I’ll not linger on upon a past gone
People today are into moving on
to the next best latest thing to find
All in hopes of somehow remaining
Here for just a little while longer
Yet find me somehow out of step
That all these memories I’ve kept
I visit them in a youth they shall pine
But never find
For the smoke from the sand
Cures not only the meat
But this man
In search of Jungle Jim
John Clare Stokes
I my journey about the countryside
My eyes are always seeking him
Some days the swing is still moving
Into the jungle he’s gone to hide.
John Clare Stokes
The old man cannot tell you
How long he’s been a swinger
Clearly recalling the little towhead
Soaring above ole Sopchoppy
Toes dangling over Flowing well
The chickens below in the yard
Scurry beneath Mr Rudd's barn
Thinking him a marshy hawk
As he swoops in low
Honey bees greet him
On their way to Georges hives
Bearing Tupelo pollen packs
Offering him a sweet taste
But he must make haste
Up from thick Bradwell bay
The ole black bear glares
He dares not swing his way
He and panther want him
In the church house nest
The purple martins are circling
In a frenzy of mosquito catching
Proud of their fledglings
And on he swings determined
Making his way past Boam Bluff
Through Buckhorn to Panacea
To see the source of his landing
The pure white Mashes Sands
Swing, swing my little jumpy
The skies are full of wonder
There shall never be a better
Back yonder
As he lands ever so gracefully
Perfect soft touchdown upon sand
Daddy, watch me do it all over again!
John Clare Stokes
Since he was but the age of two,
It was for the gals he rode the bronco.
Beyond the eight he took a few,
the springs too strong on Wonder Pony.
And he would painfully climb back on,
Waving the buckaroo hat wildly,
Another Phaeton yipping at the sun,
To the cheering of the buffalo gals.
Such was the true grit of his love,
That well into his sixties he'd mark out,
Cinch the bronc reign about the glove,
Nod to the gateman for a lot of try,
Just for a chance to dance
By the light of the moon.
John Clare Stokes
To the tune of Donovans Mellow Yellow
it just comes with saffron
saffron's good for me
it just comes with saffron
saffron's good for me
They call it Dixie Lily
(Yellow Rice)
They call it Dixie Lily
(Yellow Rice)
it just takes about fourteen
fourteen minutes to cook
it just takes about fourteen
Enriched dinner for me
They call it Dixie Lily
(Yellow Rice)
They call it Dixie Lily
(Yellow Rice)
Electrical appliances
I'm gonna set out the plates
Electrical appliances
You just gonna have to wait
They call it Dixie Lily
(Yellow Rice)
They call it Dixie Lily
(Yellow Rice)
Saffron added, yeah
I'm just mad about it
I'm just mad about Saffron
Enriched dinner for me
Oh so yellow
For this fellow.
The Magnolia is on the corner of Rose and Faith in Sopchoppy. It's all that remains of the little farm of Emory and Mary Rudd. Where the Methodist Church is now, once stood their wood and tin home. It was the first place I stayed when a little boy and my mother was teaching 4th grade. The Magnolia shaded the front porch where I spent much time in the swing. In the day before indoor everything, the town was quiet. Cars seldom passed by, and when they did, you knew who it was. You could hear far off sounds. The beating of the drums from Mr Burches marching band, the gurgling of flowing well across the street. The Buckhorn New Mt Zion services, that sounded like a Tarzan show, the Wazui coming. The chugging of Mr Wilber Stricklands tractor. Talmadge Crum calling Henry home from the river across the street, though they lived nearly a mile away, her long, drawn out HeeeenreeE!Sound carried, traveled from Laurice's Standard station on 319 all the way back to Mrs Florida Robert’s off Camellia Street. Mr Emory each morning would have the rats he had caught in the barn the previous night in traps lined up on the steps for me to see. He saved his Prince Albert tins and matchboxes, prized to me. He made me a beechwood high chair to eat from. And it's the bread pudding Mrs Mary made that was the favorite thing. It had to be the eggs we searched for daily, for never has her recipe been matched. There came a day, mom did not go to school to teach. I did not go to Mrs Mary's. Looking out the living room window there was this strange black station wagon the likes I'd never seen. That evening I learned of death when we went over for the wake, Mrs Mary in the front bedroom in the bed, hands crossed, like she was peaceably sleeping.
The sound quietly permeated the entire town, a sound I see to this day.
John Clare Stokes
Recently I sent most of my digital equipment in for a price. They being B&H wound up offering 2300 for it. Originally I was going to get a z50ll and two lenses but Melanie has a 3000 medical bill so I’ll just get a lens and give her 2000 towards it. What a guy!
John Clare Stokes
I took the art from the wall
Set it free
It could not live confined
at least
not mine
Essence
The nearer to the dying
You go
The layers built upon you
Peel away
Leaving the essence of a person
I so ache to know again
In all your complex simplicity
Like shades in love and death's oblivion lost;
And yet I am! And live with shadows tost
Has it been ten threes ago
Since the last swish
The home crowd going wild
Yelling way to go!
Oh how the sound of
Nothing but net
We miss!
