Frosty Mourn

 Frosty morn

John Clare Stokes

Like Frosty the Snowman

I long for some magic

In the old pith hat

My father once wore

To work the bee hives

To weed the acre pea rows

Below Wakulla County skies

And how the gardens would grow

There is now so much I do not know

So little that I can remember

The crepe myrtles need pruning

The Christopher lilies aren’t blooming

But am I even in the right season? 

I rub the old pith hat

Bend to separate the clustered bulbs

An ever slight hint of fall 

Is in the hot Florida air

I pray for another snow

as in eighty-nine

so I can build again my father

and place upon him

his old beekeepers pith hat 

I know there must be some

magic in.

The Watchmen

The watchmen

John Clare Stokes

Sabbath sunrise where he once sat

sins weight upon his back

to rise and deliver the word

from empty chairs yet heard

Echoing words from the watchman

lifting up one voice

together they sang for joy

eye to eye they saw

the return of the Lord to Zion.

Sabbath sunset where I sit

sins weight pressing yet

rise up my son to find

eyes and eyes upon Zion

Mary Rudd

 Mary Robinson Davis Rudd  1885-1960. My fathers first appointment to the Florida Conference of the United Methodist Church was the tiny Mayberry-like town of Sopchoppy in Wakulla County in 1955. The panhandle town of under 600 was located on the banks of the crooked dark waters of the Sopchoppy River, which ran into the Oclockonee River, which ran into the Gulf at Panacea. My father preached one sunday at Sopchoppy, then the next at the county seat of Wakulla in Crawfordville.  My mother taught fourth grade at the nearby native stone school and during the day Mrs Mary kept me. Mrs Mary and Mr Emory Rudd lived next door to the church and parsonage on Rose Street in a wooden one story white cracker style house with the two front rooms and the rear kitchen. I loved the time with the Rudd's, looking forward to Mr Emory showing me the rats he had trapped in the barn the evening before, saving me his match boxes and Prince Albert tobacco tins to play with.  A good carpenter, Mr Emory made me a nice wooden high chair I could use to sit at the kitchen table with.  Mrs Mary and I would walk about the yard and collect the eggs the chickens had laid in the barn and under the bushes in the yard. She would then make me my favorite food of all time, her special bread pudding.  It had to be the eggs I assumed, for even to this day, the consistency has never been matched. Mr Emory was a fiddle player in a band that played down at the skating rink across the street on the river and he liked to rock a horse me on his foot and sing to me.  They had a nice front porch swing under the shady magnolia I would lay upon and watch as the occasional car would pass. One morning in 1960, mamma told me I would not be going to Mrs Mary's today. I remember looking out the window in our living room to their house and seeing a hearse. That evening mamma took me over to the house and there Mrs Mary was, lying in wake in the front bedroom.  It was one of the first death's I had seen, yet somehow I understood at the age of five. Soon after I went to stay with Mrs Porter, then the beloved Angeline Donaldson, who kept me in our home. But of all the dear ladies who kept me, none were loved more than Mrs Mary.

Where the Methodist church now is on the left was once Mr Emory and Mrs Mary’s home. The magnolia tree over hanged the front porch. Across the street was the Sopchoppy River.

People’s Choice

My photo that won first place in the Wally Reichert Library Show also won the people’s choice award announced at the Gallery luncheon today. 

We had another great turnout for our monthly members and friends luncheon today. Thanks to Catering for All occasions for help out with the lasagna meal and to Mesha, a new member, who baked lemon cookies stuffed with cream cheese and blueberries and a double chocolate cheesecake for our desserts. Special attention goes to John Stokes who was the winner of the Audience Favorite at the recent Wally Reichert art exhibition at the west branch of the @columbiacountylibrary in Lake City.

Hog pen heaven

 Hogpen heaven

Time was we’d abandon 

all caution of moccasins 

or bull gators lurking 

in the late evening wind

to wade right out into heaven

Tenting tonight

 tenting tonight

Tenting tonight 

On the old camp ground

Lightening bugs all around

Not a sound 

save the thousand mosquitoes 

drowning the chorus of cicadas

West corner

 Corner Plots 

john clare

Whenever I visit a cemetery

the first place I check

are the four corners

to see who got the compass plots

Joe Kirby in the black Bethel 

got the Western spot.

Colds of gold

 I cannot keep up

The pace is too rapid

In front the rainbow

To the rear rays

Astride the twisting up

Crows overhead

Mockingbird's below

Battery low

Resolution lower

On down the day goes

Jeopardy within

And Alex has a cold

Gold blind

 The grizzled old cyclist astride the lug steel antiquated downtube shifter rode directly into the sun, shunning the fashionable Oakley's, loathing the latest aerodynamic time shaving carbon device, speed the last thing he pursued, seeing distinctly in the glare the shimmering mirage of the old nemesis, with the lost friend motioning to bridge the gap, slowing momentarily to allow him to draft in the slipstream of his memory.

Gold train

 The grand Brittiany train 

  Wiggins, Stannard,Millar and Froome  

Steeled to bring Cavendish fame 

  But from the rear one  

  The Kazakhstan man old 

 One Alexandr Vinokurov

 And from the young Brits steals 

 The glory of the gold

Gulfs of Gold

 We were inseperable, two boys from Sopchoppy, wading in Wakulla waters, from Mashes Sands to Ochlocknee, jellowjackets in black and gold we were.

Still rope swings

 still ropes sway, slowly to and fro, in rhythm to flow, ripples circling out, still ropes sway, slowly to and fro, invisible still force, immersing totally, still ropes sway, slowly round and round, harmony found, we all swing down, way down we go, to and fro slowly.

Johnclarestokes