High dive

 High Dive

I did not mean 

To applaud your

Fall

The backflip

Down

Was wonderful

I gave it a ten

Shows you

What men

Know of diving

And falling

Of knowing 

When the pools

 half empty

Or totally.

Spin end

 The planets

Aligned

Just in time

For the end

Of time

Glad I was 

Here before

The spinning

Out of alignment

Then the

Hurling us

Toward to North

Pole only now

Antarctica

Giving us relief

In this heat

Kingdoms come

Just when we

Need it.

Man foot

 Man foot

I stood at the edge of the puddle

Pondering the path of the herons feet

Circling about the reflected sun

And I wondered

Why man would step in it

And intrude.

O Landon

 O Lemuel 

I can vividly see the day in the grape arbor chapel daddy constructed in his backyard, where mornings he’d sit and meditate, often upon a sermon he was to deliver that Sunday.  I do not know what he told Landon that morning, I was out of earshot and did not want to intrude upon the conversation.

It’s now going on ten years since daddy went to Orange Hill, ten years since hearing any word from Landon. Father’s Day is one of those days of hope, that we will get the call, the card, the message upon the messenger, but we kind of know, like daddy resting with mamma at the cemetery, some things await the resurrection day.

Walls talk

 Walls talk

john clare stokes 

They often ask in cliche tones if only walls could talk

And I tell them again, they do, you just weren’t taught their language

The manner in which they speak,

Continually telling those who know, with every creak in every shadow; telling you, 

Take the time, stand ever so still, perhaps you’ll discern;

Listen, from the cool sand below the porch, the sound of playing, the lift of laughter:

The peeling paint above revealing the layers of many cheerful coming over greetings,

The haint blue porch ceiling, the spooks confusing,

not wanting to be sent into the water,

off the silver now brown tin the rain pattering in unison

to the old dog fennel hounds howling to the familiar tune.

In the crisp fall the old screen door spring snapping open and shut, 

The voice to the ones in the field loudly calling them in

Some summer sultry days the conversations swell louder than the myriad cicadas dictating the words,

Rising to abruptly fall in silence as the invisible 

conductor lowers the limb wand. 

In winter you can hear the burring words in the chattering chill

Swear from the cracked chimney a fire was yet glowing 

Sending sweet aromas of curing one could cut and taste,

the front room always kept warm for the ones

outside wandering afar

Wondering if the inner wars they were battling would

ever come to terms of peace

The smooth glass door knob turning in the evening gloam

Those huddled about the hearth determined they heard the words of one long ago journeying 

But it wasn’t the traveller returning after all

It was but the talking walls 

Yes, the echoes off the walls telling it all.

Gum Swamp Rd

Burned down

Maria

Queen of mud wrestling 

It was your apogee moment

Your life would never rise above it

Your pinnacle

Your nadir

Against which all else

You'd measure

And you looked about

For someone to 

Photograph it

To prove to all

Years later

This was the moment

To Frame it

To Keep it as a reminder

You were once upon the top

But I wasn't there

I was away recording

Some others meteoric rise

To the heights

You see

They could afford to pay me 

So naturally

I went with the money

I'm so sorry

You had to spend your life

Convincing others 

You once rose so highly.

Redeemer

 Redeemer

Johnclarestokes 

Moccasin slid silently along beside

limpid-eyed hare struck a frozen pose

lanky-legged raccoon hastened stride

from this foe they so know.

Came a man laden down

in shadow the slithering snake 

blood of Cain crying from the ground

on his calf the fangs did partake. 

Hare on the lush green grass fed

Raccoon washed his meal that night

for the man, taking the poison bled  

as Moccasin recoiled at the bitter bite.

In the darkness dwells a man slayer

his sting of death for all meant  

the creatures marvel this redeemer

man with the potion heavenly sent.

O Heli

 O Heli 

John Clare Stokes

What was it like

To be a Pappa?

Did Mary let you

Often hold Him?

Did you take Him

For walks along 

The Galilee shores?

That time He was

Left at the Temple

Did you get onto

Joseph?

Did He cry the last

Time you saw Him?

Did He ask to stay

Awhile longer with 

Pappa Heli?

I know it must have

Broke your heart

To lose Him so early

At just thirty-three.

Luke 3:23

I often speculate upon Heli, Joseph’s father, Jesus grandfather, and if he had any part in Jesus life. 

Holding Nathaniel , my grandson, for the first time at Lake Shore Hospital.

Broken John

  To mend the broken things

John Clare Stokes

When before I turned ten in Sopchoppy, I took the John Wesley bust from the shelf in my fathers parsonage office and began to dance around the house with him. I think my sister may have been dancing with the other, Charles, but needless to say, I dropped John, breaking him in many pieces. 

I do not recall getting a whipping, I’m sure I did, but I do recall my father meticulously glueing back Wesley, until you could hardly tell he took a fall.

And so the Wesley’s went with us through the years unscathed upon the various shelves, to finally dwell in our Lake City home. 

And so this Fathers Day morning, I found myself in the back shed, attempting to mend an old rake long broken. Among the old tools, there was much contemplating upon my father and his passing along to me that desire to restore, to mend, to up purpose as a friend likes to share.

And then there is that same desire my father had as a Pastor to mend, to restore to want lives of loved ones to find their up purpose.

Will the old rake work? Will Wesley find a shelf when I’m gone? Will a son find home? Until then, I mend.

The hunt

 In the hand me down 

Hunters coat the father

Gave the son who gave

The son

With the 4-10 gun the

Father gave the son

Who gave the son

The trio set out in the

Cold Wakulla morning

The son following the

Son and the father

Quietly looking for any 

Sign or sound of game

Even then recording the scene

For the son knew this

Would never come again

And he wanted something

To remember the time.

Annette

 Annette 

Annette Porter of Sopchoppy

You kept me as a baby

I was too young for my sisters party

But today Annette

I'm old enough to attend

But the home is gone

Even George Trice 

I think has died

And his sister Janet

Who tried to drown me

Can’t attend.

They take

 They take

Churches

They take 

Screens

They take

Pews

Hiding them

Saying

Mine

Mine

They take

Windows

They take

Floors

They take

the locks

Saying

Mine

Mine

I hide them

I clutch them

I claim them

Mine

Mine