Ten Mile

Gulf Hammock

I kind of envision upon that first day of the resurrection it will be akin to entering ole Camp C and seeing all the loved ones again.

The promise land

The Promise Land is West of Vicco

john clare

The boy next door continually kicked the football in the air. Over and above the privacy fence into the Florida blue sky. I do not think he possessed Tebow's spirit, for with every errant kick, expletive's went up with it, veiled in order to keep granny from chiding. Cursing in encryption.

I was once this boy. In the summer of the sixties, my three teen-age uncles from Homewood, Mississippi would board the Trailway's at Stokes Grocery to arrive at the Gulf Station in Sopchoppy. They would spend the summer with us.

It was my Uncle William Clark who took a special interest in me. Since he was a child, he too had caught the ball spirit and he was doing all he knew to pass it along to me. Never mind that I knew nothing of this gospel steeped in Miss State Bulldog theology. He was on the recruiting trail as this Uncle Rico-like fanatic would tell me over and over, go long! Go long! And the ball would soar over the mountains into Mr Laird's yard. He would come out scolding in his stern German accent, threatening to burn the ball. A regular Furher!

Coming from Vicco, Kentucky where I was taken home soon after being born in my mothers home of Bluefield, West Virginia, while I hadn't a clue, I lived close enough to the Mecca, Lexington and Adolph Rupp's Wildcats to have Caewood Ledford's smooth voice convert me.

The spirit of the round ball surfaced soon after we moved from Sopchoppy to Monticello. I had never made a hoop that I know of, but I had my father build me a basket and goal. And so the shooting began. Like myriads of boys in the homeland around Vicco, I too spent all my time around the dirt court.

It was in the blue blood Caywood gave me announcing those January games with Dampier and Rily swishing them in.

It was with joy we moved to Asbury College in Wilmore, Kentucky, only a few miles from Memorial Gym on the Kentucky campus. Soon after my Uncle William arrived to live out back with Brother Billy. They were now in college and they took me to my only Kentucky basketball game against the Bulldogs. Sadly to me my hero's lost and I was not consoled, even with William taking me afterwards to the State locker to meet one of his friends, Chuck Wade, who helped defeat Pat and Louie!

But I was hooked. Not a Bulldog as William hoped, but a Wildcat.

After two short years we returned to Florida. In Williston I again spent all my time on the court by the house. I played on the high school teams but never really excelled, though being blessed with the spirit, not the flesh. White man syndrome. Too stiff, too short, too slow. No jumping ability. But it did not quench the inner boy who always remained. Out on the court alone, his team in his head, Caywood in his head announcing, the crowd in his head cheering. And he Louie would dribble up the asphalt court. And he Louie would pass to Riley. And he Rily would work it in to Thad. Thad would toss it back to Louie at the top of the key who would swish it. String music Caywood would announce. The crowd went wild. Chuck Wade and State never beat UK again, in my mind.

Photo with my goal from Monticello.

The wane of life

 waxing moon in wane of life...high stand at low ebb....between strandline and middle zone... hermit,urchin and mussel clam...shy, slow, in my shell....Willet,Sanderling and Plover...no tern, skimmer or gull....between the spray and sand....I make a final stand.

The blood of Lona

 The blood of Lona

by John Clare Stokes...

Before him descended a legion of dragonflies  

 Sent to part the skeeter cloud  

 All about the curdling cries  

 The fall of blood from the skies  

  Parsing through the red sea of carnage 

 Grateful for this field of the dead  

 Who could discern the Master's plans  

 How his dragonfly army today would be fed?

Eek upon the crumbs thrown beneath tables

upon the heights over the finest gables

Fly the army of Lazarus over bloody ground

Ignoring cries to please send a Moses down.

Not even a dog remained to lick the wounds

As the waters of Lona turn a brilliant red

The dragonfly brigade obscuring a blood moon

The host of heaven over Lona again fed.

