For whom the Bell

 Oh to dwell in a Bell

to be in the mists

where the clear water 

exists 

Itchetucknee

Bret

 Palmetto Trail, Big Shoals

It was mid April of 2011. Riding along the Palmetto Trail, I abruptly came upon a Forestry Service worker in his truck with bulldozer. He said, you may want to hurry on, we are about to do a controlled burn. I agreed and then something inside said, take his photograph. I asked if  he would mind if I took a quick photograph. He said it was OK. I took it, thanked him and moved on. On June 20th, 2011, Brett Fulton and Josh Burch were killed in the Blue Ribbon Fire in Hamilton County. Upon comparing newspaper photographs of the two men, I realized that I had taken one of the last photographs of Brett. The photograph now hangs in memorial at my friend Rick Bringger's Firehouse Subs in Lake City, Florida.

Tyranny of too many

 The tyranny of too many

It was to be a simple hike downstream along the Suwannee on the Florida Trail, to primarily photograph wild azaleas and anything else that inspired.

Upon returning and going through the 100 or so frames, barely any moved me. It was probably due to the fact on my left shoulder was the D850 with 28-80 lens, on my right D3500 with 11-16, in my right pocket the GoPro Hero4, in my left iphone6a.

Upon each scene I’d mentally envision with which should I use. Some I’d try all four. I think the too much thinking hindered. A friend spoke of other photographers work being more technical, hers more artistic. I’d say yesterday I was caught up in the technical and not the single camera with lens simplicity. The artistry suffered. 

Next time I’ll only venture out with three options, then two, then one. If still I’m technical, then none. I’ll just walk and in my mind envision artistry. Those will all come out perfectly.

The lean

 Against the lean years

We filled our barns with grain 

Then came the latter rains

Bountiful was the land

We just didn't understand

How we were still starving.

Purple dazs

 I sat among the once so young

The stranger I had become

I sighed of days beneath the shade

Where in the summers we laid

Cat Stevens and our world wild

Tea for Tillermen served with a smile

Lovers among the trees we stayed

Jimi told us it was all purple shade

The old landmarks they still remain

No one recognized them all around.

Someday they shall wonder who

High in the old oak scrawled

The love of these two.

Where she sat

 Where she sat

It happens near ten after ten

When the sunlight streams in

Accentuating every fold

When a glimpse of gold

Subtle at first illusion 

Then a  fully formed intrusion

By ten eleven she is gone

The folds return alone

Come and die

 So deeply down 

I did wade

The depths they bade

Searching in the blue

The fool, the fool!

They said

Why to waters led

Among the dead?

Abide and die!

Tis I! tis I!

With the Savior dry.

Homewood

 Come Home Soon Son

JohnClare Stokes

Many the time 

The family came

To visit little Lute

They would sit

On the porch

In the cool shade

Watching the traffic

Passing on the

Aaron Road waving

To Lute and family

Visiting from

Homewood

And Lute would take

Them to the garden

Proud was Earnest

His son was growing

Melon and squash

As they did back home

It was a lot like home

And every one remarked

How they would love

To retire here someday

All the family here in

One place again

Sitting in the Florida sun

 Mother Ethel would 

Look lovingly at Lute

Her youngest son

Telling him in the summer

Perhaps I shall again

Come 

You have such a lovely

Place

 Lute would wave from the porch

And bid the family

farewell

To return to Homewood

Forever there to dwell.

April Fools

 April fools

Bring on April

Bid March farewell

Let me dwell

Among the fools

for I see clearly

a kindred amid 

we who dare

Dream above the moon.

Going Home

 Gone home

Lately the task of going through years of accumulation has evoked so many memories 

that it’s put off for another day. In a rolled up tube were blueprints. It was for the remodeling of the Crawfordville Pilgrims Rest. I told Melanie, it would be nice if we could use them to build it from the blueprints. There was the old bench grinder with the frayed cord we spent many a time sharpening tools on. It powered up smooth as ever. There was Bobby Sandlin’s obituary, still I cannot fathom him not behind the counter at Sunshine Drugs. Old Gulf Hammock photos. Landon’s hawk drawings. How did they make their way out here? 

In days ahead eventually the past will be neatly ordered again. And when I need that certain bolt, I will know just where to look.

The journey

 Journey

While traveling upon the Emmaus road

with its warm hearts within glow

I thought upon the blinding lights

of the Damascus road 

that got me here

Cords Call

 Chords calling

What was that hymn 

I heard upon the wind

Coming softly and tenderly

Calling me upward

Lifting the weary bend

It had to be Vera and Wesley

Calling come

Come home

Tis the season of the Cantata

When choirs lift in song the story

of a Christ who rose to glory

Blending in ever so softly

the voices of those we loved

The great reunion with those above.