“Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
― William Butler Yeats
Pen the tale
Again the poet found
As he spun another
Round and round
Dizzy bound
Blindfold tight
The absurdity
Of trying to get
Them to find
The tale.
Junk Art
The crafty lady
She was livid
The island
Jury
Rejected her
Window acrylics
And a thousand
Chimed
How does the
Island jury
Know what's
Artsy?
Upon the curve
We live upon the
Bell curve
Oh, it's in Gilchrist
County for some
Those folks will
Always dwell upon
The Bell curve
Literally
While in time
One or two
From many, many
Will come to dwell
Upon the curve
Shaped like a bell.
Lately all say
Oh why would anyone
Not celebrate love
They aren’t worth your time
Those jealous hateful kind
But there is a rewind
And if they could see the video
The time the eyes first met
In consensual infidelity
They’d see the point of
the Spirit saying
Turn away
Turn away
By john clare stokes
It was no small deed for her to rip the
Carpet right from beneath his feet
Spread denim over him rolled tight
Exposing the soft underbelly asleep
For she's heard all the pick up lines
Endured the mis-thrusts upon
Orange shag plush
Short-lived ecstasy in Cohen rhyme
As she lay and made cigarette ring puffs
And he wonders why she offered to cut
Taking such vengeance on the carpet
A slice for every mis-placed trust
Makeup smeared tears she cannot forget
Feed her frappe lines if you dare
Just be not surprised when she tears
That new laid linoleum as you squirm
Cringing at the pain inflicted from one
Roberta Carpet Burns.
For one to come along
They say she walks this path
On her way home
I’ve been here all the day long
And I think they are
Wrong
john clare
St Marks river at low tide
Revealed the fiddler crab trail
Guarding the bottle found
beneath the roots tangling down
Plucked from the gulf brine
Discerning a note inside
Thrown by the White's
Upon their anniversary night
Wishing he who found this note
Would be equally love smote
Too crusty for such words
Took the long journey toward
The lonely garage apartment
Arriving late a letter sent
Sent to the mailbox never used
Something made me stop
Saying,look in the mailbox
And so I read
Immediately I said
This is the Whites note answered
Waiting here all too quickly
And so immediately
I replied to the letter from Melanie...
telling her
YES
I would love to come down
to Williston
and teach you
Photography!
The rest is
history.....
Today in 2019 the Shoals were beneath the flooding torrent
An easy paddle through the class three rapids
The limestone knives unable to puncture or rent
Hiding even the Gator downstream lazily awaiting
Your capsizing.
We decked the web with jewels
To entice a fairy or two
But we never dreamed the moon
Would fall for our ruse.
Bad day for the bass
Watertown Lake
First the bass was caught by the cormorant. Struggling to shallow him, the bass got away.
Then came the eagle circling and circling, watching for the exhausted bass to surface. With a slow descent, the bass was soon on its way to the Eagles nest where the baby awaits.
Were I to come to this messed up world, this I would do. Rid the land of all solar and wind power, replace with nuclear, coal and natural gas. Remove all dams and restore the rivers. Place all criminal politicians past and present in labor camps. Restore the constitutional republic. Replace all dominion and such voting machines with fool proof paper ballots. Seize all big pharm executives down to local level assets. Void all mandates. Void all executive orders. Remove all regulations against small business. Ban the FDA, EPA and about all three letter government Stalinist departments that tell farmers what to grow, what to kill, what to teach, what bathroom to use and on and on.
And no, it’s not a cook book. It’s the Bible read again in the churches not strapped with an IRS. Another one of those three letter monsters gone.
Johnclarestokes
Day into day
Night into night
We wait for a sign
Perhaps today the sojourn
Perhaps today the arrival
A word from afar
A hope quite close
Are all the paths destroyed
Do all the watchmen sleep
Cold grows the land
Quiet goes the man
Florida Trail
Little Shoals tract
Suwannee
Johnclarestokes
The sun would rise and play tricks
upon us making one think he is the moon
and every time I’d say, way too soon
to rise in the fog so thick.
And eventually the clouds would reveal
the ruse, and the sun would glare
while at this faux moon I’d stare
Oh, every time the blind fool I’d feel!
Magoo was the oldest guy on the lot, save maybe one or two. Magoo drove the oldest vehicle on the lot, save one or two. Magoo does not place his stoked on age. Neither should you. Who now is the old guy?
