Today the three pails hang retired in the back yard, by the old syrup mill. I cannot begin to tell, the times they were filled, with Georgia Red cane juice, blueberries, scuppernong grapes and every kind of vegetable. Every now and then, for old times sake, I will bring down a pail and fill it with water and carry it about from plant to plant, as if there was still some miracle grow my father left in the old pails.
Trumpets of Praise
Yes, some fell to ground soft
Some to choking thorns
Others even to asphalt
But each when falling
Blew their little horns.
Alas the last of the loud fishers parted, leaving only us to see the first daylight saving day circle about the lake chasing after the purest white Pelicans and dark cormorants, the bald eagle perched to steal any hard earned catch. Into the foreground came an alligator, submerging beneath the wary coot, but not this time. At some point we ceased our own lame efforts to convey it and simply grew dizzy in the circling light.
Beware the pastor pulpit
Committee
Who sift through many, many
To choose one who will
Come to your fair city
With eyes bigger than reality
And say, we must erect a tabernacle
That will spire to heaven
Convincing all but two men
To go along with the dream
And so they begin their building
Selling their prime location
And all the yes men then abandon
Leaving the tabernacle without a spire
And then the man the pulpit committee chose
Tires
And leaves for a home garage
Meanwhile the prime property becomes
An O Reilly’s
And the pastor is long gone somewhere
Out in West Flardy.
Beware the pastor pulpit committee
lest you end up with an O Reilly. River of Grace
John Clare Stokes
The river of Grace
Flowed past this place
On the Westside
We did once abide
As one by one
The boats would come
And we would depart
With heavy heart
Some far downstream
Others closely clinging
Not wanting to journey
Full well hoping
This Grace would
Never cease flowing.
Open Operator
One of my favorites, the old Ford Open Operator tractor in the Hill’s hay field before the gathering storm. On my brothers page the photo has more likes than any ever on my own page. Just goes to show, don’t think yourself not worth a hoot, you’re just blowing your horn in the wrong room
by John Cla55
Father I trust you will forgive me
For they were Dollar General Zinnias
Four packs for a mere dollar
And I am not even sure
If I can get them to grow
the way they would for you,
Even though from far,far away
the seeds you'd let me spread,
little colored buttons soon opening
to sauce pan size growing,
and we would gather up a bouquet
upon the altar bowing as you prayed
the repentant would kneel near
the zinnias between you and their tears
watering them
perhaps revealing why
the zinnias grew so greatly.
Oh father
bless from on high
the dollar general zinnias
with my efforts be pleased.
O ye men, who live the dream
Who shoot the majestic upon the wing
Who travel to the fairest reach
The rare encounter for to seek
O ye men, take me too
I’ve these irons upon my feet
Free me from the shackles that keep
Let me with the boreal sleep
O ye men, who live the dream
Wake me quick before I die
Take me to the lights of night
Behold the Phoenix in her flaming flight.
You know, on any given Tuesday
I think of her beauty
Why even upon Wednesday
It consumes me
I’d give her a name
Let all know of this flame
But then it would always turn
To Monday
And she’d just shy away.
by john clare
And is it any wonder
that only the smallest ones,
Can to the grand kingdom come?
Why the large in their own measure,
will not stoop so low to endure,
any diminishing of their height?
Tis but a pitiful sight,
to see the little ones joyfully scurry
through the eye of the needle gate,
while way above the giants berate
the little ones in such a frenzied flurry.
Childs play! they prudently say,
Hide and seek games not for us!
Men of renoun, we must rule the day!
Why all this foolish play?
And one by one the little ones enter low,
as outside the gate to beyond,
the grown-ups who refused to know,
As a child you must come.
