It's not the height of woke outdoor fashion, we can spot them a mile down trail, wide brim sun flapping khaki hat, eye hiding Oakley's of course, vented, various elite safari or fishing poplins, the endless cargo pocketed pants with infinite zips, the Chuuka's or Teva's or whatever sandal is the vogue. The rope belt got me across the Robinson branch once, but mostly it just holds the pants up. I'm sure it's a yuppie woke thing, but the split leather I forgot to bring.
Aurelia D Wallace
Because I can't remember
What I had for lunch, they
Think I'm getting senile.
I hear them whispering
About the Shady Elms.
Good God, I'm not ready
For Shady Elms! I can
Still read Greek, I know
The whole score of Lucia,
(Though they don't take me
To music anymore, since
I've had to wear these paper
Pants). I can make Martha Washington's
Own recipe for Sally Lunn,
Without once peeking. I can
Recite the names and birthdays of all
Nine grandchildren, and I know
Franklin Roosevelt is dead.
All they ask me, though,
Is my street number backwards
And what I had for lunch, what
Day it is. Of course I know
Where I live, silly: inside these bones,
This bag my skin. No none needs
To know what I know anymore.
How is it they don't know
All days are Sunday--
As long as I can breathe
This splendid, cautious air?
john clare
Off they go
Into the wild
Blue yonder
Out of our
Lives to live
Alone in their
Self love
No room for anyone
And so off they go
Into the wild blue
Yonder
The sleeping little
One waking and
Calling for a Pappa
He will soon stop
Calling for
As off they take him
Into that wild blue
Yonder
Leaving us grounded
Unable to reach them
In that wild blue
Yonder
Leaving us to
Wonder
How is life alone
Way beyond that
Wild blue yonder
And how will we
Live without that
Little one
In this terrible land
Down under that
Wild blue
Yonder.
Twice in my evening mares you were falling. The first fall was by mistake and tragic.
The second fall was a deliberate swan dive
Into my arms
They wanted
In my seeing
It was all one scene
Playing out
Around me
In the corners
Dark vignettes
Reminding
Comes the sleeping
The path to
The long
Long
Dreaming.
It's what we old artists do
Before the varnish has even set
Mourn the cracking of the paint
Lament the mold gathering
To color green everything
Dwelling long upon the leaving
Before even finishing the greeting
It's this insipid seeing past
Knowing these works won't last.
The community socials
Were awkward and
Uncomfortable for father
He was invariably asked
And what ever became
Of the little one called
John?
And they knew
They just liked to cruelly
Provoke him
For their sons were
Doctors and lawyers
And politicians
With splendid homes
Up long winding roads
Manicured and nourished
By the finest manure.
John Clare Stokes
When the bottle tree, the quail trellis, the rope swing, the syrup shed, the swing were at Pilgrim's Rest farm in Crawfordville, there was an order about them, a place, they fit. In the selling of the home place in 2000 and the year long moving so many years arranging, the tree and trellis and other items from a life were hastily set out without the careful thought. Williston never seemed to fit. The spacing was off. It wasn't the same. With the selling of the Williston farm in 2008 and the subsequent moving again, the accumulation of a life was scattered to my home, my sisters, my brothers, further diluting the place they held. The tools in the shed in disarray, the syrup mill stored, things rusting and rotting away. No place else to go. They seemed to lament the leaving Pilgrim Rest. It never should of happened. But it did. Slowly I’ve tried to reconstruct the mill and kettle, the bell, the many amaryllis scattered about, the split rails. With my passing I fear it all shall fall in strangers hands, with no clue as to their origin.
And where are your works?
She says.
Right here, I say.
She never looks.
By their looks
By my works
You shall know them.
She moves on.
It was at times exasperation magnified when I once volunteered at the Gallery where I once displayed. One good thing, when the occasional customer would stroll through, you really got to know the smoke up from the stoked up. This lady was blowing smoke. She never even stopped to look at my work right before her.
The photographs picked up with expectation
On my way to find the make up aisle
There you were in the card section
As we paused to catch up and smile
You spoke of the gathering around the keys
And I of lost opportunities
One a poet musically
One a poet of melancholy
Kindred ones
Humming in harmony
