When the roll

When the roll

Johnclarestokes 

Recently a friend related

staying awake nights

the visage of a friend

gone too soon looming

It comes upon some

Quite early in life

Seems this one was 

quite young

staring into the mirror

at the realization of

earthly me

of eternity

Perhaps this one

had a head start

for as a preachers son

from the beginning

though he was drawing

scenes of boats  

the words of life

infused him

Others not so fortunate

come eventually to the 

mirror or the caskets sheen

the earthly image

haunting them

looming not blinking 

and the alphabetic roll

has just left the A’s

and the B’s, the C’s

are coming up

the class of the living

Await to answer present

to begin their first day

In eternity.

Meme Clara upon this day four years hence laid

to rest in Orange Hill Cemetery

Everything is beautiful

 You’d think some other word would do. It was not supposed to be beautiful. It was supposed to be humorous.

I don’t think most even read what I write. It’s just….beautiful….regardless. 

Ghost in making

 Ghost in making

He was a ghost in the making

Practicing for the time of haunting

Hanging about the places once been

Going there time and again

Visiting over and over old lovers

Hovering near the fields of now over

Not letting go

Trying in the flesh to find a way

Of haunting

Looking so forward to the day

Of being a free spirit

Read to me

 Read to me

From the book of forgotten 

Poetry

The one we transcribed

When all was

Lovely

Give the words your

Inflection

Your soft trailing off

Into the

Wind

Let me hear them again

Walking Fed

 Side Stalk

To the beginning of the

walking dead season 

To the smell of

free food they weave

Bless you Cleopatra 

Steel for feeding 

the walkers of these

idle streets

keeping them alive

so they can man the

steel benches 

in olden rags fully

placing to the curb

the styrofoam

Condiments.

Rogers Tree

 Rogers Tree

Every October my late friend Roger Sessler and I would assist the Gainesville Cycling Club at the Santa Fe Century ride rest stop at Watermelon Park. It gave us free entry for the next days Horsefarm 100. I tell myself I will one day get back into shape to ride the hundred, but without Roger daily stopping by to ride and my post stroke condition , it is a fading prospect. This year due to the damage from hurricanes Helene and Milton, the cycling festival has been cancelled.

A calm beyond

Soft as the massacre of Suns

By Evening’s Sabres slain

Emily Dickinson

Soon as dies the sunset glory,

Stars of heaven shine out above,

telling still the ancient story,

their Creators changeless love.

Jubilate! Jubilate! Jubilate! Amen!

Telling still the ancient story,

their Creators changeless love.

Samuel Longfellow

A Calm Beyond

When blows the gulf winds strong

Taking from the land the calm

We look beyond the tumult found

To the place of familiar ground

Where the river we know ever flows

Bringing peace to the Gulf of Mexico 

And we in calm known again pray

Heal the torn land beyond ole Suwannee.

John Clare Stokes

To golden days 

Suwannee

I would floor me if just once Johnny or some other writer would share what I’ve written, not what I’ve photographed sans the writing. All I ever get is beautiful.

That is fine. It would just be good if someone appreciated the words above the pictures. 

Reunion

 Reunion

John Clare Stokes

At first he said he wasn't going

By now he should be retiring

Having made it finally...

And not working at sixty,

Driving for a living.

What kind of cloak could 

he pick?

One that would hide where

All the years continued to

stick,

Lingering years from lithe 

times of being lean,

Fitting in places he only

dreamed!  how now?

And the old flames,

would they even recognize

what it was in him that 

once drew them?

Causing them to give their

Promises to him,

meeting at some out for the

evening parents home,

doing things never since done.

Would they still wear the 

braces and beads?

Wave the pom pons and 

twirl the batons

tauntingly?

Hide yet their unrequited 

Love for him?

Never flaming out after all the years?

Probably not.

Caught up in the grand babies

praising, 

their own husbands providing

now this love to them.

Splendid lives.

How dare this old hurdling

hoopster crash the reunion!

All was going so well,

Not dwelling upon the past.

Remnants

 Remnants of the fathers 

Lately when we go to Williston, I go out to my late father in laws shed, and it is sad, the tools and such he owned so well ordered. He told me often before he passed on to take anything I want, but I hesitate.

For one, I too am over run with all the tools and such I inherited from my late father, not at all well ordered, and I lament the thought of after I am gone, this link to my father will all but cease. My sons have no interest in the things, they will have little sentimental attachment.

Our Idols

 Our idols are like scarecrows in a cucumber field, and they cannot speak, they have to be carried, for they cannot walk. Jeremiah 10:5.

Basketball John

 Basketball John 

I tried to trace today, the beginning of the

Love for basketball

For in Sopchoppy

All I wanted to be was Walt Dickson

Halfback for the Yellowjackets gridiron 

I recall going to a basketball game

In the old native rock gym

The mighty Jackets taking on

The Crawfordville Panthers

Maybe that was the planting

Of the seed

And by the time we moved to

Monticello

Daddy built my first goal and 

Backboard in the back yard

To which Walt and Bart Starr

Aspirations 

Turned somehow to wanting

To be a Hondo Havlicek Celtic 

So when the Fourth grade A

Was scheduled to play the

Fourth grade B at halftime

Of a Monticello Tiger game

I was the go to man

To face the talented 

Bobby and Butch Plains twins

Marc Bishop and I did the

Best we could

And when half time came to an end

I was high scoring man on the losing

B team with three points

Sinking my first free throw ever.

The love of hoops was fully born

The next year when we were to

Move to Wilmore, Kentucky

Just twelve miles south of

Mecca Lexington 

The epicenter of basketball

A Wilmore Cub

I became a Rupp Runt

And have been ever since.

In the shed hangs the original iron

My father hoisted in long ago

Monticello

The goal still glows hot

From years of swishing.

Driving Black Daisy

 Driving Black Daisey 

JohnClare Stokes

I was a bus drivers daughter riding the holler

We rode over the dark coal tunnels far below

To the two story stucco home at lines end we’d go

Our days fares counted out in shiny silver dollars.

We’d often stop along the Northfork route

To rescue a kitty or puppy gone astray 

Hiding them in the basement from Monnie

But really, she didn’t at all mind.

I can still hear daddy’s bus to Crumpler coming

Those bone tired coal miners going home

As in this dream it won’t be long

Up to my warm, warm room I’m climbing.

And I’m sitting upon the first row seat so happy

The blackened passengers of Pocahontas mine

Wake us daddy when we get to our parting time

I promise I’ll count the silver dollars accurately.

I was a bus drivers daughter riding the holler

Awake now! Come along with the kind miners

And what shall we name your kitty purring?

Why of course, Black Daisey, that’s perfect daddy.