did you?

 Did you take that photo? I am sometimes asked. How does one reply? Why even ask? 

Disassembling

 Disassembly of our lives

Jasper Johns 

I offered advice earlier today on becoming a photographer. It fell on four ears. My point exactly. I think the process of becoming a photographer, an artist, a craftsman is born upon a passion. Sure, you can buy the full frame Nikon Z9 and master Lightroom, money today will buy you about any level you desire. One thing you will run out of long before your money though, is passion. It cannot be purchased as Simon attempted to buy from Peter the Holy Ghost. You either have it or you don't. You must photograph, you must paint, you must craft as you breathe. You will create in obscurity, in poverty, in failure. Nothing will deter, no matter how lowly the world esteems your passion.

"Most persons are so absorbed in the contemplation of the outside world that they are wholly oblivious to what is passing on within themselves." Nicola Tesla

Bell

I smell Bell

There I was

Content within the

Walmart Pelican kayak

Doing slow spins in the cold current

When out of nowhere

Came the Bell

Like disco lemonade

There it was

And then it was gone

Leaving me spinning on

Downstream

Rockin

 Shadows I know

John Clare Stokes 

I know

that familiar shadow

seems my entire life

when the rockers

came from Pennsylvania

from the revival meeting 

I equate the lines

with those who 

rocked in their time

and days I find

I can sit beside 

the rocking chair

with the curved lines

and know that 

they are yet there.

Cruise

Cozumel

John Clare Stokes

In the loudest possible Blue tooth for all to hear, the lady with the red mustang did her laps, throwing it all out there for all to hear. 

Girl we got to work this fat and take that cruise and have not a damn care in the world. 

And the whistling ducks dared not make a sound, the heron stayed still as possible, until she passed out of ear shot, which took quite some time. 

She tried

She tried to tell

They would not listen

There not listening still

Perhaps they never will

Chrome

For chrome to chrome

John Clare Stokes 

What of our time behind this glass lens? In faded yellow boxes the life and times set down in vivid saturation, of finest grain, the slow fade at once setting in, even as the child took the first step. The chrome captured it faithfully, just as we saw. What of our time upon this acetate? This veiled dwelling, this inner lens desperate to find focus upon that home beyond this ever fading chrome. 

Mow time

 Mow time

John Clare Stokes

The hand of my old friend Bob

The high wheel mower wouldn’t  start

The grass just grew taller

It always will

I’m to the point of the end of push mowing

My one acre becoming too arduous 

Suppose I need that electric rider after all

And my grass just grows tall.

The post wars again

You think you had a winner

But as usual

It’s not

I do not know what it takes

But it matters not

It’s time to mow

Here we come

 First day

Here we come

Walking down the street

John Clare Stokes 

My first day fifth grade

Went off without a hitch

Made friends with a fellow

Named Freddy Fitch

His daddy owns the A&P

My Teacher is Mrs Turner

She had us hide beneath our desks

In case of a nuclear war

Met two twins named

Stuart and Stephen

They are quite mod

Their daddy is Winston

And he’s the professor of 

Science at Asbury

I hope I fit right in

I couldn’t decide whether

I’d go as Robin or Bruce Wayne

But in the end

Decided upon Davy Jones

Of the Monkee’s you see

I think it was a good decision

This girl April asked if I’d 

Walk her down the street to Girl Scouts

All the way to the first Baptist

Protect her you see

Just in case some Penguins

or Jokers

Lay hidden

In the beautiful Kentucky 

Blue grass.

It’s going to be a good year.

Stairway to haven

 Stairway to haven

Johnclarestokes 

There are stairways in my mind I climb

Places I can yet go time after time

Where once inside I can for a spell reside

By the familiar comfort of place abide

Draw again upon the lessons learned

Give pause to the incessant worldly yearn

Align for the time with the sweet repast

Taste the savory preserves that last

Hear the creaking steps upon heart pine 

Know forever this haven I shall find.

Luther Ray climbs the steps at Pilgrims Rest

And today is his brothers birthday who

yesterday climbed those steps

Jimmy

 Jimmy Boykin Stokes

August 13,1941

August 12,  2022

Jimmy was one of Meme Clara’s favorite relatives, my fathers half brother 18 years younger. Jimmy and his brothers William and Billy, his sister Mary, would spend summers with us in Sopchoppy when they were teens. 

Being so much younger, they were as Memes own children. 

Jimmy fell from a ladder in June of 2022 pruning a pear tree at his home in Hattiesburg, Mississippi and never recovered. Only his sister Mary remains, in an advanced state of dementia.

BTS

 BTS

It was a mixture of dread and anticipation as we pulled on our stiff dungarees, the excess length, for expected growth spurts, cuffed up to the knee. Finding that home room in a hall of chaos before the second bell was dreadful, before the days of orientation. And only knowing who you would have in your class when you scanned the list on the door, or your teacher, if your friends were with you, or if you'd be assigned a seat near the one you secretly admired was all consuming.

It's a wonder we ever made it out of elementary, we didn't dare ponder the dread of middle school, the thugs from across the tracks, the prison life conditions. For now we had found the homeroom and our only aim was not to do anything to cause anyone to laugh or point our way or call upon us to say, who dressed you in those ridiculous dungarees?

Age 9

1964