John Clare Stokes
There is never a rhyme or reason
Adequate to explain His coming
He comes at the opportune
He comes at the inopportune
When least expected
When most expected
Today He beckoned above
The First Baptist steeple
Just as the insurance man
Was lured at the same time
Mt Tabor
No throne of comfort for the minister
All sat in splintered humility
The old rail not a pulpit separation
Just a hitching post of deep contrition.
To this day I still smart when I think back to visiting my Uncle and Aunt, anxious to see where they (I anxiously thought), proudly displayed, (the grand to an eight year old), oil painting of a mountain lion descending down a tree, I had sent them for Christmas. I looked all about and Oh how hurt to find it not over the couch, but hidden behind it.
I never said anything, but I wanted so badly to rescue my painting.
Bouquet boy was over at MC’s
Admiring his pen and ink virtuosity
He asked Escher if he could add color
MC said, “only if it’s for your lover!”
Can the mushroom praise? Are angels manifesting in the blades of grass? As the Master walked past, my blinded eyes opened, and yes, I beheld ten thousand times ten thousand and thousands upon thousands of blades of grass all lifted in praise as the Master walked past.
Johnclarestokes
Twas a time in the sweltering desperate days
rockin’ and swattin’ the quiet yellow flies
Through ant lion mines they made their way
past widows webs to claim their prize.
All lined up in their fastidious rows
the carpenter ants bore their desperate load
tracing back their formic path they go
only to have supper snatched by the toad.
Now the warty toad was not too wise
making all the desperate carpenters go hungry
till they made a pact with the termites despised
Chew a plank and we will not rob your larvae.
The desperate plan began with much joy
Before you knew the porch did fall
Crushing toad, carpenters, widows and boy
Freeing yellow flies to feast on them all!
Take heed before you align with termites
for dirty deeds
And best let the warty toad have a few
Times may be desperate in your greed
But seriously, how many yellow flies do
you need in a Carpenter stew?
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.
