I tell you
In the resurrection
Yeats and Emily
Will rise and chide you
For your erasable deafness
To the song of the heavens
The hymn chord that
Permeated everything
While you dwelt upon
The sound of silence
You allowed to drown
The eternal refrain.
Yesterday I pumped
Ten lines that rhymed
Pressed a sonnet
Above my ability
Pushed a haiku
To the limit
Not bad for an old man
Of sixty nine
I got this!
Johnclarestokes
Many a Sabbath we were admonished to set the
affections on the things above
Look away from the things of this world
But we couldn't stop gazing at what we loved
It became obvious as a white flag unfurling.
We did not have to go about wearing scarlet letters
We knew the color of our deepest affections
Down to the very rhyme, symbol and metaphor
A straight on literal view void of tone or inflection.
Unable to see the flip side of the veil
Deaf to the heavenly refrain of angels
It wasn't a mystery, we could tell
To us it was mere metal, not a holy grail.
Oh my! I think we found the church
Yeti mugs to all first time visitors
Brazilian Arabica natural coffee
Tenuta dell'Ormellaia communion wine
Tiffany stained glass
The rector has a doctor of divinity
Degree from Harvard
The praise team sounds just like
Pink Floyd
The theatre seats recline
It's divine
Popcorn and snacks in the lobby are free
No offering passed
The sermonette is short and relevant
Kids are kept away in the zoo nursery
They love that silver gorilla
So gentle
Yes, this is the place
Not a trace of things that offend
No crosses ugly
No references to hell
Just the good news
Just as we are
No need to plea
But that some blood
Shed in this sanctuary?
Not on our Azure Natural Fiber carpet.
John Clare Stokes
Beneath a freezing Luna moth moon
The Arsonist was darkly drawn
Drawn yearning for anything burning
The old wooden right door opening
Strewn on worn hand hewn planks
Hymn pages beneath empty pews
Blest be he ties and binds the kindling
For flames in December darkness thanking
At Tabor today no Holy flame dwells
Just a deep, deep dry well
Beneath the Oaks on Sundays now gathering
The mice and moth of the lost Congregation.
Johnclarestokes
Was this the day
that Friday the fifth
In the Santa Fe you did wade
Vows made
That day shade
Deadly
We just couldn't see it
Murky at the time
The spell of cool water
Beneath our bare feet
Keeping such future
Thoughts at bay
Upon that place
The trees continue
To fall
Those rocks thought
So hard
Were but clay
Breaking easily
It's not a spot to say vows
Above in the broken limbs
The wind howls
The Owls they flee
Upstream possibly
It goes underground
Should of known it then.
It was on a Friday the 5th in 2010 we stood in the Santa Fe, the same spot the little baby boy took his first boat ride. It too, was eventful, for the sheer pin on the kicker broke. Downstream and too swift to paddle back, I pulled mamma and baby back with the bowline.
Tears at Sears
John Clare Stokes
Once we worked for minimum wage
Plus commission on all we sold
It was a cut throat arrangement
And the lazy were not at all content
They called me the Weasel
For from the lazy I would steal
Had to maintain those lofty quotas
Selling those extended warranties
Then one day it was announced
The lease was not renewing
Corporate was closing us
So they bought in a liquidation crew
Even paid the homeless to carry
Signs announcing we were through
Paid them more than we ever made
Even on the best month of watching
Roy and Dave bleed from my slashing.
Bills rearranged sign
Johnclarestokes
In the brief interludes between our
trips in the Chevys to Dodge and back
the old Powers pavement bears witness
to the journey West of which Louie wrote
Today Magoo has chosen two entries for the
Wally Reichert Art Show down at the West
Branch Library. It’s been several years since
the last 4th place entry. Perhaps this
year Magoo will get beyond honorable
mention.
Johnclarestokes
In the sand the shore bore witness
to kingdoms that had risen and fallen
castles once grand in the tidal sand
Thy will be done mighty ocean
Thy will be done
John Clare Stokes
It's the reoccurring dreams
That haunt the greatest
Those long laid dormant
Forgotten for many a season
Confident the burying completed
When in the deepest night
From beyond below they emerge
To deafening chorus above
Then as upon a sudden upper cue
Stone cold silence ensues.
John Clare Stokes
It soaks in the rain
With the blood
That pooled where
Brothers fought
It's what the
Thorns and briars
Need to thrive
The bitter gall
Of a long ago fall
That seems so
Quaint
By today's
Gore
How serpents
Could entice
And how fruit
Would suffice
Howling in our
Skins
Still the same
Redeemer
Who walked then
In the evening
Would send the
Rain
To cleanse the
Blood from your
Stone
Quiet your howling
In the garden
You prowl
I think I will go with these unless I change my mind. 11x17 prints. Frames ordered.
