Blowing a dream

 Blow a dream

I’m really loving my dream machine

The bubble wand waving

Rainbows and stretched out worlds

Emerging 

Then popping away as quickly as

They came 

Like the snow crystals stored

All of their own unique form

Poof

 Worlds without wands

I can clearly see 

the Great Creator sitting 

In space

And blowing worlds into place

Letting some pop into

Oblivion 

Others to His liking

Keeping

I can clearly see

a Puritan or even

a hard shell coming along

and exclaiming

What are you doing?

Why world creating is 

Not supposed to be fun!

Oh well

Puff

Another from the heavens

Just fell.

Come away

 Come away

Give me an hour and I’ll 

convince her to leave her

life of luxury and ease

for my world of poverty 

and poetry

it’s what we will live upon

arm in arm

floating aimlessly over 

the landscape below

Just one hour

Wonderful wand

 Wonderful wand

Johnclarestokes 

I found this great wand

Tucked up under some palm fronds

Now what child left the wand behind?

Just for me to walk along and find?

All it needed was some magic  bubble fluid

And a boy like me to take it from the

Fairy woods

Last Calla

 Last Rise 

john Clare stokes 

and then it was down to two calla

to see the May moon rising

wondering back to all those times

we all watched as one

anticipating the coming

chuck wills widow near by

reminding us that one by one

the calla and we die.

Make a wish

 I wished her into the blueberry patch

The good life with Billy

Skink sliding away

 Skink sliding away 

John Clare Stokes 

What do you think?

I think I see Earnest

And there's Ethel Marie

Over in the shade

I hear that snuff hitting

The Folger’s coffee can

The snap of field acre peas

Hitting the galvanized pail 

Outhouse aromas wafting past

Sure hope that east breeze 

Don't shift our

Homewood Lazing

Bringing in them 

Pea Ridge yellow flies 

My how the times slide by

Esther Ruth

 When I was given the name Esther Ruth long ago in January of twenty-two

The two names the journey of my life would carry through  

Faithfully by sisters side I always remained 

Till only one in the year two thirteen I came  

Boaz never called for me to redeem 

And  now I go beyond in my Lord's fields to glean....

Esther Ruth Moore 

6 Jan 1922

11 April 2013

A Lola

 Lola Mae

What's for dinner today

Sunday leftovers?

Come Friday

I'd say catfish fried

With some

Green's on the side

Sounds mighty fine

What say you

Miss Lola Mae?

On the Gum Swamp

 Diddu-Wah-Diddy

By john clare

All along the long Gum Swamp

Hear the rosin drip in the clay pots

The seeping from Osceola's pine stands 

Slashes from the axe of the bent black men

In the stiffened breeches

Shirtless and oozing sweat with every gash 

Singing in unison through the palmetto

"Boss man's ridin' by

Boss man's ridin' by

Look out, boy, look out!"

Looking past Taylor across the bank of the St Mary's

Into the shade of the mythical

Diddu-Wah-Diddy

Pllace of no work or worry

For man or beast

The way there so crooked

The mule pullin' the fodder wagon could eat from it

 Place everyone would live

If only the road weren't so crooked and the route known

Today the rut road is black topped and easy is the straight way

Uncle Bud but a distant memory of when he left the state of old Virginia in the winter time;

"Where you guin nigger"?,they said.

"I'se guin to Flardi,

 I'se guin to Flardi,

 guin to Flardi to work

In de turpentine.

Guin to where all de curb stones is chairs

Guin to where all de food is already cooked

Baked chickens and sweet potato pies 

with convenient knives and forks driftin' along cryin',

"Eat me! Eat me!"

Where the more you ate

The more remained."

But mostly the old turpentine men wound up settlin' for

Beluthahatchee

A land of forgetfulness

Where all was forgotten and forgiven

Unhitchin' the mule by the neat little shanty

In the sand swept yard with

Mammy and the chicken's scratchin' a livin'

This side of the crooked and 

black St Mary's River.

Magic canvas

 Magic canvas

We gathered round the magic canvas

If it would please reveal something to us

If inspiration was in our future

Or more misery void of color 

It took an entire bottle of wine

But in the magic canvas own time

This image emerged with profound words

 But before we could write it down

Gesso was applied and the 

Inspiration never found.

Pedal prophets

 Pedal Prophets 

And in the latter days 

The days after fossil fuel

Electric too

The days of malaise

The pedal prophets came

Exclaiming, lube your chains

But we of the beastly mark 

Our bikes could not start

for our lube was of

Petroleum product.