On the edge of edge

Edge Past

john clare 

Imagine in that

Glimpse to edge of sight

When transfixed

In a colour scent

When beyond your

Downcast eyes

You are drawn beyond

The old pecan grove

To the edge of past

And you walk

And you talk

And you long

Surely you must have

Imagined

Tracing Camellia petal trails

Abruptly ending

Just at the point of 

You weren't alone.

Wilmore

 O it shall be a most happy time

All my loved ones to find

Set the finest China for the day

For the honored Lord make way.

It was the Thanksgiving from Wilmore, Kentucky, around the year of sixty six, that Normal Rockwell came to paint our picture. In earlier years the day was memorable as well, like the one in Sopchoppy when my dad and I went out early in the morning, and with the old Parker double barrel 12 gauge shot a gobbler in Bert Roddenberry’s woods for dinner that day. I’m not even sure Langston carried turkeys in the IGA then. And there was the latter times, like down in Gulf Hammock in Levy County, when most of Williston and the county would gather in the Fugates Camp C for a community feast followed by a hymn fest sing down at the Smith camp. And then there were the Old Homewood years in Wakulla County in Crawfordville and later Williston when my dad and I and many helping would grind the sugar cane and boil it into syrup, bottled by lunch time by the sugar shack where tables were set up under the pear trees. 

But the one in sixty six, with my favorite Uncles William and Billy, my dads brothers from Mississippi living with us in college at Asbury, with Wayne Tarpley, without family invited over, with the Fitches IGA turkey, in the duplex apartment beside Mr Beardsley and family, me in my best paisley shirt, even had Monnie, mamma’s mother living with us, sleeping on my bottom bunk bed, that ranks right up there with them all. Good job Norman, good job.,

Squint

 When I glowed

John Clare Stokes 

There was the long ago time

When in that bright Wakulla sunshine

I could see more squinting

That most could wide-eyed staring.

Mom she wanted to have me tested

Even took me to see Doctor Head

“You'll die if you pick your nose”

Is all he said.

Santa came one Christmas wearing

Mr Shuster's shoes

The Tully twins and the Pelt boys

They all clamored to his lap

I just wondered what did Santa

do with Shuster? 

Helen Roussey I was determined to marry

I felt I knew enough as a 2nd grader

To make a go with this girl from Panacea

Since my teacher snubbed me.

Some of us n’er go beyond our raisin’

and boogers haven’t killed me yet

If I ever find Miss Thompson my teacher

With me on my towel I’ll ask her to take a nap.

Such was the glow from Sopchoppy

White lies

 White lies

john clare 

Frail flower

How I promised

Protection from

The frost

Taking grandma's

Most cherished

Wedding ring quilt

To cover you

But it crushed you

Before the frost 

Ever wilted you

I told not the truth

to the coming sun

Blaming the frost

Instead knowing 

How he loves to

Burn him away

Never chiding

Granny on her

wedding day.

Gallery

 We are the Gallery

We draw no salary

We sell our souls

We hawk our hearts

It smarts

To trade in blood

To hang our skin

Like sins upon a

penance screen

Seen for all

Shunned piously 

Best left to hang

Nail hole

Wire taut

Hammer head

Askew 

You call this art?

Wilt

 Wilt

john clare 

In the aftermath

of the freeze 

from the front

word was reached

the frost had breeched

with a valiant stand

the brave glories 

post was reached

to wilt in the

savage onslaught 

they hung there

upon the vine

not a soul to 

lower them.

Sad times.

Wake

 Wake

john clare 

In the hushed

Homeland

Where the glories

Made their final

Stand

A wake was held

I took the evening

Shift 

The last time I saw 

Them in their

Uniforms fine

Saluting the sun

Going bravely into

The cold night.

Frosty worn

 Come the frosty morns

To adorn the garments 

Worn

By those gone on

Magic exists in those

Old silk threads

They live again

Upon me

Inexplicably I dance

Upon the crunchy 

White lawn

With those gone on.

O say

You say am I mad

Mad?

My frown is

But a door

To hide my joy

Behind.