In their own waking

 Their own waking

john clare 

Mornings she would lie still slow waking

Somewhere between the opening and the closing

Back to some holler below Crumpler Mountain

Lying quietly upon a sofa bed of her own making.

No home of her own long since sold

Passed around  from generation to generation 

Somewhere between the opening and the closing

Lying quietly upon a sofa bed of her own making.

Back to some holler below Crumpler Mountain

Father calling her to board the Northfork line

Somewhere between the opening and the closing.

To Bluefield past Pinnacle Rock one last time.

Mornings she would lie still slow waking

The generations would tip toe whispering

Lying quietly upon a sofa bed of her own making.

Dreaming kitty at her feet deep in purring.

Back to some holler below Crumpler Mountain

To the tipple whistle sending men below

Deep to the veins of coal forever below

Crying quietly upon beds of their own waking

Somewhere between the opening and the closing.

Jason

 I have only ever been in the family I have been in my whole life. It wasn’t until I was well into adulthood that I realized how blessed I was to be born into it. There is a massive missing part in this photo that will remain until the resurrection.

Justin and I will make sure Stacy is prayed for and taken care of from here on.

Not knowing Brandon’s brother Jason, I thought it was Justin who died in the accident. I should have known better for things just didn’t add up. Then I saw this photo and at first said, how did they do that? Somewhat relieved.

Son down upon the Suwannee

 Son down upon Suwannee

We must return to this bend

The place of quiet where the

heart can mend

Drink in with deer and bear

The nocturnal stare

Just beyond reach of fires glow

Glide the Chipewan slow

Past moccasin on 

Tupelo tentacle 

medusa sirens resembling

Drawing us where sand scrapes

Of leviathan warn, watching coldly

assuming us worth rolling

In the tannic black mare 

Yes, we must go there.

Sing it o’er and o’er again

 It’s now going on nearly seventy and I can still

hear her singing in the teared up voice

I wait for the fading of the song

But days it comes back just as strong

How long does it take?

Before the sound of her goes away?

I suppose we carry the song til it’s

Silenced by the grave.

Sandhill Song

 Sandhill song

 John Clare Stokes

Many are the songs that I have known

From hymns of grace to Comfortably numb

Many are the loves once so madly strong

But none came quite as close when come

in the December clear cold cobalt heaven

the sound to which I’ve long been drawn

of a will from this earth to be ascending 

To join the grand Sandhill song.

I dreamed

 I dreamed that you came walking by

I exclaimed my, you look so good

You smiled, in that way I still know

You so very young

Me now so old and worn.

Sweeter grows the memory

 Sweeter grows the memory

When I come upon a lone Golden mill in the four ten turn position, a winter garden of mustard and turnip greens, an old sugar shack, the sitting and gathering bucket, I slow. Once I knew well these things.

If only

 People often ask, “wow! What kind of pen did you use to write that poetry?” NOT.

If only I had a pen like yours, I’d be a poet too

First John Burns

 First John Burns 

 by john clare  

  As hollow shells in our biers of aging 

 In paper shrouds we shall forever dwell 

 Images of a life before we fell  

In one dimension flat between the pages 

 Some to King James volumes worn 

 In the bosom of the love of First John 

 Some to ye old Burns pages torn 

 There, him at Agincourt wha shone 

 A hundred years to quietly lie 

 The words in the image one becoming  

 Far hence the sound of tattered chapters turning 

 Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye; 

 Aye in the image clearly writ 

 Far faded in the long idle sit  

 His love perfected in Him alone 

 Long beyond ye ole image is gone.

Touch then go

 Touch and go

Isn't that the way we live

To touch

Then to go

So quickly comes the

Run way

Then

Eternity

I thought on FB if I didn’t post awhile maybe absence would make my posts fonder. Wrong. Melissa and a spammer only. 

Dream of mine

 Dream of mine

It’s never occurred

The passing of the Sandhills

Through the moon

But with imagination

And a bit of trickery

It happens regularly

What a legacy

 What a legacy

Ole granny died and went to her long reward

The family they never were much for formal religion

Especially the dressing up and sitting variety

They could sit a spell long on a bar stool

A deer stand or a boat seat

Cushioned pews were quite unfitting

Now granny was frugal and never spent what money they knew she had

And when the hired preacher began his eulogy 

He kept telling them what a legacy

What a legacy granny left

 Not conversant with preacher talk

They just figured this old vicar knew

Something they didn't

So after the burial out behind the church

They hurried home to turn upside down

The old homeplace

Searching for that legacy.