The Bluegrass Way
Nothing would be finer than a slow ride about the Kentucky countryside on a crisp autumn day.
Shaker Village at Pleasant Hill
Saturday, October 5, 2024
Heavenly birthday
Richard Oranders only girl would have been 96 today. Seven years gone on this earth, seems so long to miss.
Wake
Wake
John Clare Stokes
Tonight I sit up
With a dying moon
Soon to slip beneath
Tree sheets
Alone
I mourn
And then it occurs
I am the one
Soon to slip beneath
The forever sleeps
The moon
Mourns
For me
Homespun
The longer grew our memory of home, the greater the boards, brick and tin took on a perfect mend. The December air in the slits, once as a siren, now but a gentle wind. The November smoke from the chimney, once billowing the black soot, now but a lazy waft upward, the April rain pelting awake upon the leaking tin, now a lullaby in our tender sleep. The front porch the only relief from the July heat, now a siesta in the creaking swing.
Friday, October 4, 2024
106
I often gauge the lives of those gone on by Helena Powers, still holding on strong at 106. Today mamma would only been 96. Gone at 89. But the roll is always being called up yonder and we wait our turn to depart.I am now 69 and I’ve came near departure in 2009 like Melanie the same year and again with year with a stroke. Once the runner swift is no longer immune from times hurdles. We creep to eternity.
Thursday, October 3, 2024
To the unknown
To the unknown
John Clare Stokes
There was speculation
Of who it could have been
The burying
In the night
There was talk of
Exhuming the unknown
To determine
Who it may have been
But in the end
A marker was placed
The unknown
Just wanted to die
Without a trace.
Pool of life
Pool of life
John Clare Stokes
Poetry
He tried
It died
Bad sonnets
Weren't in vogue
Photography
He tried
Beautiful
Was the only
Reply
Just couldn't
Get beyond
Politics
He tried
So right in
A wrong world
No one voted
Not even he
Painting
He tried
The palette
Of colors
Didn't match anyone's
Decor
Then the pastor
Said he must
Decrease
That was simply
Easy
After all the
Trying
Sad Smoke
Sad Smoke
John Clare Stokes
Whatever came of our little lad
Whenever we made a fire outside
He was always there by our side
His pitch fork stabbing the pine straw
Watching the white smoke
Happily consuming it all.
This evening we burned a pine pile
On the hill
It was a good day with an
Autumn chill
But something was amiss
With the fire
It kept wafting low toward
The back porch door
Searching we were sure
For the little boy
As so I finally stuck his pitch fork
Next to mine
On the hill
And for the moment
Lured the sad smoke back.
Two at Norfolk
Two at Norfolk
Wallace Stevens
Mow the grass in the cemetery, darkies,
Study the symbols and the requiescats,
But leave a bed beneath the myrtles.
This skeleton had a daughter and that, a son.
In his time, this one had little to speak of,
The softest word went gurrituck in his skull.
For him the moon was always in Scandinavia
And his daughter was a foreign thing.
And that one was never a man of heart.
The making of his son was one more duty.
When the music of the boy fell like a fountain,
He praised Johann Sebastian, as he should.
The dark shadows of the funereal magnolias
Are full of the songs of Jamanda and Carlotta;
The son and the daughter, who come to the darkness,
He for her burning breast and she for his arms.
And these two never meet in the air so full of
Summer
And touch each other, even touching closely,
Without an escape in the lapses of their kisses.
Make a bed and leave the iris in it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)