To Ivy Palaces

Another series of photographs taken from the front yard toward sundown. In the daily flow observing exotic and wonderful locations, I can only dream and go to the front yard. The challenge for me is to create just as compelling a photograph, with a wow factor that the exotic location exudes.
In order to accomplish this, greater discipline needs to be employed in the ordinary. For instance, is the S95 point and shoot camera the best choice for the purpose? And if so, would a tripod make for a sharper image? And is it sharpness you are after? Perhaps the Nikon D5000 with the ability to adjust the depth of field would be the camera of choice. I could have made the pine tree in the background as sharp as the ivy in the foreground.
But is that the most compelling way to capture this image? As is, the scene, with the limited depth of focus, draws your eye first to the ivy and then beyond and out to the white road. Would an image in the background in shadow or limited focus been affective?
The color? What of black and white? Of limited saturation? Lately, I have been enthused with the use of super saturation on the S95. Too much can become gaudy and distracting.
The image effectiveness even comes down to the mat surrounding the photo. I toyed with many combinations, and settled for a neutral green. Perhaps a simple white or cream would have been more affective.
There are endless possibilities to what seems just a simple snap shot in the yard.
The goal like I said is to not settle for the easy way, but delve deeper and deeper into the found at hand objects and elevate them to the level of, "Where was this taken? I want to go there!" To the ivy palaces!

No Footnotes Below

No Footnotes Below
by john clare

When the Word we hold has no footnotes below
When Scofield, Thompson, Dakes and McArthur are absent
In the rare air of the Spirit the pages blow
As I step onto the thin script of no comment.

'Tis a painless fall when balancing on the words of men
So accustomed to using the net of their words
If I do not like the verse, why it's not for my dispensation
It's either future, past or I have already been raptured.

It seems such a long span with just a single cable to cross upon
Take the safe and short way of man I am urged
You are much too dim and weak to comprehend alone
You will at be dashed to your demise off that stark word.

So be it I said for where has Scofield and Thompson led?
What do I meditate upon after a verse is read?
Their word to see if it lines with what I think was said!
And not lingering longer,comparing scripture and by
the spirit being led.

Take me Oh Great Jehovah and purify the man in me
Who tight ropes with footnotes safely below me
From the clutches of others interpretations free
To walk across to the high places holding onto only Thee!

Luther Ray's Gate

by john clare

Yesterday we came upon the back gate to a now gone Homewood
where, at the end of Dogwood and Ochlockonee it has long stood,
chained and lichen stained yet holding the remnants of memories good.
As we peered beyond the weathered boards I'm certain we heard
the ringing of the dinner bell loud calling us to return from hunting
grey squirrels we missed, barking and fussing over our heads.
You could still barely discern the trail where father and son once stood,
the boy helping hang the handmade gate at the back of old Homewood.
We know all too sadly we can never return to what has past,
The old gate bars us and holds us to this present side passing fast,
But to some the keeper of gates has entrusted his keys and
allows but for a moment, to stand upon the other side and rest
against the gate on the warm side down memory.

Can Came

Can came

by john clare

Once upon a time
Three boys of mine
Couldn't
Wouldn't
Shouldn't
A mountain to climb
Couldn't for fear
Wouldn't for doubt
Shouldn't for guilt
So they dwelt in the valley
One day to our shore
Came a girl of yours
Her name was Can.
A mountain to climb.
Amazing now how
Couldn't could
Wouldn't would
and Shouldn't should
be the one to climb
The mountain
with your Can.

in times like these

Woody left me

Woody left me

by john clare

Somewhere in the grove across the way
There is a knocking heard on the pine wood.
Bark is dropping on the needles in furious disarray,
As the broken line flaps in the force of December wind.
Sometime today when I turned Woody took flight,
It was destined I know, the day I repaired his wing
And how lately he beat upon the wind with all his might,
That eventually I would have to cut his string.
But such is the impatience of the wild birds on strings,
Never content to be your friend under such conditions.
Perhaps he will recall who it was who fixed his wing...
I miss you Woody, believe me,
I would have cut your string.

In times like these

In times like these I get to dreaming
Why I ever stopped being an Arminian.
Since hooking up with Calvin and his crowd,
It's mostly been one wild, foot stomping cloud.
While down the road ole Wesley and his Methodists
Quietly sit together in harmony and rest.
What's up with these fire eaters who boast they know,
Casting asunder the order and coming to blows?
In the coming weeks I shall ponder sitting again
among the meek,
I'm tired of running from these Calvinists seeking
my flesh to eat.

No Nets Below

No nets below

by john clare

When butterflies are never told
They were meant to soar high
Above the flowery meadows below
They rebel and run from home
To join the circus where
They spend their days
Learning to walk upon the silken
Tight ropes high above the
Ant hills below.

The ants look up high from their
Mounds below and call to
The butterflies high above
Be careful up there!
No nets are below!
And if you slip, to our
Children you will go.

And so the poor butterflies
Take the slip and fall far below
And soon the ants cover them
And take them further below.
If only they were told
They were meant to soar high
Above the flowery meadows below.

O Henry

For in my latter years
I sat and from my
squinted eyes
saw the manner
you held in distance
those not quite with it
in the chosen way
Sure I shook and yes
I was not of O Youth
As so many
But there was a time
When my words were clear
My thoughts precise
Chapter and verse I could
quote then expound the
meaning to the wide-eyed
O Youth
Take heed when you
enter your temples
And take the chosen seat
vacated by the
Old Henry's who
Now forget which seat
they left their
Bible upon
Be glad O Youth
that you are not as I
Shaking in a haze and
squinting to God
Be merciful to me
an old sinner.
I tell you
take heed
O youth
O beautiful
Justified ones.

From Lofts Afar

From Lofts Afar
Luke 18:13


by john clare

The night the living fled
The half moon hung above the
Shaky way.
Upon un-trod paths of the
Once dead
A wail for the reassuring light of
Day.

In smoke clear rooms of barren walls
The remnant re-hung the empty
Frames.
Who remained to quiet the
Microphones white noise?
To wipe the blood trails awful stain?

To barns and lofts they made their
Way
As from leaden heavens the blood
Of glory rushed
And dimmed any hope of a day
Of righted half moons above us.

In suspended search parties hope
Was lost
Pleas ignored from those who knew
The very location of the loft
Where the impaled groans led to.

Can we ever restore the scattered shot?
Bring the pride of aim to a stop?
Under a spilling moon there is a loft
Go my men and gather again under
A crooked cross.

To Wildflowers

To wildflowers
by john clare

Six after three and it is past time to cut the grass
as I have done for these eighty and four long years
with this high wheel mower I think will outlast
me as this yard yearns to return to weeds I fear.

The pull cord of cotton has seized and the gas
is stale, my strength is not as it used to be
but I must not let the weeds take over the grass
and obscure the path mother walked with me.

In this afternoon shade just let me sit awhile
as I ponder the problem and how I can coax
this Briggs, perhaps the plugs are fouled
as the weeds grow and the grass slowly chokes.

There must be a pump in the shed let
me find it and inflate these twenty and six
inch tires dry rotting but first let me sit
and just enjoy the wild flowers by the steps.

It is after three thirty and as I sit here
beside this pathway, I think I shall just
let this old mower rest after these long years
with its dulled blade and muffler of rust.

Mother will not mind as I think of her
and how she loved the wild flowers in
the path. She always told me be sure
my son, please don't mow over them.