Deep in the wild never glade
Where moccasins and bull gators stayed
And even Seminoles dared not wade
We came upon this lair of despair
Where in the oaken trees hung effigies
To which these padded blueskins prayed
O give us great Ruppking a victory
To prove we do not follow Thee vainly
But the Ruppking was tauntingly silent
And into extinction went the Kaintuckbrakes
While Gators and moccasins mocked their fate.
Up the holler
John Clare Stokes
So grateful in the fall of twenty twelve
We were able to take mamma to see
The old holler where she came to be
As we rode to Crumpler she would tell
now that was where Evelyn and I
took that poor snake and burnt it
And there is where we paid with script
Where up Crumpler Mountain we’d slip
There’s the Methodist Church where Rev Looney
first suggested I should attend Asbury
Where Luke and I were later married
Where Gerald always held in my heart a tune
The old whistle post just beyond the church
Still towered rusting, once calling miners home
Out from the Pocahontas hills into the stucco homes
Or roused at night, the wailing telling that deep down something
had gone terribly wrong
Turning to return to Bluefield then Princeton
Rounding slowly another steep switch back
In my imagination I could clearly see
Her daddy’s bus full of miners and one
found kitty named Black Daisy
Bringing it home for his sweet Clara Jean.
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.
