Rush into the night to find
Waxing crescent fleeing westward
Faithful to God’s ordered time
To the obedience of His word.
Waxing crescent fleeing westward
Faithful to God’s ordered time
To the obedience of His word.
Pursue me
Draw me
Draw me
The voice of my beloved!
Behold, he cometh leaping
Upon the mountains
Skipping upon the hills.
SS2:8
Waning crescent fleeing westward
Faithful to God’s ordered time
To the obedience of His word.
John Clare Stokes
In a despair of cutting palmetto and prickling briar
The old hunters weary body began to tire
Pressing in upon his every side
The denizens hot upon his trail, he cried
When in the thick tangle, his end appearing
A tree of life with three rungs appeared
Down below as the snarling tusks circled snorting
High above the old hunter safely snoring.
John Clare Stokes
Imagine the rickety wagon pulled by molly mule
returning from a sweltering rain starved field
when deep dips the rut road into shady cool
To the barn of home the two are steeled
when faintly a discernible voice whispers low
“Come to the water, what does hinder thee?”
It was that Saturday evening Preacher was called
A new name was written in Suwannee by night fall.
As the washed away sins made it to Fowlers Bluff
And on out into the Gulf.
A Prospect Primitive baptism
Suwannee River
one of the thousands
and ten
we as one bend
seeking not
a singular beauty
to draw the
attention
of the wind
to waft only my
beauty
sway my glory
our humility
our glory
to simply be
one with the
thousands and ten.
I ride so low I need a little pick me up
I ride so high I need a little bring-me-down.
Once I knew a closet angel
She was such a shy seraphim
Didn’t like to show off her wings
No one knew her from me or you
Said she was a guardian by night
Didn’t question her peculiar ways
She wore gowns in shades of light
Hung them neatly come the day
Who knew there was an angel among us
Today her closet remains just the same
Gathering fine specks of golden dust
You’d never know one as she ever came
Somewhere in some far unknown place
We must assume she has found a covert
And in the night moves without a trace
Protecting another dearly loved lost loner.
He could take the looking leaf
And see fall in spring
Winter in summer
It was a wonder
People would travel from afar
To get a word from the seer
He would gaze long through the leaf
And soon tell
If joy or grief
Was in their future
Emily Dickenson
Emily kept her poems hidden beneath her bed, rough bound, she in life was not known as a poet, but more a gardner or botanist. Like Vincent, her fame came posthumously.
I taste a liquor never brewed,
From tankards scooped in pearl;
Not all the vats upon the Rhine
Yield such an alcohol!
Inebriate of air am I,
And debauchee of dew,
Reeling, through endless summer days,
From inns of molten blue.
When landlords turn the drunken
Bee
Out of the foxglove's door,
When butterflies renounce their
Drams,
I shall but drink the more!
Till Seraphs swing their snowy
Hats,
And saints to windows run,
To see the little tippler
Leaning against the sun!
I do not care, Burns, Yeats, Poe or Emily
But find at least one poet to inspire thee
What is life, if all is science and math?
How can one assuage mendacious wrath?
John Clare Stokes
Tiger Swallowtail upon a blazing star from afar
Told them, I’ll be there soon.
“The weight of the world is love.
Under the burden of solitude,
under the burden of dissatisfaction
the weight,the weight we carry is love. ”
Allen Ginsberg
Bluebird to the moon
Photo Illustration
One with the memory of the charted way
Another the present strength in play
The third a future hope of port far away.
Crescent Beach