O'er the deep, deep primordial Spring
The kingdom of carrion are circling
Swirling, rising upon Lord Micca's call
Of creatures come to final crawls
O the deep, deep Wakulla Spring
To your pure, clear waters bring
Bring the spoils of earthly toils
Cast them down to ever upward roil
Come O Henry, accept our sacrifice
Golden silver of unmeasurable price
Grant us passage beyond this kingdom
To eternal welling above the carrion.
John Clare Stokes
I miss the days of
The penned romance
The excitement of
Waiting the mailman
To deliver the lavender
Perfumed letter in
The familiar long hand
The anticipation of
Opening to read
Slowly over and over
Putting imagination between
The lines
Dreaming of the time
When summer came
You’d see the words become flesh.
As the years pace on
There were those so strong
Who for the time
Kept astride the Rogers and Benoits
But mostly we’d find
We would wait long
for we the not so strong
to make it home
Cheering them as a victor
Wearing the laurel crown
Not a loser ever found.
What friends i do have on FB, i find they do not respond to political posts, they respond to pictures of me and Melanie, current over past, Roscoe and the cats and chickens. The photos i like, the street photos, artsy or scenics so so. The poetry hardly any. I have about a half dozen which will like anything. I rarely get feedback. It’s like here. But here i dont expect it. This is for me as a place to catalog.
john clare
In tin type time
we stroll again
Forever friends
Till our end
Remembered
Long beyond
The silvers spent
The plate
Broken
The emulsion
Washed
The lens
Capped
The black
Shroud draping
The bellows
Of the Wooden
Box that stored
The light
Revealing us
In our stroll
Through the
Moment in our
Time.
I’d build me a wall of Jasper and Sardiney, like no man ever did see, one them walls like China got, only taller, stronger, longer. One them aliens can see from out in space. Then I’d get me a bridge, one them golden gate kind, all shiny and fine. Then I’d put me out Democrat bait, and when them dim wits came crossing that pretty bridge for some of that free food and stuff, they’d fall right over my wall. That way we got both. A bridge and a wall. See y’all.
Is this to whom the angels sing
Shall we bow to this wonder
Or look for yet another....
Of pinewood vistas unfolding
Crescent moons humbly setting
Frost and freeze holding beauty
Down to the cry of one
Beholding eternity
Of these I sing.
Johnclarestokes
Quickly! the Marshall said
Flee from the burning
And in my haste
I reached for the shelf
Scanning the books to read
Lamenting
I could not decide
Which to save
As in the flames
Words unread ascended
Not one remembered
All greatly missed
Johnclarestokes
When freeze falls around
Impeding men in making
the daily round
When dreams struggle
to give rise
Hope held beneath
to drown
There is a stream
to which we long
Where forever goes
the never frozen flow.
Willie Ohl
Johnclarestokes
I came upon an elderly artist one day, her paints in her taboret. She said it's painful to be an artist, and not be able to use your hands. The little Indian boy, her son was a subject. The others, the husband, the mother, the father gone, the daughter all there upon the canvas. The late Artist Theron Gaulding of White Springs once said, he prefers to dwell in obscurity.
How I wish they dwelt in a gallery for all to see.
