In search of

 In search of that distant chord 

John Clare Stokes 

We are drawn to the Song of Songs perchance 

to find the love we are seeking

We  turn to Yeats and Browning thinking

in some sonnet surely they are hidden We cue the Bach and even the Floyd 

for in the chord certainly is found

And yet we have this inexplicable drawing

Near, yet desperately just beyond reach

Bwannah fight

 Bwanna fight?

Oh sorry

My Sears Sale Commission day’s 

are over 

Bwanna photo?

Oh sorry

My driving to the Suwannee day’s

are over 

Bwanna suit?

Oh sorry

My JCP Manager day’s 

are over

Bwanna scoop?

Oh sorry

My Reporter day’s

are over

Bwanna just sit?

Oh sorry

My wife’s due home

and I haven’t done

a single doo!

Blue Grass state

Blue grass state

John Clare Stokes

Six grade can last a lifetime

It did for the tow headed poet

Never advancing beyond

Mrs Turners homeroom

Hiding beneath the desk

during daily nuclear war drill

Deciding it won’t ever get better

But in that summer of sixty seven

He had to move on

To a state of Bahia grass

Sandspurs and allergy

Not even Ann or Pam or Missy 

could make him get beyond

the grass of Kentucky

He’d take to grotto trees

He’d take to canoes down Rainbows

He’d take to sandhill hippies

Even tried to be a basketball star

for that is expected of Blue grass boys

But he wasn’t much good

Maybe for a white boy

Far cry from Truby or Dean

But back to the sixth grade

Recently the poet found where

the source of the blue grass 

zenith in life dwelled

Looking in at the sixty something year

old Girl Scout 

He slowly backed away

Not to disturb a life looking

so happy

The sixth grader finally graduated 

beyond the blue grass state

Fool for a mule

Ellis and Miss Emma

On Spirit Avenue near the Santa Fe

High Springs

I don’t knock the old fools in love with their mules

I’m one of them too.

Damsels in hand

 Damsels in hand

John ClareStokes

I don't think the damsels

Have a clue 

The times I hold in hand

And compose lines for them

And if they did

And that brittle heart beat

In unison to mine

What good?

The language of damsels

Is one unwritten

Only the wind sings it

And damsels reply only then

And not to some 

Age worn Triton.

Scars

 I was marked early in life. Around two in Sopchoppy, Florida I was in the kitchen. An electric coffee pot with cord was boiling hot. I pulled on the cord and it spilled on my left shoulder, down my arm, across my left chest, with a splash mark or two. I was scalded. As was the treatment method in post Korea War, the scars were wrapped in bandages. This proved to make the scars worse with the rubbing. So I carried the scars which affected my personality. I always kept a shirt on to keep the comments from happening. To this day I am self-conscious.

Produce Jesus

 Produce Jesus 

john clare

Jesus today was browsing

the produce aisle

  as Thomas walked up

with some Brussels sprout

  no doubt he too was not expecting

to have to believe so suddenly 

in Winn Dixie 

as for me 

i dodged the two altogether 

did not want either to see

the Blue Moon I was carrying

but would you know

appearing behind me in the number three

check out line

with the Zacchaeus cashier 

Jesus with the bread and wine

Thomas with those sprouts

Suddenly it too dawned on me

as belief overcame me

so right there in Winn Dixie 

we had a good shout out.

Pastor Aaron Turner made the excellent statement yesterday, "Christians are expected to demonstrate more than just human nature." I Co.3:4. This poem, of demonstrating that, even in a Winn Dixie line, was penned with that thought in mind. For my ubber literal friends, Jesus,Thomas,Blue Moon and Zacchaeus were simply allusions, metaphors, illustrations...sorry, do not run down to your nearest WD to catch a glimpse....

This little light

 This light of mine

john clare

sped past that grand spire

the light catching it just right

a beacon for all to see

i held my little finger out

like i did so long ago

and blew and sure enough

neither I nor Satan could

blow it out

for the same great light

that lit that grand spire

was the same light that

lit this weak little finger of mine

a mystery divine

all abounding

as I accelerated on up Marion 

shouting the news

I'm gonna let it shine

I'm gonna let it shine.

Bob

 Bob

Did you ever have a friend

That once in a lifetime friend

So equal in your interests

It's as if you're one?

I had one

I'm in my seventies now

He died in his nineties

Forgetting everything in this world

I suppose shedding it 

Like he used to like to do

When photographing 

And scuba diving

And canoeing

And treasure hunting

And painting

And banjo playing

Along the Suwannee

Practically the same as I

Except I played harmonica 

Otherwise

We were of one mold

JohnBob

Damsels in sand

 Damsels in sand

I don't think the damsels

Have a clue 

The times I stand in the sand

And compose lines for them

And if they did

And that brittle heart beat

In unison to mine

What good?

The language of damsels

Is one unwritten

Only the wind sings it

And damsels reply only then

And not to some 

Dragonfly grounded.

April showers

 April showers

In the month of August

one would think the desire

for the April showers

would be a settled thing

you had May flowers

June with birds you sang

Danced with the July moon

And yet for April showers 

you dwelt 

When suddenly in the August

gloom

morning thunder filled the sky

It had to be April

The little shower so shy.

Vera Dear

Vera dear

You could make the old upright ivory keys spring to life, like the old bones, playing the hymns from heart to hands. The old Cokesbury hymnals you didn’t need, they welled from within so easily. 

Vera Smith on the old piano at Gulf Hammock