I'm not worthy
Of my shadow
A much better
Entity than my
Reality
Taking deep
Concern for
Leaves of fall
I would let them
I do not care
Bare your branches
To me
I offer no sympathy
But not my
Shadow
Humbly below me
Oh to learn from
My humble companion
I would be such a
Better reality.
All day she told me
She could sit and
listen to the poetry
And I had just enough
audacity
to believe her
so I stacked deep
the volumes of
Clare
Yeats
Burns
Stevens
even
some of my own
and waited to read the one
that began with the line:
Maid of the wilderness,
Sweet in thy rural dress,
Fond thy rich lips I press
Under this tree.
then:
I thought of your beauty, and this arrow
Made out of a wild thought, is in my marrow.
to:
Come, let me take thee to my breast,
And pledge we ne'er shall sunder,
And i shall spurn as vilest dust
The world's wealth and grandeur!
finally:
God and all angels sing the world to sleep,
Now that the moon is rising in the heat
And crickets are loud again in the grass.
The moon burns in the mind of
lost remembrances.
And I would have read them all
Had we but the time
But came the arrow
the vile dust
the heat
and this Robert Frosty
simply melted away.
Would the redemption could
open men's eyes
To the finer things
To which they were formerly
Blind
Perhaps in time
Some an eternity
Show me more of the
New creation
Not the continuing
Of shooting moccasins
And white tails
And foxes
And rattlers
Of continuing in your
Former instinct
It stinks. I'm perplexed
Why God's elect
Selects
What purpose is a
Snake
But for target practice
Glad the rest
Of Gods creation
Doesn't have to abide
By their selection
We'd all be in a frying
Pan
John Clare Stokes
I see they finally got
You deer boy
Oh boy
One-hundred and twenty five
Atta boy
Like a lots
And way to go's
Later
Hung you for all
To gawk
Sorry for all this
deer boy
Granny never wanted
That deer blood
Transfusion
You were not meant
To live unhunted
You were a deer
Not dear
No longer a little Flag with
Spots beneath the palmetto.
hand extended...the gallery walls could no longer contain me...I was drawn... drawn away from the caress....and found myself...upon the banks of a dank lake....where the rays of lingering light...were as your fingers....receding into the memory of a caress.
Only the gone hear
And heed the ring
Slowly opening
I enter
Welcome home
What took you
So long?
For fickle fame and fleeting adulation?
Never! But for the fair hair lasses
Imprisoned in towers of their making.
The butterfly who could not fly
Asked the cyclist speeding by
How about a lift my friend
The breeze I’d love to feel again
Hop on said the cyclist kind
Soon the blue sky we shall find
There was once upon time
I knew it’s time
When upon politics i’d entwine
To load the kayak
And sanity soon
Trickled back
Santa Fe
Fridays can be days one looks forward to or days we dread, as we have that sixth sense, today they fire me, or the all come crashing down reality, unexpectedly, they did. It happened for one such. It’s happened to me, more than once. You never handle it gracefully. You fill your box and awkwardly go.
And so all Friday, I dwelt beneath the cloud.
Toward the end of day, finishing up at Dacier in Dowling Park, there in a side room off the main desk, an older gentleman was crooning on his guitar to the elderly lady residents. Love songs. But then, he began to sing the old hymn , the Love of God. I lingered. It was the balm from Gilead needed. I trust my friend with the box of belongings found her balm of Gilead too.
There I was suddenly on the strut line
Not a lick of camo on to conceal me
I dropped to my belly just in time
Setting the camera by feel blindly.
And so they passed within a few feet
They never even took notice of my clicks
Feathers iridescent in the shaded heat
I finally rose and took home several ticks.
That fading from your Vase,
You, unsuspecting, feel for me-
Almost a loneliness.
Emily Dickinson
