Theron Coming

 Theron Coming 

There is a place where the water goes

When the rains from Okeefenokee refrains

Leaving a gasping brim upon the limestone

Calling for but a drop to send

The Tupelo roots they bend in praying

Sending down their supplications below

For Theron to send

But Theron is downstream busily painting

A scene of floods bringing from Lem Griff

Waters spreading through palmetto homes

Sending to cypress trees the newborn nocturnal 

Taking all others rapidly beyond Fowlers

But it's as a dream this painted scene

The gills cannot breath oil or

Swim upon linen canvas and so

Theron never comes

The Heron lands to say grace quickly

For the manna lately comes easy

With but a brush stroke he is away

As Theron he must meet upon

The Suwannee

Theron Gaulding, the late eccentric artist who lived in White Springs in a boarding house. His ashes spread on the Suwannee. 

Williston

 We drove to Williston in Carols car. Sister Paula went. Paula and i went to the Church of God, Mel and Billy Earl to Bronson First Baptist. Paula and went to Orange Hill to set flowers and flag. We ate at Billys with Rochelle and Linda. Larry came over. Got several bags of Carols clothes. Gave Annetta her present for 90th birthday. I drove home. 

The unstartled

 The un-startled

Hear my eyes the sound so faint

The bees feet alighting upon the flower

In fields the quails sudden flutter

Quietly winging away the tockless hour.

Hear my nose the whispering breeze

The gurgling brook over the rock

The whippoorwill shy in the tree

Times metered journey around the clock.

Hear my touch the sighs of love

The distant first caress of lip

Hush the twinkling of stars above

As silent into the timeless we slip.

Not the same

 She couldn’t explain

But somehow her mundane 

Just didn’t seem the same

Wednesday after Tuesday election 

No country

 No country

John Clare Stokes

We the Clares and Housemen 

find this no country for the

pastoral poet of tender bend

 twig green under cloud dream

of heart pricked by thorns

made into pens of crimson

parchment yellowing under

a sun having not shown since

 1864 and the war

to banish pastoral poets from

the land

Morning is broken

 The morning is broken

The possum in the trap

The green in the leaking pool

The toilets clog awaiting replacing

The frig freezes

The freezer thaws

The ducks swim in muck

The cats eat up the birds

One thing gets fixed

As another awaits to break

Upon the broken morning.

New Song

 New Song

It won’t be very long 

Before a new song

I hum

Beneath the breath

Before ole death

Comes screaming

Drowning the new song

It thought.

Detour

 Detour

Days you’ve been traveling

Down the same highway

The same scenes unfolding

Before you

Never the same though

 But one day you come upon

The man in the road

And he says go slow

And suddenly

You no longer want to

Be upon this way

Or even take the detour

You cannot return

Quick enough

To turn in your keys

And leave the way of the road.

Pulling the wool

Pulling wool

I sure can’t pull the wool

Over some eyes

Why

If I take a shot of the moon

They remark

I didn’t know you’re on the moon

Please remind me to say

I wasn’t

I was in my space ship

Quickly two

 Quickly two

John Clare

Day comes upon us

We brace for the rush

In the hedgerow a thrush

We calm to a hush

Two cows in passing

We pause for the scene

Why aren’t they eating

Odd it so seems

Life is so out lived

Before we can die 

Quickly to your intends

Before the thrush flies

Way back

 Way back

John Clare Stokes

Once I embarked upon the kayak

Determined never to ever come back

Once we reached the shores of way back

The denizens impounded the kayak

I didn’t have a whistle or life jacket

Life’s not all it’s cracked up to be in

Way Back

The Twelve

 The twelve

John Clare Stokes 

What could we twelve do 

when not turning the world upside down 

We could split up into two teams of five

Play a round of basketball 

With old John and Luke as subs

We could take eleven of us

And form a football squad

With John as the water boy 

not sure if anyone would dare 

Play us

With nine we could have a baseball team

With a designated runner, batter and several

Pitchers 

I think we could beat the Philistine Giants

We could take James and Johns nets

and have two volleyball teams

We could have a great cross country team

Led by Peter and John 

Used to running to empty tombs

boy we would shake even the dust on our feet 

The only game we couldn’t play

Would be rugby

Where we’d need fifteen 

Or if we were Aussies, we’d need eighteen

For football

But that about covers it 

And golf 

Did I mention the great golf separating us?

Never mind.