It’s the 2nd day of fall, I should be enthralled, but I’m not. Is it the days still hot as summer July? Is it a stroke struck body that hobbles about? Is it a spiritual malaise that barely reads the word? Is it the long, long years of silence from a Son? Is it no sales at the Gallery? It’s all.
It’s fall.
And from the arching gilded lichen limb
Palmetto spread in fronds of praise
The Tibia flute parsed the morning hymn
as moss bearded seers in rhapsodie swayed
to the song of the ancient of days;
Hushed in the Gloria Patri wonder
the congregation of the understory:
Con Amore! in the wood winds he comes
as the canebrake trembles at the feet
of the blessed wild One.
Come freely to the tree of life
climb boldly to the azure heights
In the haven of the wood of God
where ne'er the proud dare trod.
We the Christian know so little
We don't even follow our own seasons
Ignorant of most things of mystery
Living in this world rationally
But today begins a new year
Did you take your sweet honey
Dip the apple in it
Prepare for the King to come
To survey in the field His flock
To see whom He deems to keep
To cull?
I didn't think so.
"And the parched ground shall become a pool, and a thirsty land springs of water: in the habitation of dragons, where each lay, shall be grass with reeds and rushes." Is 35:7.
Alligator Lake South
Columbia Co Lake City
john clare
Gently, gently the waters part,
Silently, silently we slip downstream.
In teardrop cradle the sailors embark,
Hush crickets! The little Pindar dreams.
Miles, miles the stream carries us along,
Tranquil, tranquil the mirrored ripple.
Above, the Cicada's con calma hum,
Sleep, sleep little ruddy sailor still.
Who? Who? Passes in tiny sloop?
Tis he! Tis he! The poet of streams!
Pass through my poetic little flute,
Old Owl sees why the waters sing.
Down, down goes the little canoe
Deep, deep through icy shoaled sea.
Awake tiny sailor, see us through!
Cause terrible Erebus to flee!
Still, still sleeps in tempest land,
Row, row we against Aeolus strong.
Into the gale rises a little hand,
Calm, calm again the beautiful song.
I had hoped for sunlight illuminating the tree and the hay bales with the rain in the background, but it never materialized. Nevertheless, I was stoked chasing the sun up and down. I used probably four different cameras and several lenses. This was on the iPhone after ditching the Nikons and GoPro in frustration over not getting what I wanted.
It was over so quickly
We didn’t do enough together
In my old age of ponder
I still hear, slow down daddy.
A ride with Landon
by Aurelia D Wallace.
Because I can't remember
What I had for lunch, they
Think I'm getting senile.
I hear them whispering
About the Shady Elms.
Good God, I'm not ready
For Shady Elms! I can
Still read Greek, I know
The whole score of Lucia,
(Though they don't take me
To music anymore since
I've had to wear these paper
Pants). I can make Martha Washington's
Own recipe for Sally Lunn,
Without once peeking. I can
Recite the names and birthdays of all
Nine grandchildren, and I know
Franklin Roosevelt is dead.
All they ask me, though,
Is my street number backwards
And what I had for lunch, what
Day it is. Of course I know
Where I live, silly: inside these bones,
This bag my skin. No one needs
To know is it they don't know
All days are Sunday--
As long as I can breathe
This spendid, cautious air?
First day
Ginny at the Villages
John Clare Stokes
The ledger of a life was closed after ninety nine years, her last decade blind, the ledger of little use, consigned to the dusty smokehouse.
It daily gives me pause to ponder my ledger yet open, the daily entries marked, to be opened upon eternity dawn and read.
My only hope lies in the words written over in red, redeemed by the blood.
Tell me daddy of the latter years
Tell me of the way it used to be
Tell me of your father’s family
Tell me of your joyous tears
Tell me of your love then new
Tell me of the new old home place
Tell me why one left without a trace
Tell me how you two made do
Tell me things I never knew
Tell me things I never remembered
Tell me of the presents of December
Tell me of the letters sent to you
Tell me over and over again
Tell me so I can tell it to my children
Tell me so when by graves I’m tearing
Tell me so I’ll forever hear you telling.
Some folks take their oaks
For granted
They have always been
A part of
The family
Life has grown on
Never a thought for
The stately oaks
There once were oaks
In my life
Even had lightening rods
To appease an awesome God
But it was as a wife of Lot
Just grains of salt grating
Upon me now
As the Stokes oaks
Dwell among stranger folks.
Johnclarestokes
I sing a song of degrees
From adjunct poverty
To stately royalty
I sing a song of degrees
From total blindness
To vision piercing
I sing a song of degrees
The heart of burning desire
The heart frozen entire
I sing a song of degrees
The childlike wonderment
The elderly wanting it
I sing a song of degrees
