The night I told God... I could do a better job...of running this sphere.... placing the moon here...and the road there....with trees everywhere....and so I got my way....and if I might say....was doing a pretty decent job....till cicadas waking started....and stars began departing....and darkness wasn't regulated...and floods inundated ...and I prayed for day....to tender my resignation of doing a better job than God...
Sunday road trip
There we were, like Barney in his first car from Myrt “Hubcaps” Lesh, heading out for Georgia, when having the time of our lives around White Springs, Roscoe decided to become sick as a dog like Gomer and heaved all over the camera on the console.
Naturally there were no towels in the car, McDonalds was closed to indoor dining, so the Gate bathroom provided enough towels and water to clean up. By this time we were too hungry for Lake Park so at the Jasper intersection of 136, we headed for Zaxby’s in Live Oak. It was still a good trip despite it all, good for Thelma Melanie to get out after being cooped in the last two weeks.
Zebra Long-wing
And in my long sitting and pondering
In alas flittered a zebra long wing
to briefly on its journey drink some zinnia
leaving me pondering my own journey.
In the old green hall
Mrs Thompson still calls
The little second grader
Let his inner man out to play
Rues the day
He left the old green hall
Yellow Jacket Fever
John Clare Stokes
In the old green hall
Miss Thompson still calls
the little Sopchoppy second grader
Time for class children
Longs for the day
the bloody nose at recess
for Miss Thompson took him
laid him on the counter
and took away the
Yellow Jacket fever.
Second Grade
Margaret Townsend if you are out there
The little boy who had the crush on you
Who moved to Monticello for grade three
He still misses you and ole Sopchoppy
And thanks you for gently teaching him
More to life than his A,B,C's.
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.
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
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
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.
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
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?
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.
