RIDE DINO

 Ride Dino

Johnclarestokes 

In the land before time of man

The dinosaurs roamed the land

Creatures larger than imagination 

Primordial acts of Gods creation 

Our little son rode his plastic dino 

T Rex tamed by a young Lando 

At night the stories were read

Of lands where giants tread

A wallpaper was finally found

Now the creatures did surround 

Years passed and so the theme

Dino deflated with the dream

The dinosaurs were covered in brown

With deer and bears all around

Later, Danny and Gator glory

Then Tebow's inspiring story

Next came Kelly and the ocean blue

Surfboards galore of every hue

Finally to shades of modern gray

No hero found to guide the way

The little hawk with wings had flown

We paused to recall the Dino song

Yesterday, the gray border tore

Revealing faint tracks gone before

We chose not to repair the Dino print

The priceless uncovering of a lost moment

Ride Dino! Ride Dino! Happy song of the boy!

The layers of a life peeling back to reveal the joy! 

Landon Randolph Stokes with his son Nathaniel  Manoa

August 25, 1988

Gentle Man

 Gentle Man 

  by johnclarestokes

  My the splash you made upon the shore  

Trying to drown us in your under tow  

Losing the glasses I just got from the store 

 Leaving us spinning  in surf to and fro.  

You were born for greater shores than these 

 We imagined you as a Tsunami wave 

 Raging to a boil from Oriental seas 

 Lifeguards frantic the many to save. 

 Instead you came gently to the shore 

 For not all waves are born to kill 

 A playful push to the ocean floor  

Come so far just our joy to fill. 

 Thirty-six years hence we stand 

 And as a new wave roaring comes 

 We brace and clutch our glasses in hand 

 My how you splash my gentle man.

Mashes Sands

 Wish we could always reign in

Mashes Sands

Johnclarestokes 

I do not know how the sand 

came from Mashes Sands 

to my sand pile in Sopchoppy

But my father got it there

And it was my kingdom  

My perimeter I only left

whenever I would swing

and jump past the pure sandy 

Border 

Flying about up into the evening

Til I heard mamma calling me in

And I would park the fleet

Open the sluice gates

Post the real plastic army men

With strictest orders

To guard the Mashes Sands

Kingdom in the county

Wakulla

The township

Sopchoppy

the state Florida

Ruled by the kindly

Tow head king.

Drougue Drift

 Drogue Drift

Johnclarestokes 

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 crafts they ply on

in dead reckoning 

Paying the price of anchors rejecting.

First Kill

First Kill

Johnclarestokes 

I proudly shot daddy's Purple Martin that day

Not knowing they kept mosquitos at bay.

Mamma told me quickly! Go bury the bird!

And to your father not breath a word.

I dug a hasty grave behind the shed

Then hid the Red Rider under the bed.

Each evening I looked in fear as Martins flew

That somehow daddy counted and knew.

Such the guilt on a little boys brain

That a tiny bird could cause such strain.

Years passed, the Martin houses rotted and fell

Now I'm old, but bless mamma, she never did tell!

The first kill haunts us through our days

Till at last, Martins keep mosquitos at bay

Above our graves.

Toward Fall

Toward fall

The deer of Della 

If the scene does not work in color

Then remove the color

Maybe it was meant for shades

For contrasts, for tones

As Ansel would have said, Zones.

My mares

In my evening tossed mares

Again you were there

Still in your forever young 

From which I’ve long come 

from, as my time grows tidal

rushing below me out to eternity. 

When Beach Bums...and Nikons...grandpaws and grandsons....converge...gulls laugh...waves clap...beyond all words...now the waves recede...the tides cry...gulls lull...and the waves pray....a loss for words....we hold the shells to ear...in hope to hear but one whisper...

Fleeting

 Fleeting 

john clare stokes

sit with me

in ninety-nine degree

humidity

atop a drain field

the view is grand

sans the yard debris

from years of accumulation

growing each year

less dear

as the memory fades

and the lure of youth

no longer bides me stay

and play torture

content for the time

given to steaming situations

to wait out the fritillary

intent upon being elusive

invading his comfort zone

sit with me

in ninety-nine degree

memory

mounds of my making

views of neighbors yards

their accumulation

equally as dear

to them as mine

one content simply to

sip the tall neck

giving up on the belly swelling

surrounded by his goats and

chickens

not understanding his neighbor

who sits atop his drain field

wondering if the sun has 

not gotten to him

listening to the other neighbor

yelling at his granny

and in the distraction

comes the fritillary

and he misses his shot.

Scent of a rose

Scent of a rose

‘Sero te amavi, Pulchritudo tam antiqua et 

tam nova! Sero te amavi.’

S. Augustine

While awaiting the hummingbird, I took a double exposure of the rose. First focus on the rose, second focus on the background. The result to me made the rose look as if it had an aura of scent.

Bits

 Bits

john clare

lately I've  been thinking

of horses bits

and words that slip

and of reigns

and of telling the

horse to go and to

whoa! 

and how to the barn

the horse yearns

despite the pulling

upon the reins

and no matter what

you do

he is barn determined

so goes the tongue

as teeth gnaw and grind

 upon the bit

 trying to spit it out

to go our own way

in search of barn hay.

What shall we?

 What obscure

Thing shall we share

Today with the masses?

Things the masses

Have no knowledge of:

We would tell of sweet 

Things, how we strained

The juice to boil it down

To its essence,

Bottling it up still hot,

But I think not.

It would only remind

Of some old time

Who gives a damn 

That once the cane

We did grind?

Bob

 He wanted to read his bible

More than talk to me

I could tell he wasn't listening

Wasn't interested in me

Oh I babbled on a bit longer

But finally just shut up and

Apologized

Went my way 

So he could get back to his word

What a spiritual guy

He is.

There he sat with the far away hollow face

Offering little in the conversation

Wondering what was I doing in this place

I imagined him reeling back at my inspiration.