Three Pelicans

Three pelicans cross’d an ocean;

One with the memory of the charted way

Another the present strength in play

The third a future hope of port far away.

Crescent Beach

Little Man

 Little Man

John Clare Stokes

I’ve relayed the story before

how when a boy around four

I had a living plastic little man

He was real and I could understand 

what he was saying to me

ruling over the Sopchoppy sand pile wonderfully

When time came to move to Monticello

I looked all about for the little fellow

But sadly we left and ever since 

when I encounter one with resemblance to little man

I put him to my ear

Perchance saying you found me!

Carrying him about again as of old

So much to catch up on.

In the beginning

 In Magoo beginning

Sometime around 1971 or so, for $25 Magoo purchased from his Williston high school science teacher a Yashica JP SLR with a 135mm lens and an external Sekonic light meter.

In 1973, with his graduation money, Magoo from Harmons photo in Gainesville purchased for around $125 a Honeywell Pentax Spotmatic with 50mm 1.8 Super Takamar lens with an internal needle meter. But before that, in the late sixties, I had a Polaroid Swinger, a magical little camera that an internal light would tell you when exposure was correct and sixty seconds later you could see your print.

Then there were the Nikons, the FM2, the FE, the F3, the digital D40 up to the D850, which will probably be my last camera.

Above Florida Sand

 Above Florida Sand

John Clare Stokes

As my days upon the Florida sand grow long 

I am hearing a once faint song growing strong

It wafts through the breezeway of old Johnson’s 

Stirs the fire beneath the curing hams in the smokehouse 

Fells the sweetgum leaves in Stewart’s yard

Shifts to low down the long lane again 

As I stand gazing in the open field below

The mantle flutters to sand as I go.

Mark

 Mark Philpots funeral was today. I originally planned to go but didn’t. We had many good times back when we were runners. 

Coming down the Hart Bridge at River Run 15k

In front of Alltel Stadium. 

Full moon

Got up early to catch the Beaver super moon. 

And on the 15th with Jupiter

The rainbow

 The Rainbow comes and goes,

And lovely is the Rose,

The Moon doth with delight

Look round her when the heavens are bare,

Waters on a starry night

Are beautiful and fair;

The sunshine is a glorious birth;

But yet I know, where'er I go,

That there hath past away a glory from the earth...

~ Wordsworth (Photo by Jerry Uelsmann)

From Bruce Kirby page

Eunoia

 Eunoia

Beautiful thinking. I am in a constant state of eunoia. From my observation, few dwell there. One or two, the vast majority in some state of hunger, satisfying the baser instincts.

Even my Christian friends and church brethren, whom I’d think would find resonance in eunoia, don’t. 

How does one achieve it when they don’t see it or seek it? It is my quest to help in some way to open one to the possibility.

Dwell on

 It is the nature in man

To lament the beauty

Fading

Never the beauty remaining

Lament not the beauty

Gone

To the beauty now

Dwell on.

The lonely house

 The Lonely House.

Emily Dickinson

I know some lonely houses off the road

A robber'd like the look of,-

Wooden barred,

And windows hanging low,

Inviting to

A portico,

Where two could creep:

One hand the tools,

The other peep

To make sure all's asleep.

Old-fashioned eyes,

Not easy to surprise!

How orderly the kitchen' look

by night,

With just a clock,-

But they could gag the tick,

And mice won't bark;

And so the walls don't tell,

None will.

A pair of spectacles ajar just stir-

An almanac's aware.

Was it the mat winked,

Or a nervous star?

The moon slides down the stair

To see who's there.

There's plunder, -where?

Tankard, or spoon,

Earring, or stone,

A watch, some ancient brooch

To match the grandmama,

Staid sleeping there.

Day rattles, too,

Stealth's slow;

The sun has got as far

As the third sycamore.

Screams chanticleer,

"Who's there?"

And echoes, trains away,

Sneer- "Where?"

While the old couple, just astir,

Fancy the sunrise left the door ajar!

Shekinah

 Shekinah

john clare 

Down on north Marion

In the vacant lot

The walls were rent

On the gospel tent.

The sisters proclaimed

The Holy Ghost was to blame

Fiery tongues on all touching

Skeptic deacons demurred

Offering earthly explanations

Tinkling brass and cymbals banging, the gospel band

Played on, proofed from the

Fire, paid to stoke the flame,

Beating and repeating

Beating and repeating

The brick and mortar Methodists were appalled with it all

Calling it exhibition

Certain their God would 

Never dwell in unsafe, repurposed circus tents

But stoic,reverent-like, behind fine stained glass,

Diffusing beautifully the blinding wild light.

In days to come

The debate will linger on

into future dispensations,

While up in Waycross the smell of burning wafted down:

Was it the from the Okeefenokee

Burning?

Or the Holy Shekinah burning  down the circus tent?

The deacons up there I'm certain can explain the Lions roaring.

The wonder of

the wonder of a fritillary to inspire...a humble flower inciting poetry....given for all to see...of these i never tire....