In the morning mists thick with the
first light rays revealing the orbs handiwork
we journeyed slowly in anticipation of
surprise from the palmetto and pine,
camera poised and pre-set, would we
be up for the moment, should it spring,
when before we could say hocus focus, out came
the doe, and wouldn’t you know, before
we could say, can you back up and let
me try that frame again, she was gone
as we slowly headed home.
Johnclarestokes
Tangling the strings dangling about
thinking long severed the binding
only to find in the sight of shell shards
the salty sea breeze in twisted hair
pulling me into high tides receding
all but drowning us clinging
then in the tug of one same thought
lost forever never able to express
the reasons for the composition
tripping over the green thin string
in the tall wild grass lying in
wait to tell of things that seemed
only tiny written in locked dairies
with the especially deepest love
marked about with the dried out
purple phlox pressed just so
no thick painter ropes mind you
Delicate orb spider like silk thin
Impossible to unbind
The entwine of time fastened
completely.
Johnclarestokes
Oreb and Zeeb run amok
throughout the land
Midian strong in his reign
Yet down by the stream
Three hundred lapping
as dogs
Come Gideon wind
blow throughout the land
break the vessels of light
Extinguish the darkness
Impale
Sword of the Lord
John Clare Stokes
Oh such the snub
When the Fritillary
Pays a visit to the yard
Going about from
Flower to flower
Then moving on
I let out a sigh
Tell the plants
Nice try
He was of the snob
Variety anyhow.
Many the time
We climbed
Mount Gum Swamp
Pausing to pay
Respects to those
Going on
Before the
Descent into the
Baker County Flats
The long pull
To the Taylor Grocery
Feeding zone
Liter Pepsi Soda
Off brand Fig Newton
Preparing for the ascent
Of Mount Moniac
Crossing into the
Georgian pine barrens
Above swamp line
Pedaling squares
Zigzagging silently
Behind the shimmering
peloton snaking
Away across the
Long straight
Highway.
Count the times
Between the swans
We’ve come and gone
Leaving home
Coming home
And wonder if ever again
Some will never be
Leaving home or
Coming home
Walk between the swans again
And hum that familiar song
Come home
Times I think of her
Up there in that second
Mountain home
Alone with family
I think
This could have been mine
The walks in the cool morning
Stops in shops for antiques
But she did not want this for me
She was rather insistent
Upon not sharing it with one
Who stayed home
Never went with her
Always chasing after him
Expecting someday he’d reform
Oh maybe when I’m eighty
She will have pity
And admit
I wish you’d been mine
From the fourth grade on.
The CrossPoint Church
Will not offer fun
The theme is suffering
Bethel AME offers
The Jesus Connection
No devices allowed
The Church of Christ
Will have a backyard
Adventure of Exploring
Gods word
Burning stakes will
Begin promptly at 6pm.
Oak Grove Baptist
Will simply hold one
No theme
Bring your own axe
Southside Baptist
In lieu of bounce house
Cotton candy and games
Will offer a concentration
Camp experience
Grace Life regrets to
Inform the
Incrediworld Amazement Park
Was too ambitious and will
Offer a dark catacomb adventure.
Four area Methodist churches
Pooled to form an abundant Orchard
But instead will portray forty days in the wilderness being tempted.
Our sincere apology to the
Serpents who had planned to
Strike rocks, eat manna, make
Golden crafts.
There are places reserved
Places possibly all know
But to us especially special
It is there we can go.
John Clare Stokes
There are man made helps
Out there
Ways to kick start the soar
The hot dark brew in a favorite mug
The purring kitty
The watchful dog
The comfortable chaise free of dew
Fresh hummingbird nectar
A waning moon
Clear blue heavens
some Cortazar
And soon I’m soaring
John Clare Stokes
Ahhh, good ole July I so looked forward to
for it meant the Tour de France to us few
Roger, Professor and Rick mostly
each our favorite rider to cheer for stage victories
It used to be the Americans like Lance
and Floyd or the French and Italian like Fignon,
Basso or the Pirate Pantani
Caught up in doping and removing victory from
history
Heroes were few
But we found new ones
Young and fast Sagans
Air the old gatorskins again to 110 psi
Squeeze into the stretched thin Lycra kit
Cinch the old dated Bell helmet for a spin
Just up Rossi Road hors category hill breathless
But hey, wasn’t I a Magnus fast coasting down!
Via bottle,pill, snuff, snort,needle
Or smoke
Are so uninspired
It's no wonder we are so low
