Daddy was a master at gardening
Why he even grew bottle trees
Just the correct amount of
Fertilizing
A living, radiant wonder people
Would come from far to see
Can I but have a sprig of Nehi
Or a cutting of wild turkey?
And they would plant and vainly try
To grow their own bottle tree.
By john clare stokes
Ole Joe don't come looking for me
I'm not ready to lie peacefully
Waunita's artistry applied to me
Preacher don't come calling me
I'm not ready to walk that aisle
I got time to burn and many a mile
Jesus why you knocking on my door?
I'll lay quiet and pretend I'm not home
Maybe ole Joe, Waunita, Preacher and Jesus will leave me alone!
Waunita!
Waunita!
Lovely Waunita
Why do you, ole Joe, Preacher
and Jesus want me?
The coldest nights of winter
We would huddle about the hearth
The roaring fire sparking out
Embers upon our patch work quilts
Rarely would one burn through
The many layered blanket
To drift off to a frozen dreaming
Who would stoke the fire awake?
It must have been one angry spark
That traveled up the chimney
To settle in the chink of heart pine
For in no time we stood afar huddled
Our only covering the holed quilts
All consuming save the brick culprit
Standing as a Joan of Arc immune
From the flames our lives taking.
In haste Ethel Marie applies her rouge
Not too thick just the right shade
For word came quickly
Two sons of Earnest has made the grade
And to their graduation
We have been bade
Where all shall assemble to stand
And welcome them.
Jimmy and William Stokes. Taken at Porches in Wesson, Ms , in fall of 2015
No trips to see his friends in fields afar
Instead just he and calla lily alone
Fit for the finest porcelain rhodora jar.
Johnclarestokes
Famine comes, we call
manna in the mountain!
Sparrow impaled by claw
Osprey dives from high!
Earthworms in the soil
Levitation lurks far below
Man sweats in toil
Tornadoes lift and blow!
Tales long left untold
Wells their waters dried
The Wolf in the fold
One laughs, another cries!
High the fire wastes
Creation lifts to sing
New Jerusalem’s savory tastes
Cool waters from a King!
Upward, the streams flow strong,
New heaven and earth rushing on!
The upward stream!
Ushers the coming King!
John Clare Stokes
Some are given to dance
Some to romance
Some n’er take a chance
Some miss that glance
Others are given to artistry
Others to mystery
Others delve in history
Others lives quite blustery
Is the moon but a metaphor
Is the pauper the richest
Is the deepest ocean at the shore
Is the time all or is there more
John Clare Stokes
It will always be this way
As it's ordained to remain so
It's the eternal ordered flow
You cannot convince or sway
To erupt the arrangement set
The maker knows well His plan
Gives little heed to the cries of demons
Whom so know the One who sits
There is a silent ongoing tone
He has set in called hearts openly
To return the answer from eternity
Fill the one with a sweet longing
Given apart from incessant plea
Sadly many are not all concerned
For to dust they are bent to return
Not at all beyond the grave to see
Still we dwell among the tone dead
Our bend to open deaf ears
Apply salve to eyes full of fears
If per grace to life they are led
But alas we cannot do the deed
We hum and sway to distant songs
The eternal chord drawing us on
Gibberish foolishness so clearly read.
John Clare Stokes
William Clark
You swelled a little boys heart
When only you
Would take the time
To toss the ball
Far into that Florida blue
William Clark
You inspired a little boys heart
When you gave dream
That maybe one
Even this one
Someday for State could run
William Clark
You helped a boys shy heart
When you told of how
You found a beautiful Rose
And someday one as her
You would know.
William Clark
From this man you'll never part
You were more than Uncle
More a father
William Clark
Maroon glows my heart.
I met a certain artist lady named Mary
She introduced me to other bouquet ones
All eager in their duties to run.
Red Poppies
Mary Cassatt
1844-1926
Johnclarestokes
Came upon the poets burial
Beneath the grand old oak
Beside the white painted church
No words heard spoken
How did we know a poet?
It must have been we observed
For poets are the lonely ones
buried beneath their bereaved words.
Johnclarestokes
In the night tossing
Turning upon the edge
Catch me I'm falling
Falling toward the dead
Waking to the floor
Who was that speaking
tossed wildly outdoor
The Camilla fading
Not your time, awake!
Who was that speaking
Another I shall take
Quiet as others weep
