john clare stokes
Crouching quietly beneath
the English Dogwood focused on a resting Tiger Swallowtail
The photographer knew at any moment his presence would be known
So he had to quickly compose and align the fresnel.
Second nature these things he had done for so long.
But one should never grow complacent in his pride
Smug that his lens alone could capture prey
The Tiger discerned the photographer trying to hide
Exposing both him and his
Haughty way.
The dragonflies are kind
My kind
They like the sun
Aren’t so fearful they flee
When you encroach
Their territory
All eyes
And I’m all ears
John Stokes
In the realm of the kingdom
The departing
A separation
Of spirit and flesh
Lone canoeists
Departing
At our given intervals
Some to Shoals
To Succumb
Some to Gulfs
Distance making
Great clouds of
Boatmen gathering
Rejoining of
Flesh and Spirit
Welcoming the
Ever coming
Canoeists.
Turn back
Boarding that Jacksonville Greyhound
Suddenly we were on old Marion
Forty-six and the high school graduate
Today i came upon a simple scene
That summed Meme succinctly
The lamp for her late night toiling
The word for her faith never flagging
The desk for her constant writing
The preserves for her cuisine cooking.
Flowing to the Suwannee River
To the roaring
They tell me to take them
To the source of the roaring
They ask me
Is it easy to access
Can anyone come to the roaring
And I sigh
For I fear I have revealed a place
Not of roaring
But whispering
I’ve been to places
Never seen
Traveled great distance
Without going
Gazed upon strangers faces
Intensely knowing
Won countless races
Pacing ever so slowly
Found love overflowing
In all things lowly
In dream
Johnclarestokes
There were long hours spent on the porch
Tin roof shading from the Florida sun
The silence interrupted by the wire swatter
From beneath in sand the ants would come
Carrying below the high porch the silent
ones who moments before sucked blood
The itching persisting into the evening
As the moths circled around the bare
yellow bulb swaying to the rocking
Mosquitoes waking for the evening shift
The fly swatter of little use to defend
bare flesh from the incessant assaults
‘til we’d have to retreat to the front room
the high tongue and groove ceiling above
with the long wire white bulb extinguished
to sleep as the cicadas from sand emerge
to sing the song long into the nocturne
the song of how yellow flies the time
no amount of swat the sting assuage
ever more from Florida sands to swarm.
Past the barns, past the cemetery, Westward from the village. Many traveled,never to return.
Rising
Wendell Berry
Having danced until nearly
time to get up, I went on
in the harvest, half lame
with weariness. And he
took no notice, and made
no mention of my distress.
He went ahead, assuming
that I would follow. I followed,
dizzy, half blind, bitter
with sweat in the hot light.
He never turned his head,
a man well known by his back
in those fields in these days.
He led me through long rows
of misery, moving like a dancer
ahead of me, so elated
he was, and able, filled
with desire for the ground’s growth.
We came finally to the high
still heat of four o clock,
a long time before sleep.
And then he stood by me
and looked, so that my own head
uttered his judgement, even
his laughter. He only said:
“That social life don’t get
down the row, does it, boy?”
Today i burned the large pile of brush from Helene. There is still much in back but it will wait until the next hurricane next week.
