2020 Insanity

 Isolation

Isolation doesn’t bother me. Since a boy I’ve been a loner, an introvert, content alone in the sandpile or under a tree with a pen and composition book. But most of us are not so inclined. We are social beings. We crave interaction. And this is one of the insidious things of this lockdown, this social separation. It doesn’t help matters that the local brown shirts, now little despots, have closed access to practically any outlet. Parks, boat ramps, bike paths, you name it, they deem it their responsibility to keep us pent in, until we break or go insane. And I won’t even begin to dwell upon the knee jerk reaction of shutting all workers down, forcing them to be grateful the very government has thrown them a 1200 bone, while an arts endowment center gets millions. Is it any wonder the young man, let go of his job on Thursday, went on a rampage and destroyed a local church?

But who am I? 

One cynical loner, that’s all.

Why

 Prospects promising

The two fisherman drifted downstream around the bend at Prospect Primitive on the Suwannee. Their blue laced speech carried up and over into the palmetto where I was out of sight. I and the spirits of those once baptized in the waters shuttered. Why do men profane such scenes?

Wait for it

 Let every creature rise-and bring

Peculiar honors to their King:

Angels descend with songs again,

And earth repeat the long AMEN.

Pearce wildlife guide

 This continues to amuse me. Peace has gone on to be quite the artist.

Homeson

 Homeson

John Clare Stokes

Long the mother stood

Awaiting the sons return

The sting of his dust

Still feeling

Clinging to her

Homespun dress.

Pope

The Rupture and the.

thousands of wins reign

John Clare Stokes 

Up on Pine Mountain

The fires were burning

Down in Hazard

The snake handlers

were saying

The Rattlers are

Prophesying

The soon return

Of the Baron to the Blue Nation

The moon above is shining blue

Louisville is no longer feared

Cal’s one and done gone to Arkansas 

For years they say the Sheppard’s will return 

It's will be a welcome ACC dread

Coach K will cry in retirement again

St John Pitino will sigh and say  why

Did I not stay

To see this Rupp Returning

To send to forgotten lakes of fire

The memory of the Texas Westerns 

The one shot  Laettner’s

The cursing con Hurleys

To see the banners unfurled again!

Even so

Come Rupp!

Moon hope

 Moon over dogwood

Lately I howl less at the rising moon

Oh I still sit in a quiet swoon

It's just after so long pining

There is a pathos in the whining

Or the praying

Or the wishing

Or the frail hope

So it's just a mindless watching

As if by some miracle

The moon winking

Would grant the thinking.

Alchemy

 Bleeding Camellia Alchemy

Her last words were,

"Please don't let the camellia's die"

So I resorted to alchemy

Secured a leech from the pond

To bleed the plant of the 

Poison blood

Proud in my dark

Gardening knowledge

Smoking incense sticks 

Placed in a circle round

The possessed plant

Chanting from the

Emily poetry book of

Inspircantations 

(For she was first a gardener)

And only wrote

To keep the Camellia

From dying.

Three

 

Wes

 Church of God cross

Williston

John Clare Stokes 

The boy was the high school quarterback

Like his father before, his life was sports

Figured he’d graduate and go down in lore

Join the pantheon and hear no more

But as the shepherd tending o’er the flocks

Plans from eternity were in the works

And like his father before, delivered from the drink

This Red Devil athlete with Christ did link

They say it came by hearing Billy Graham

It’s still a mystery how these men the Lord found

But those teens who gathered in their home

Were hungry for what this athlete had to say

The call was strong, the direction soon came

And the Methodist boy set out for Lakeland

To return to sit at the feet of Brother Rowell

And constantly abide through every trial

With so many blessed songs, it wasn’t long

Now the once mischievous boy was ministering

to the throng

Upon the hill, with the cross all could clearly see

A little Wes following the steps of a John Wesley.

Wes Smith

Williston Church of God

Florida Primitive Baptist Church Camp

 The old time foot washers

John Clare Stokes

 

The tired ole Primitive campers

With the dirty, callous feet

Would stoop and truly weep

Following the Lord's example

Soon came the time shares

The vrbo’s by the beaches

Feet pedicured by Vietnamese 

The ole Primitive Campers

Forever the ole bunions to bear.

Wonder Pony

 Wonder Pony

I paused by the wet field

For there pranced an old friend

As from my gaze he ran

My eyes with tears filled

The wind in his white mane

That unmistakable rocking

I know it was him I was seeing

Bought to life again.