Journey with John Stokes

Sunday, October 27, 2024

Half past Cheely

John Clare Stokes

Once there was a time upon which you could set your watch in Williston

When Nettie Griffin and later NE would arrive at the Chick Inn

When one of Charlie Lewis angels would be at the dry goods

Mrs Valerie Blackburn would begin painting with her pet mockingbird

Travis Harris would pump some Standard premium for Chubby Pettaway

Doyle Crosby and Rossi Davis would arrive to repair the tube TV

Bruce Smith would grab his racquet from Crabtree’s and head up Noble

When the Seaboard would sound to slow the traffic down

When JH would come walking all about town.

It was time to…

Old Kentucky

John Clare Stokes

Let me return just once more

to the old Kentucky I’ve longed for

so long, the place of my first dreams

the Jessamine streams and woods

of fall, where we would walk in search

of the rabbits hidden by the slate fences

where we’d sit and rest for a spell

as the long whistle from the coal train

strained the cool air to make it over

the High Bridge into the pristine white

fenced thoroughbred farms where the

Chestnut steeds reposed in lush retirement

while all about the countryside on every barn

wall and driveway, backboards were kept

in top condition, nets unfrayed and white

as into the night, the sounds of swish was

heard, a ritual repeated all across the

commonwealth, the hope in every boy

to be among the number with ole Rupp

and his runts on the hallowed hardwood.

Let me return just once more.

Thursday, October 24, 2024

Persistence of Pam

You’d think the dream wouldn’t last over fifty years

What is the statue of limitation on such? But there I was again this morning with Pam sitting with me and the left hand was on the thigh and I was sleeping in the dream and wondering if Pam was minding that I was putting my hand and rubbing her leg above the knee? And what did Eddie think who was sitting on her other side?

Squire Stove

The high sixteen foot tongue and groove ceilings took a lot of heating. In the cold autumn's my father kept the Squire stove burning in the front room, usually overheating the room until we would have to open the dogtrot hall door and let the cold and hot air mix. It was our natural thermostat. In earlier years before the Squire was installed, it was a constant run to the cold front porch to retrieve wood for the fireplace. The room we slept in had no heater and our vaporous snores resonated from beneath the many patchwork quilts.