Mrs Florida

 6 Dickson Street

Home of Florida Morrison Roberts, Sopchoppy, Florida. 1883-1976.

When we lived in Sopchoppy in the late fifties

Early sixties

Mrs Florida was the matron of town

A stalwart in the Methodist Church my father 

pastored.

We spent many Sunday afternoons after church

eating dinner with Mrs Florida, her daughter Inez and her son Bonny Kaslo “BK”, then one of the Florida Supreme Court justices.

When my father would be out of town on a revival, we would stay with Mrs Florida. She would let me play shoe salesman with her button up shoes, trying them on her. Her down feather mattress guest bed was a dream to sleep in.

When Hurricane Dora came through, we stayed at Mrs Roberts, even though our concrete block parsonage was stronger than her wood and tin home.

Mrs Florida corresponded with us in letter up until her death in October of 1976. My father returned to conduct her funeral.

I now have Mrs Florida’s sweet letters and will always, next to Mrs Mary Roberts, who kept me, hold a place in my heart forever.

The gift of mists

 River of return 

There are places given for those seeking 

the never ending streams flowing from dreams 

places to return time and again drifting

into the mists that are such a welcome gift.

Either way

 Either way

John Clare Stokes

There are days

You could go either way

Days you wouldn’t mind

The current swift

Days you’d welcome a

Slow drift

Anything would do

The waters would determine

The journey

Not the destination

Horsefarm 100

 Horse Farm 100

August was the time to begin putting in the miles for the October Gainesville Cycling Clubs century ride. It wasn't a leisurely ride and if you did not maintain at least a 16mph pace, you would finish long after everyone else. I do not think I shall have the time to devote to the miles necessary, as I did when my late friend Roger Sessler and I would ride at least thirty miles daily and seventy or more on Saturday's.

Kerr breeze

Kerr Breeze

It comes to you

Seems a refreshing

 But hidden within

The twisting

The tearing

Beware the Kerr breeze

That gentle wind

Beckons you set sail

Oh how refreshing

 But then the gale.

Props

 A propper upper

The crinoline lilies grow such tall stalks they cannot bear their cluster and soon fall before they have finished blooming. I try and stake them back up.

This one I hooked to the split rail.

There’s a lesson in there somewhere.

Facilitate beauty.

Prop up the weak

Etc

Secret Lovers

 Secret lovers

John Clare Stokes

When an old love dies

we don’t send flowers 

we don’t attend visitation

we mourn in silence

among the hidden letters

after the grass has grown

the marble marker placed

we visit the lover

glance about lest some say

why lingered he there today?

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.