Paths back

 Paths back

John Clare Stokes

In the entering of the path back

One recalls the time of beginning

When extending it seemed such

The never ending journey.

Who will block for me?

 In the sweet bye

This past December Roscoe and I traveled down to Williston, Raleigh to be exact, to get some seed cane from Jack Whitehurst. Jack along with his twin brother Bill and sister Harriet were the first people we met when we rolled in from Wilmore, Kentucky that June day in 1967. They had brought us watermelons to welcome us as the Preacher family of the First United Methodist Church. I told mamma that day, there are two men at the door. When I learned they were in my class of 1973, I kind of was concerned for my diminutive size. Their size later that year turned to my benefit when they opened wide gaps for the number 40 halfback to make long hauls on the JV football team.

Those were such great years with Pappy Whitehurst and my father being such friends, along with Elliot, Bill and Dan and their children.

I loaded the cane that day and looked forward to this November returning to Williston where Jack hoped to cook his own syrup, at least building a shed for the kettle and setting up the mill. I had last year finally set up my fathers Goldens Mill and had planned to squeeze the juice and take it down to add. 

Saturday I was in Williston for the funeral of a family friend Tommy Brazeal and I sat by Jacks brother Bill and wife Cindie. 

He said he’d tell Jack he saw me and would let me know where the cooking was taking place.

Today Bill messaged me to say Jack passed away that same Saturday around 6pm.

The cane is now all the more special than before, as is the bottle of syrup he and Charlene gave me. 

In the sweet bye and bye

We shall meet by that beautiful gold cooking.

October by Robert Frost

 O hushed October morning mild,

Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
Tomorrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow.
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know.
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
One from our trees, one far away.
Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst.
Slow, slow!
For the grapes’ sake, if they were all,
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost—
For the grapes’ sake along the wall.

Ode to the fallen oaks

 Ode to the fallen oaks

John Clare Stokes

In the passing of the oak....From afar who did come....And in hushed manner who spoke....Of what he succomed....In the passing of the day....Does the sun not miss....The shadow and the sway.....The meeting with the mist....In the passing of the time....With longing who will recall....The old oak so fine....And the terrible fall.

The Wild Child

 Wild Child

John Clare Stokes 

After Yeats the Stolen Child 

By the bank beneath the broken sign

By the boat beside the fishing dock

There ran the wild child by the shore

The wild child that mother forgot

By the lodge lounging at the bar

By the downing of another shot

There ran the wild child by the door

The wild child that father forgot

By the asphalt cracked unmarked

By the dumpster beside this lot  

There ran the wild child by the parked

The wild child that brother forgot 

By the time we called out for her

By the time she left our spot 

There ran the wild child but a blur 

The wild child that sister forgot.

By the tree stand by the Range

By the trail the creature was shot

There ran the wild child deranged

The wild child we all forgot.

What I offer

 I am most deceived I guess to think I have much to offer when so few could care less what I offer. 

Lee Boys

 Finally a Lee boy

John Clare Stokes 

Robert Lee in the beginning had a son 

From America Wheeler in 1870 he did come.

Jake Lee they would name the son

With Eliza, Mary and Dora in Benton he would run.

Then in '97 at 51 Lee lost his darling

Mourned three years til he met Lessie Starling.

Hard by the Suwannee Shoals they did dwell

Nellie, Louise, Pearl, Meck, Hattie, Ethel, Eunice and Estelle

Til, whew, finally in the year 20 came,

Joe Lee the second son to carry the name.

This is one from several years ago, reposted and only Melissa liked it. I’m going to delete it. I get angry but how many years has it been thus? 

Monday Monday

Roscoe and i are chilling today with power. We have washed clothes, picked up some sticks, talked to Alexis, we couldn’t when off line. We put nectar in the hummingbird feeders. We did other things than have to be concerned with a generator and the noise. It would be great to be at physical normal but thankful i can do what i can.  

As Yeats

 As Yeats

John Clare Stokes

He wanted so badly

to be a Yeats, a Frost

even a Wallace or Lawrence 

Poets whose words he

marveled how

There were moments

when he’d get this inner

strong compulsion 

of what he wanted to

compose

but his library of words

seemed inadequate 

the result never as 

the inner thought

The old Triton

the maiden so sublime 

fighting

to win her with lines

Man in the mirror

 Open eyes

John Clare Stokes

He was between the age of nine and ten

When his eyes were opened

Up until then

There were few mirrors to gaze in

He had little concept of being him

But in that new parsonage 

with the first bedroom ever his own

he stared long at this image 

the full length mesmerizing 

the scars down the left shoulder

chest, throat and arm from the boy of two

who pulled the coffee pot cord off

the stove scalding now at the between 

nine and ten causing the self conscious 

introspective, artistic poetic  life to begin

seldom going shirtless when swimming 

cringing when the scars were seen

with the non scarred staring and

offering their unnecessary commentary

Since between nine and ten

in that West Washington parsonage

when the boys eyes were opened

sad he would think of those without

mirrors or scars who never have a clue

who they are.

Heavenly Hurt, it gives us-

We can find no scar,

But internal difference,

Where the Meanings, are-

Emily Dickinson

“Man shouldn’t be able to see his own face — there’s nothing more sinister. Nature gave him the gift of not being able to see it, and of not being able to stare into his own eyes. Only in the water of rivers and ponds could he look at his face. And the very posture he had to assume was symbolic. He had to bend over, stoop down, to commit the ignominy of beholding himself. The inventor of the mirror poisoned the human heart.”

— Fernando Pessoa

Did they miss me?

 Since being offline since Friday with Hurricane Helene, the only time i could see some posts were when we went to get gas for the generator. I learned that only one asked about us, Ann from Archer. The majority kept posting their silly i’m hot, i’m bored, still no power. We had a generator for the first time after much trouble getting the right cord. It worked great. We don’t feel as anxious losing power. There is still work to do getting all the limbs piled up. We went to town to see the huge oak that fell in my sisters back yard then went to the carwash then DQ. When we got home the TV and internet were working. Plus Cash our feral cat had returned. 

Counts

 This week Mr Counts wife Katrina passed away. It was Mr Counts who hired me to work as the display and advertising person. Mr Counts was a strong Christian and the District people were always on him. He finally resigned though I think he was fired. He and I got a raw deal from JCPenney.