October Over

 October over

The month of birth and death is gone

Into November we are moving on 

Time for the cane grinding to begin

time to guard the persimmons ripening

from the nocturnal possums 

time to boil the Mason jars for the syrup

time to check the Gravely for stale gas 

Making sure it still cranks on

Thanksgiving morning

time to send someone down to the IGA

for the pancake batter and bacon

we don’t won’t to subsist upon cereal

when the time comes

He walked

 "He walked all the way, and arriving in the evening of a beautiful day, ascended the steeple of the old church, just when the sun was sending his last rays over the surging billows of the North Sea. The view threw Clare into rapturous delight. He had never seen the ocean, and felt completely overwhelmed at the majestic view which met his eyes. So deep was the impression left on his mind that it kept him awake all night; and when he fell asleep, towards the morning, the white-crested waves of the sea, stretching away into infinite space, hovered in new images over his dreams."  from Edge of the Orison by Iain Sinclair.

Tough Tuesday

 Tuesday is the toughest day for me

For by Tuesday

I am weary of the bad poetry I forced wrote on Monday

And this magnesium citrate

kind of churning deep down

tells me, purge it do anything but do not post it

Tuesday is a good day to take

a long journey

to carry the contents far into the forest to dump the 

rhymes beside some 4 way

Intersection, for all to smell,

where the vultures can have their fill

But I never will

It's far an easier task to simply deposit them along the wall of a long dead poets 

place.

Illumination

 Illumination

Illumine me Lord

With just a lux of

Your great light

That Falls so bright

Upon this child

Fair hair Clara

Of the Crumpler 

Hollow 

Illumine me Lord

With but a flicker

That I may

Know your light

As she has worn

So wonderfully

Illumine us Lord

That we may know

The love of light

She has known

Precious this child

Embraced in your

Illumination.

Farewell to a frog

 Farewell to frog

You thought the lake was inclusive

Big enough to hide you in

All was swell in this lovely swamp

Why it’s such a nice day for sunning.

Beauty be not

 Beauty-be not caused-It Is-

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

Before the fall

 Before the fall

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

Na na Nana

Na na na na na na na na

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! 

Fields of Summers All

 fields of summer's all

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.

The coming shadow

 All was well-ordered

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.

Rapid fire

 Rapid fire

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.

Angeline

 One last time 

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.