Chase it, and it ceases-
Chase it not, and it abides-
Overtake the Creases
In the Meadow- when the Wind
Runs his fingers thro’ it-
Deity will see to it
That You never do it-
Emily Dickinson
c.1862
Gulf Fritillary among the iron weed
John Clare Stokes
We envision ourselves forever with the young
The race we can still line up and run
And maybe some are given feet ever strong
Others, we are just grateful to limp home.
Little Shoals
Suwannee
Upon slipping on the slippery rocks and having to crawl up the bank and limp back to the vehicle
Hey hey goodbye
John Clare Stokes
Nada will you please put another forty-five on?
Spin Wooly Bully for our beau Johnny Cone!
How we loved our Friday night pajama parties,
Crying in the chapel with the birds and the bees.
Now you tell me mamma Bishop's with Desmond and Marc?
That just leaves you and PJ to spin Petula Clark!
Sock Hops at seventy Oh still soothe the soul,
Kind of a drag, but it's not unusual you know
We sure believed in magic from ole Roy Oribson,
Help! Where did our loves go?
I can't help this feeling we're
On the Eve of Destruction!
by john clare stokes
in the fallow fields of fall
there lies a long lost ball
kicked over the goal of old
when the uprights were two
and the boys I am told
were measured by feat
but tonight around the
trampled tiger head
we name the fallow field
after the one
who lost the ball
took to alcohol
sat beside the Madden
Super ones
and to Jesus late
did come
So future bums
who make it big
can gather round
the purple tiger
and aspire
to have a fallow field
named for them.
At the stately red Georgian
The peaceful path winding
But who was minding
The stranger who paused
Who saw
The raising of the hand
Announcing his presence
Things just haven't been
The same since
All was well-ordered
at the stately red Georgian
Before the shadow stretched
Up the peaceful path winding
No one was minding.
Time will not slow down
Give you another day
To hold them the way
You did when around
The old flame you dwelt
Backs freezing faces glowing
Love could be felt
From the heart flowing
Even when down to embers
In the dark night shivering
You were so far from the remember
Hot in the moment living
So stoke the ember into flame
Gather near around the warm
There we shall forever be the same
Never by the cold of time torn.
John Clare Stokes
By the time word arrived of Angeline's passing
Long past the drying of the aqua foam crosses laced with baby's breath and lilies
Fading in the Mt Trial Primitive sand
The little white boy could not understand
How they quietly got Sister Donaldson to glory
So he prayed for some angels with hell to pay.
From her pomade doo a boy in Sopchoppy is running
beneath white sheets on the clothesline to hide
Chasing him out of Mrs Clara Jeans clean parsonage.
Down at Langton's IGA cries a boy for a toy
While out in Buckhorn the Mt Trial sisters shout for joy
But not the panting figure hiding in the black cemetery
For he is pleading,
Oh once again chase me
Chase me from the clean parsonage Angeline
Chase me with the big, red
Butcher knife just one last time.
I never could quite grasp
This desire for the kill
Perhaps in my lost mind
I missed some basic principles
Of the blessing
I was Not Esau enough
Not possessing the proper feel
as I kneeled beside the death bed
My mother never covering me in
Venison skin
Smooth flesh not blessing
And so I never got it
Never had the smear of blood
To cover me
A lost soul in the deer woods.
We just assumed the Gravely
Would forever come November
Start up and begin the circling
That the Golden Mill would
Squeeze forth the cane stalks
Of their sandy sweetness
To be skimmed and purified
Bottled and labeled
We just assumed
