For of such

 For of Such

John Clare 

On the wood worn 

the children whirled on

whirling to the hymns of old 

spinning graces golden

we gathered the dust

laid it upon the altar

precious glowing pure

offerings worth much.

Crawl Space

 Crawl space

Johnclarestokes 

Seems lately I am are down in the crawl space

Down low creeping lest the head hits a beam

In search of the waters continued leaking

Down low the pipes trying to trace

Above the ones your presence enjoying

The love to you they have given

But you’re in the cool sand crawling 

while above for the water they’re calling

Seems it’s in the dark of the crawl space

Where into the low we are so often going

that we at last find the quench for the thirst

a thirst not found in the mending of pipes.

Like a sturgeon

 When first I walked up

A sturgeon leaped

And then I waited

Camera poised

For another

And I cramped

And gave up waiting

So up the top of the

Boat ramp

Getting in the vehicle 

I hear

A sturgeon leap

The old paths

 The old paths

Few of us recall the old paths

Once so well marked and open

When came the lean years

The neglected days

When we no longer knew the way

New paths were blazed

Straight and to the point

Uninspired and sterile safe

And so we trudged and tramped

Where once we meandered 

Merrily

Then came one who knew

The old crooked route

Who mended the fallen gate

Opened just enough the path

And though few still choose

This longer winding way

It is there

And not lost to the one

In need of some wandering along.

Fields of Williston

 Fields of Williston

And we return

To the source of

Long ago yearns

The fields we lay upon

Forbidden then

But we were young

And fields did not sting

We were immune

Love our overcoming

Histamine

Scream

 Scream

Awesomeness

Even when

You piss

Be a star

Player

Even on a

Team of 

Suns

Be full-speed

And you

May just win

This lucrative 

Position

Just send us

Your best

Self-centered 

Sales pitch

In one paragraph 

Of course

With that

Unforgettable 

Resume

Can I go pee now?

Heat of rhyme

 Heat of rhyme

It's not wise

To take up

Poetry in the

Heat of rhyme

By line if you

Haven't 

Found sonnet

You may as

Well prose up

And die.

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