Journey with John Stokes

Monday, October 28, 2024

There are few people beyond Democrats i don’t care to be around, but Herb is one of them. You’d think not as he is a fellow photographer. Problem is he is arrogant, elitist and not friendly to me. I dont know why. I’ve had a few others feel the same. I guess we all must have a nemesis.

Echoes of Theron

John Clare Stokes

I walked along the sloping sand

Searching for the impressions of his easel

Holding his painting

Of the Suwannee.

It was here the artists like Theron roamed

Here that I was inexplicably drawn,

To catch but a glimpse of how he mixed the

Ochre and the cobalt

How in the end the blend of earth, God and men were so perfectly wrought.

It was here the tripod marks of Moran remained

When images emerged from

Darkness upon emulsion

The kindom of Kodachrome lasting long after our

Digital transience

The dodge and burn of earth, film and men eternally.

It was here before us all

The Timicuan dwelt

In every rock, tree and ripple their spear marks felt

And so like us, they embarked on downstream

Out into that Gulf immortal

Awaiting for the consummation of man, artistry and Suwannee.

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

Come Homewood

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.