Stare

 It was not a good day for the weary writer. The steady rain became a fixation and all he could do was sit and stare out the double panes. He knew there was much work to do, that this gift of time would someday come due, and he was going to have to give an account for the mindless staring. In a lesser time it would have been fine, even applauded, chalked up to creative necessity. But these were no normal days, what with the global warming and the ice caps melting. All around flags coming down, planets and moons aligning. He was even reading his online bible as of late, seeing if he could discern some more signs, hidden in the parables. And so he stared, guilt ridden and wishing the rain would cease. Someone said it was needed, but he didn't believe it. All concocted no doubt by the global geo-engineers, by the men in the Jets with the contrails ushering in famine. It didn't look promising. And so he stared.

Remnants of a grandmother

 Shoes and shawl that Ethel wore

It was a year after the passing of my Uncle William Clark Stokes, when in 2017, in honor of our Stokes relatives having a reunion in Homewood, Mississippi on this day, I displayed the remnants of my grandmother, Ethel Marie Wike Stokes, born Jan 28, 1899 in Lexington Co., SC and died Aug 1, 1937 in Homewood, Mississippi. My cousin Ethel Jeanne Bradford Rowland, the daughter of Esther Irene and Joe Parks Bradford, her mother my daddy’s sister, gave me the shoes, a shawl, leather gloves and her ponytail at our last years reunion. Esther and Earnest William were married on Dec 18, 1914 and had five children, Earnest Curtis, James Marzelle, Hazel Marie, Luther Ray, my father and Esther Irene, Jeanne's mother. My mother was the last link to this original Stokes family as Earnest remarried Bernice Beatrice Boykin 17 Feb 1939 and had William Clark, Jimmy Boykin, Billy Ferrell and Mary Carol, of which only Mary still survives. Ethel Marie's father, Jacob Wike was a Lutheran minister, my father and Billy Ferrell were Methodist ministers.

Will Clark

 The William Clark overture 

Of the 

Stokes Reunion

Four years ago

the remnants of the

House of Burgundy

Met in the backyard of one dawg

Down in the hail state

Of Mississippi 

To lament upon the latest

Removal from the series

By some stealing Louisiana Tigers

To gnaw upon batter fried crappie

From the 

Reservoir 

And talk of boorish things

Like the State of the nation

The stock market

The retirement 

For they lately

have no leader to turn to

To get his wise perspective 

Upon the situation

It doesn't matter

The Master ingrained in them

Eternal confidence 

That In the next season

The end all of all seasons with

The latest batch of signees

That Bulldog

Nation would rise so far above 

This backyard in

Hattiesburg 

You could see the lights

Of Dudy Noble

From even the darkest parts

Of Oxford 

Awakening even

The Hail State prophet

Holed up in a Homewood cave

Awaiting the second coming.

I went

 I went to Yeats for surely Yeats

wrote of the summer lilies

I went to Emily for surely Emily

told of the bee among the lilies

I went to Thoreau for surely Thoreau

lived less desperate by the lilies

At last

I went to you for surely you

would abide with me in the lilies.

Every journey

 Every journey begins with the prospect of never returning. Thus we count as loss all but that which would get us there, embarking in our symmetrical vessels for lands we've read of in words of red, upon linen pages, sacred, yet so down to earth we yearn to see it.

Master keys

 Masters Keys

John Clare Stokes 

He came upon the keys to the garden

Tucked long away in the tin box

Tarnished and dusty with the closed

lost locks 

In brittle leather pouches on soft brass

hooks hanging 

Once upon the hinges the gates swung wide 

the ole blue Ford tractor passing 

through the unlocked gate to unturned fields

Neatly hung in the shed the 

tools to abundant yields 

the little boy hoeing hard at the Gardeners side

And he would send the boy with the keys

the Gardener waiting patiently 

in the furrowed row

To the little one which keys he must know

his first prayers, “dear God, the Gardener

depends upon me!”

And with a sweet click and quick return

He ran with the right tool for the seed 

The Gardener pleased with the 

little boys deed

As wide eyed there was so much to learn

And so the keys to the garden are in his hands

the old Blue tractor waits for him to 

find the key 

But the gate is long gone along 

with even the property

The Gardener rests in the cool of eternity

I trust the Master understands.

Is that the color?

 Today upon submitting my photographs for the Wally Reichert Library Art Show, I was asked the invariable question, “Did the colors look like that?” Well…of course! I should have said, but I felt I had to explain how I achieved the scene, the vivid camera setting, etc. I am NOT a just camera that records as is! I bend it to my vision of the scene as i envision it. It is something we never ask the painters, were the colors really that way? It’s art? Or it’s science?

The wonderful journey with Chagall

(Not the photo entered in the show)

In passing

 In passing

In Itchetucknee 

I tried in vain to explain the attempt to take it all in, and they just said, it would still be there tomorrow. But I was here now and today it must all be taken in. So I returned tomorrow and sure enough, it was gone.

Revival at Round Top

 Revival time at Round Top

Calling all mules

Halt ye fools!

Calling all mares 

Cast your cares!

Calling all donkeys 

Why kick ye!

Calling all cows

Tarry but awhile!

Calling all goats

Halt your boast!

Calling all sheep

His word keep!

Calling all men

Revive Round Top again!

Go low

 Go low My Suwannee

I do not blame thee

Times I too grow weary

Of carrying the current

And just desire to dry up

Into a trickling stream

Where only water bugs 

And tadpoles can swim

Grounding the kickers and

The paddlers always loudly

Intruding over you

Go ahead Suwannee

Lower yourself if you need

Make the vapid  conform to your speed.

Conjuring love

 Conjuring love

In the stillness of the early 

mornings first light

Before the wind begins

it’s swirling of the rays

Over the old Columbus

incantations are prayed

the rain waters are so smooth

it’s not long the Homewood 

throng comes for a spell

today with us do you come

to dwell?

the scene is so inviting

Soon, pappa Ern, soon.

Earnest

 Right of light 

Watching over the cucumbers

climbing up the hog wire

A familiar figure I see often

in the back corner of the garden

Oh, that’s just the scarecrow!

I just nod and agree,

You can’t convince many

of mystery.