Weary

 I grow weary of posting photograghs i try and be more than just pretty and there little intesest. Post and pretty pic or a mug shot and there they go. The poetry is worse. I guess you keep on and damn the lack of intesest.

Stairway to heaven

Stairway to haven

Johnclarestokes 

There are stairways in my mind I climb

Places I can yet go time after time

Where once inside I can for a spell reside

By the familiar comfort of place abide

Draw again upon the lessons learned

Give pause to the incessant worldly yearn

Align for the time with the sweet repast

Taste the savory preserves that last

Hear the creaking steps upon heart pine 

Know forever this haven I shall find.

Luther Ray climbs the steps at Pilgrims Rest

And today is his brothers birthday who

yesterday climbed those steps

Listen up

 Listen Up 

I’ve always been the quiet one

Mostly did all the listening 

Knew I wasn’t the smartest one

When it came to conversation 

The world was full of

Those who loved to speak

Continually carrying on

And I would listen

Can’t really say my quiet

Served me well

Still see myself as rather failed

Didn’t obtain wisdom

Certainly not wealth

Not much to show for

Being a listener

Other than

Putting too much down

On paper

Many and One

In Turn

My mother was a teacher. 4th grade mostly. A good teacher. In my biased opinion,  the best ever. For that is what she aspired to be since graduating from Northfork High in West Virginia, and going on to Asbury College in Wilmore, Kentucky.

There she met my father, attending on the GI Bill

after WW2, sitting in the semi circle, soon to marry by her sophomore year, to become a future preachers wife.

But she never gave up teaching. Every place the preacher was assigned, she was quick in June, the moving month for Methodist ministers, to get on with some school, with precious little time to set up her room by August.

And so she taught, and every where she went, former students would see her, and tell her, she was their favorite teacher. She even, up until her death in October of 2017, was corresponding with a student from her very first class in Kentucky.

She made an impact on so many. 

Enter her son John. He struggled between everyone saying he should become a preacher like his father or a teacher as his mother. He attended Asbury his junior year, with thoughts of graduating and going on to Asbury Seminary across from the semi circle, even finding someone like his mother to hold hands with and take along the journey.

But it wasn’t to be. An F in Spanish crushed his hopes and he returned to Florida, to work at the local hospital in Williston in maintenance and lament. 

It was his father who suggested, why not attend Florida Southern, a Methodist affiliated school, and we can get a discount. So in the summer of ‘77, the preacher-teacher attended summer school, repeating his junior year, his failed class Spanish, making a C.

By now, the artist decided he would teach. He enrolled in the teacher program. In his senior year he was assigned to the new Lake Gibson Junior High for his internship in Art.

His mentor was a Jewish man, quite hostile to Christianity. His students in turn were hostile to art and him. The classes were mostly glorified study halls with breaking up fights. 

When it came time for John to take over his classes, Weinstein was glad just for the respite.

John made a valiant effort. But he determined he was never going to teach again. At least junior high.

And he didn’t. He later turned down his first offer after graduating to teach Art in Monticello, his old best friends dad, Mr Bishop, being the superintendent. 

He got into retail instead. 

Years passed.

One day a letter came. It was from a young man in Daytona named Greg. Turns out Greg was the quiet boy in one of his classes at Lake Gibson, who did so well, especially the stained glass project.

He thanked John and told him he was the best teacher he had in his entire school years.

He wasn’t a preacher.

He wasn’t a teacher.

But he reached one.

Long Haul

 There Magoo once was, taking the lateral from the QB, i think Fred Doerr, getting the blocks from Bill and Jack Whitehurst, and making another end around long haul for the touchdown. Magoo was fast and seldom caught. That year or two on JV football were some of the bast. I regret not playing varsity opting to concentrate on basketball. Basketball i was good early on but when i ended up the only white boy on the team, my job as point guard was getting the ball up court, breaking the press, passing off and never seeing the ball again.The done lives these last days like Uncle Rico in Napoleon Dynamite, throwing footballs over mountains and lamenting if coach would have put me in we could have gone to state. 

And the Iron did swim

And the iron did swim. 2Kings6:6

Sopchoppy River Community Swimming hole

Near the time of first walking, I was already crawling in the dark shallow. There came the eventful day, the long swim to the far dock. The other shore where the black bear and panther roamed. Where the teens dared you come. Sitting upon the dock for the first time, there seemed nothing this little Yellow Jacket couldn't accomplish.

Johnclarestokes

Friends and Girlfriends

 Smoke on the grotto 

I’ve spent a lifetime 

Trying to rectify things

Like why did Chip leave me

For Woody

Making him his very best friend

And then dump him

For Susan

Sitting in the gold Trans Am

Beside my brown Schwinn 

And why did Terry think

PK Young the better place

to graduate

Leaving us minus a catcher

At home plate

Why did Melissa’s mother

Call her home from Blue Grotto

Yet remain silent

When wolves came near her scorekeeper? 

Why did we switch making out

Places with Eva Jean and Rebecca

When I drew Eva Jean my dream

Fairly

Rock trumping scissors 

Why did the afro on black magic Wanda drive me crazy

Dreaming of her in home economics class

And why did Ann overdose and die

Did she lose hope I’d come and give 

her diamonds in the sky?

And how did Pam become such the artist

Teaching at the University 

When all along that was my dream

And most of all

After all the Cat Stevens and Ten Years after 

I went through

Why is it I still love

deep purple?

Trumpet Sound

 When the trumpet

Johnclarestokes 

Lately we’ve been spending

our time with our ears tuned

toward the eastern skies

while below seems one great gulf of

separation from the song

we can faintly discern

even in the hummingbird wing

It frustrates me to no end to post a photo that is used to illustrate the words. The photo is not my emphasis. But it mostly is the viewer who doesn’t read. They comment on the hummingbirds or whatever they have. I could care less. This has been a long, ongoing frustration. It will never change. I have to learn the person is more important to them their own words,etc. 

More the same

 Another day of taking it easy. Yesterday i thought I was taking it easy but i lacked stamina. Not trying to do so much today. 

Stamina

 One of the frustrating aspects of this stroke is the lack of endurance. I am good for a task and i have to stop and rest. The legs especially with the bad left knee causes saitica pain in the right and it is difficult to walk. I had planned on picking up limbs in the yard from Debbie but i just get too tired. I did pull the mexican sunflowers up that were bent by the wind and dug holes, tiring. Then i drug the remainder to the wet side yard. I also cut the bamboo with the hedge trimmer.  

Do you dare

 These are what i would prefer to enter. But the judges would be uncomfortable and choose something pretty and safe. 

Between the Lines

 Seems every show i enter i try and submit that which is not the standard fare, everybody is doing it. It has not gone well. The judges that are selected are looking for pretty, cliche, and everyone is doing it. I should learn. This year was no exception and last years butterfly remnants. Art should be cutting edge not vanilla flavored.