the mud becomes just slippery enough to cause you to determine, further advance is futile.
You turn and slink past the guardian, who slaps you upon your rear with one of his snarled branches as you smart your way back to the trail. Today you came with a lack of reverence for the flow. Next time you shall come in humility, laden with inspiration and admiration for the flow beyond the ever vigilant guardian.

Drogue Drift

Drogue Drift by john clare

You could call it the bitter end
of the rope
The point beyond where the fire
fused the strands
The unraveled part that did not
go through the ring
In the taunt the line turns astern
In a vertical load the lift
as the sea claw is freed
Then a straight yaw as the drift begins.
Into the beam sea they go with
memories of mooring
Above the laughing terns mock the folly
In cabin canoes they ply on
in dead reckoning
Paying the price of anchors rejecting.

At Night

At Night by Alice Meynell

Home, home from the horizon far and clear,
Hither the soft wings sweep;
Flocks of the memories of the day draw near
The dovecote doors of sleep.

Oh, which are they that come through sweetest
light
Of all these homing birds?
Which with the straightest and the swiftest
flight?
Your words to me, your words!

Final Toll

Final Toll by john clare

all he left were buckets of nails
jars of screws
pails of bolts
clasps and hinges
hammers and chisels
rulers and squares
porter cable saws
crescent wrenches
rasps and files
boards with termites
for me to build
a future upon.

Woodpecker of fodder wing
Cross tied termite trails
Rusted poles of unflagged sails
These are but things I bring.

In foot lockers past tools rest
Anvils echo blows once born
From the wind the bells of mourn
In dust and sweat a terrible mess.

Tin makers watering can dry
Seeds of bygone gardens mold
To low bidders treasures sold
The untended vine covers the sky.

And into the night pounds the sledge
The future work must go on
Under the old bare bulb alone
Termites flee from the striken wedge.

Buckets of bolts
Closets full of coats
Hinges for rotted doors
Locks closed forever more
Stetson hats for the heat of day
Vested gowns in which to pray
I don the tool apron
Wait for the final bell to toll
To tell me
My present work is done.

Hold the four square nail
Hammer this heart pine sweet
The sawdust piles at thy feet
Your time child, to toll the bell.

Two Log Bridge

Backlit Journey

by john clare

On the double log bridge I rest and watch
Before me the backlit hammock of sunlight blotched
To my right the faint flowing sound of the spring
To the left last evenings rain forms a new stream
Above the thunder roll whistle of a passing jet
And behind over the rise go we all to complete
each our separate journey through the backlit as
The whispered breeze quietly comes to nudge us on
The countless crickets serenade with a symphonic song
Calling, ever calling us to the waters below
I break from the backlit spell and enter the flow.

Silent Requiem

It was but an early August morning, and yet you fell, leaving the last traces of your life oozing yellow upon the forest floor. And I watched helpless, as from the canopied heights you fell. Why so early my sweet friend? Did you not wish to wait for the red autumn to course through your cold veins? Was this your way to gently go, early and unnoticed, as above the sunlight fought to make its way through?
I shall never know. I only know that I was there, to see you fall. I know that in time, this floor shall be covered with the remains of your brothers and sisters who now so blissfully sway the day away. Do they realize what is coming? Do they chill come evening with the thought?