Journey with John Stokes

Tuesday, October 21, 2025

Suwannee Shoals

Little shoals

Suwannee

Seems it’s going to be a good day

For a slow Suwannee walk along

The moon is new, the rains moved on

Perhaps we’ll meet along the way.

Osceola and his friends in her woods still roam...Mostly along the trail of deer and bear...In unseen silence I know they are there....Its but a faint whisp carrying them along....Early if you come just before the dawn....before the lifting of the misty....You can see the tracks of Judy....softly with her puppy tagging along....

Deer boy

Deer Boy

John Clare Stokes

Deep in Impassable Bay

the Deer Boy lays beneath

Palmetto and pine straw

Spots upon his yearling

Back blending with the

Sun specks, as he curls in slumber, never really sleeping, always attune to the sound

of the baying hounds or

the panther sneaking around.

It was not always so with his

offspring, for one day long

ago a most peculiar thing

occurred at the mobile blood bank on Baya when this great, great vagrant, decided upon a transfusion to make some money, and in the confusion, the neophyte technician stuck the needle and drew the blood from the buck upon his hood. It was this blood that went into his great, great granny and in the ensuing next, next conception, there came forth the deer boy, more at home within the bay than on the Baya, a new breed if you will, one who had no heart for the kill, the trophy tackydermy head over the mantle, the four wheelers in the yard, the hounds in the pen, the feeders, the corn plots, the tree stands, the whole durn things. And so they hunt this deer boy relentlessly, knowing this deerboa virus cannot exist in a world among us of men who live upon the venison. It would upset the very balance of their nature, to nurture, to not dwell continually, thinking, plotting, savoring, striving, killing. And so the deer boy dwells in two worlds, both of which he knows would have him either raw, fried, stewed, jerked, smoked, bar-b-queued, skewed or simply shot for the sport of it and left for the turkey vultures.

Goliath

He was the runt of the litter of boxers and Artance Raker of Shadeville gave him as a puppy to my daddy in Crawfordville for he couldn’t keep up and he didn’t have that smashed in boxer nose or those clipped ears. But what Artance missed was lil Goliath had the best disposition and showed it by quickly winning us all. We gave him several pet names, all to which he responded, Bosepbus, Rackisnap, Bo, Bob White, Lithy. He was so highly favored he rode shotgun or else he’d nudge his way into your lap, wherever the family went. About the only flaw I ever saw, or was it, was how, when we lived in Williston, when upon the long chain by the parsonage, and the brothers playing basketball across the street would have the ball stray toward him, he wouldn’t let them get it. They’d holler until someone heard and would come out, crawl under the house and throw it back. I don’t think the parsonage committee cared for him and I recall a few times a brave spokeswoman would say we must get rid of him. Goliath didn’t like those chained up days. When we moved to Lake City, at the parsonage on the lake, growing old, he whined one day to go outside. He immediately ran out and into Alligator Lake, catching an otter. Then, at the old home on Vickers where we had moved after my father retired from the FUM, down with dropsy in his legs, Bosepbus whined to get out, going immediately to uncover a huge frog in the bushes. The next day, unable to get up, Dr Smith cried as he put him to sleep. We carried him up to Crawfordville where he didn’t have to be confined on a chain or small yard and made him a fine resting place under the cool azalea’s where he loved to lay. Good runts don’t often come along. Goliath was one fine giant of a runt.

Sunday, October 12, 2025

Moon mallow

The moon mallow

We sat beneath the burning moon

As a marshmallow over the flames

Til all was dark and all remained

The aftertaste of a moon consumed.

Friday, October 10, 2025

A calm beyond

Soft as the massacre of Suns

By Evening’s Sabres slain

Emily Dickinson

Soon as dies the sunset glory,

Stars of heaven shine out above,

telling still the ancient story,

their Creators changeless love.

Jubilate! Jubilate! Jubilate! Amen!

Telling still the ancient story,

their Creators changeless love.

Samuel Longfellow

A Calm Beyond

When blows the gulf winds strong

Taking from the land the calm

We look beyond the tumult found

To the place of familiar ground

Where the river we know ever flows

Bringing peace to the Gulf of America

And we in calm known again pray

Heal the torn land beyond ole Suwannee.

John Clare

Wednesday, October 8, 2025

Deliverance

She hadn’t a clue

Several years ago Melane, Jordon Stokes and I took a trip up to raft the river Deliverance was filmed on. All was going well, until we came to the water drop, which summarily proceeded to toss all from the raft but Jordon and I and the guide. When this photo came from the Outdoor Center, Jordon and I to this day laugh at Melanies bliss of not having a clue the epic struggle behind her. Moments later she was underwater and I was pulling her up from the swirl. To this day she insists we let her almost drown. She was not at all thankful for her “deliverance”.

Monday, October 6, 2025

Hidden Tiger

john clare

Crouching quietly beneath

the English Dogwood focused on a resting Tiger Swallowtail

The photographer knew at any moment his presence would be known

So he had to quickly compose and align the fresnel.

Second nature these things he had done for so long.

But one should never grow complacent in his pride

Smug that his lens alone could capture prey

The Tiger discerned the photographer trying to hide

Exposing both him and his

Haughty way.

Prospect Psaume

Far up the Woodpecker Route, miles from well-tempered White Springs, behind the Prospect Primitive Baptist and cemetery, there is a hardwood and pine lined path that is as a musical progression to the bel canto banks of the Suwannee River. Upon this binary form we call a path, the principal themes are tranquility and harmony. As the staccato weary sojourner makes his slow way along, by the time he has knelt to take in the tannic, he has touched the sustaining pedal upon the grand organ and it infuses him. The Prospect Psaume.