The white birds

 I would that we were, my beloved, white birds on

    the foam of the sea!

We tire of the flame of the meteor, before it can

   fade and flee;

And the flame of the blue star of twilight, hung low

   on the rim of the sky,

Has awaked in our hearts, my beloved, a sadness

   that may not die.

YB Yeats

The White Birds

The stolen child

 The Stolen Child

W. B. Yeats - 1865-1939

Where dips the rocky highland

Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,

There lies a leafy island

Where flapping herons wake

The drowsy water rats;

There we've hid our faery vats,

Full of berrys

And of reddest stolen cherries.

Come away, O human child!

To the waters and the wild

With a faery, hand in hand,

For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses

The dim gray sands with light,

Far off by furthest Rosses

We foot it all the night,

Weaving olden dances

Mingling hands and mingling glances

Till the moon has taken flight;

To and fro we leap

And chase the frothy bubbles,

While the world is full of troubles

And anxious in its sleep.

Come away, O human child!

To the waters and the wild

With a faery, hand in hand,

For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wandering water gushes

From the hills above Glen-Car,

In pools among the rushes

That scarce could bathe a star,

We seek for slumbering trout

And whispering in their ears

Give them unquiet dreams;

Leaning softly out

From ferns that drop their tears

Over the young streams.

Come away, O human child!

To the waters and the wild

With a faery, hand in hand,

For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Away with us he's going,

The solemn-eyed:

He'll hear no more the lowing

Of the calves on the warm hillside

Or the kettle on the hob

Sing peace into his breast,

Or see the brown mice bob

Round and round the oatmeal chest.

For he comes, the human child,

To the waters and the wild

With a faery, hand in hand,

For the world's more full of weeping than he can understand.

Cling of death

 Cling of Death

Johnclare Stokes

Sullen we drove down Baya

The sting of death

Clinging to the driver side

Window

We do not need this

On Friday thirteen

Hair appointments have

Been made

Gallery socials with 

Invisible works displayed

Letters Unopened to read

And reply

Before we die.

Canoe for me

 An Old Town with Cormorants 

Watertown Lake

In the me first kayak world we live in, I still prefer the canoe. While it lends itself to solo, it easily accommodates a friend. It’s ease of entry is appreciated. It’s ability to carry camera gear especially. 

My dream rig would be a lightweight Kevlar wee lassie design.

Blame not

 Blame not

Johnclarestokes 

Blame not the scorching wind

It thought its breeze was soothing.

Blame not the burning sun

It thought its beams were warming.

Blame not the frost of morning

It thought its blanket was cooling.

Blame not the waters drowning

It thought its depths a baptism 

Blame not the sand that grinds

It thought its grains a boy's mine.

Blame not the rains that flood

It thought its drops crops loved

Blame not the ones who hide

They thought from love they could abide.

Blame not Cline Feagles foggy mist

It thought the photographer loved it.

Beyond the barb

 Beyond the barb 

John Clare Stokes

In the sojourn here

The traipsing through

Those trampling down

In search of a city

There will be some

Fantastic scenery

Amazing places

You will even 

Possibly for a time

Take your eyes from

The search

Thinking

It's not worth the

Looking

Here is enough

Beauty

But take it upon faith

Believe me

It's better than

Even poetry.

Boy king

 The boy king

I would return if possible

To the upstairs castle

Overseeing my kingdom

Watching my subjects

Coming to bring gifts

From their journeys far

And The boy King would nod

Approving all

Queen Deborah would

Gently say

Shall I start the train for

Another round the town

The boy King would nod

Approving her request

We would board

Waving to the gathered

Throng

Where shall we travel today?

And the boy King would say

Let us just let the train

Take us to lands end

It's been so long since we've been.

The sting

 TheSting  by john clare   Can you think so far when/The ants did not sting?/In shades of palms then/gifts of grasshopper wings/Slow the trail that led/down the white sand hole/over bare toes they tread/To babies below they did go.   Today we lay beside the hill/dropping legs and wings/To a little boy it was a thrill/Until they began to sting./Where went the ants of old?/marching peacefully slow?/The crying boy I hold/It too hurts me so./ But the pain far deep/To know the ants of old/That did so peacefully creep/ He will never know.

Warning Vows

We tried to warn

The bride behind the vail

To no avail

He will change

And so I do was repeated

And some years later

Nice home on a hill

Best of best

She sleeps alone

The groom comes home

Drunk alone 

Pails

 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

 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.

Aubade