John Clare Stokes
We envision ourselves forever with the young
The race we can still line up and run
And maybe some are given feet ever strong
Others, we are just grateful to limp home.
Little Shoals
Suwannee
Upon slipping on the slippery rocks and having to crawl up the bank and limp back to the vehicle
Hey hey goodbye
John Clare Stokes
Nada will you please put another forty-five on?
Spin Wooly Bully for our beau Johnny Cone!
How we loved our Friday night pajama parties,
Crying in the chapel with the birds and the bees.
Now you tell me mamma Bishop's with Desmond and Marc?
That just leaves you and PJ to spin Petula Clark!
Sock Hops at seventy Oh still soothe the soul,
Kind of a drag, but it's not unusual you know
We sure believed in magic from ole Roy Oribson,
Help! Where did our loves go?
I can't help this feeling we're
On the Eve of Destruction!
by john clare stokes
in the fallow fields of fall
there lies a long lost ball
kicked over the goal of old
when the uprights were two
and the boys I am told
were measured by feat
but tonight around the
trampled tiger head
we name the fallow field
after the one
who lost the ball
took to alcohol
sat beside the Madden
Super ones
and to Jesus late
did come
So future bums
who make it big
can gather round
the purple tiger
and aspire
to have a fallow field
named for them.
So still on the Suwannee tonight
at White Springs
I could hear the brush strokes of Theron
Dipping and stirring
tannic with sand
Blending them
Downstream
by john clare
she gave her left arm
to always be with the one
who was as a brother
not a blood brother
but a brother
and that was as good as
a brother
and i would have given
my right arm
to have had that
one night moment
of conception
and Nikki too
was my own....
At the stately red Georgian
The peaceful path winding
But who was minding
The stranger who paused
Who saw
The raising of the hand
Announcing his presence
Things just haven't been
The same since
All was well-ordered
at the stately red Georgian
Before the shadow stretched
Up the peaceful path winding
No one was minding.
When we heed a call
Perchance o’er the shoulder
Behind, not always ahead
Against the head long migration
Against the wind of cliche
Against even the natural way
The flock will chide and protest
This way
This way is best
This way we must
Yet the heed to turn compels
The call to dwell
Alone
If need be
To find this source
That calls.
Emerging from the misty wood
Down to the sloping sand
To see another had left an impression
Upon me
Slowly I backed up and away
Not to disturb His writing by Suwannee.
Johnclarestokes
It’s why I’m not very good
At keeping jobs
Seems I cannot follow rules
I was simply told
To watch it set
See that it follows the route
But no
I had to spin it upon my finger
Get it all dizzy
Now the folks somewhere in China
Will think the dragon has
Come for the Ding Dong Dynasty
John Clare Stokes
Nights late I awake to the long, long sound
Of the train whistling his high bridge crossing
High in the palisades of Kentucky
The thoroughbreds in the manicured fields
Prancing at the long, long announcing
Drawing me again to the Bluegrass heights
Awakening in a long, long sleepless night.
