The upper room

 The upper room

John Clare Stokes

Everyone should have an upstairs view

In my life I’ve had three

For hours I’d sit as below the world by me passed

How I wish the upper room would last.

Grandmas leg

 Grandma’s leg

John Clare Stokes

I don’t know why mamma would do it

But she would send me to spend the night

at Mrs Porters across the street by the Sopchoppy river.

 Mrs. Willie Mae had an older son named Tommy

and he’d like to scare me

especially by showing me grandma’s wooden

leg in the corner closet

and he’d tell me how grandma would come

in the late of night in search of

her wooden leg

And the cold wind would moan through the

Cracks in the floor

And the closet door would creak

And Lura Elena would come close to me in her bed, 

With a finger to her lips saying, shish,

Quiet now. Don’t be afraid. 

Have you seen my wooden leg?

Slumbering Suwannee

 Suwannee still

This time of season when Suwannee

is slumbering from the ardent 

Springs roiling, she lets me draw near

without fear of her taking me on

her rapid journey to the Gulf.

hauling glASS

 Dragging glASS

In 2018 I went out for a test hike along the dikes of Alligator Lake. Lugged the d3300 on the 200-500 with the monopod, the D3500 on the 18-55. The GoPro hero and the iPhone. Had to stop every so often to rest. Woefully out of shape. Why does the glass to get you near have to be so heavy! 

Lost in a fog

 Lost in a foggy

Roscoe and the photographer waited patiently upon the worn out dock, the fog too thick for clarity, watching the hawk and eagle perched, waiting us out.

The City crew arrived and stood around talking fishing, trash all about. Not their job. The grizzled old prick arrived in hopes of a morning rendezvous.

Don’t the predators ever tire? 

The man in the boat worth the photographers home arrived to soon rock the dock with the too large wake. Roscoe ran for dry ground.

It was determined today the fog would prevail. The pain in the arm from the fall heightened by the damp mist. It pained the photographer to lift the heavy Nikon.

The geezer and the not my job work crew soon left so we loaded up and left too.

I’m sure soon thereafter the hawk and eagle flew.

They always do.

Screen Time

 Screen Call

John Clare Stokes

Sunday nights we would sit out

on the porch listening to the 

drums of New Mt Zion church, thinking

it sounded as the Waziri in the 

Tarzan movie and we would 

shiver in the Sopchoppy heat. 

Eventually the tribe would 

disperse, and mamma  would

tuck us in early for school day.

We were timid to venture the

next afternoon across the field

in the direction of Zion, fearing 

there we hungry cannibals lurking.

We never ventured too far from the  earshot of the back porch, where we 

knew when time came, mamma

would call us home, safe from

the drumming of New Mt Zion, 

ever waiting to carry us beyond

the call of mamma and the back porch.

Frog Man

 My Junior year in high school I wanted to be a SCUBA diver. I traveled to Ocala from Williston once a week to the NASDS school on Silver Springs Blvd for lessons. First few weeks were spent in class. Later we went to a local hotels pool for putting our book knowledge to reality. We paired up to learn the buddy system. I was paired with a lady that seemed to excel in class.

First lesson in the pool was clearing the mask and then buddy breathing. I took a breath of air and handed the regulator to my buddy. She would not give it back. She panicked in a pool. I had to surface. Nevertheless the classes smartest failed and dropped out.

I went on to pass my open water test at Royal Springs and got my dive card.

This scubapro fin is all that remains of my dive gear from the Hal Watts diving school.

Pick your buddy wisely. 

Bellville

 Bellville Bridge over the Withlacoochee River.

It is late as you are about to enter Florida heading South on I-75 from Lowndes County. The concrete clunk, clunk, clunk of Georgia is hypnotic, looming ahead an exit. The only sign you  see announcing this unincorporated town, the last exit before Florida. Exit 401, Lake Park Bellville Road. You tell your slumbering companion, lets get off this infernal concrete and travel down to have a look. You are about to enter the Twilight Zone.

Real

 REAL.

Emily Dickinson

I like a look of agony,

   Because I know it's true;

Men do not sham convulsion,

   Nor simulate a throe.

The eyes glaze once, and 

that is death.

   Impossible to feign

The beads upon the forehead

   By homely anguish strung.

Gar Glare

Photo by John Stokes

Alligator Lake

I never knew

 I never knew

john clare 

Upon the eating

Of the pork chop

Special

Grilled 

Not as fattening 

He asked me

Who this 

John Clare

Fellow was

I said 

He was a poet

He lived in the 1700's

I never knew him

Upon the take out tea

Sweet

Fattening

I told him

It was me

I wrote the poetry 

He looked at me

Doubting

I never knew.

Upon the driving home

I told my wife

Do I not only speak 

In rhyme

All the time

And he never knew

And she said

I wouldn't know.

And the tea was sweet

And fattening 

This we knew.

Above the mosquito

 Above the Mosquito

by john clare

There is a mountain ridge two

thousand feet above home

Too cold for the Mosquito's and

the malaria they bring

We should be able to talk clearer on

the hand phone

And build a new landing strip for the

valiant aviation wing.

It is there we shall move and build

again

Then continue the translation of the

Wano word

To free them from the superstitions 

of sin.

And raise tribal missionaries from

whose lips the gospel is heard.

Come and join the Wilds in bringing

life to those below

Pouring their all from the heights

to the Wano people

We must pray and give so they can know

Christ dwells in the valley seven thousand

feet among the mosquito.

By the time

 By the time

John Stokes

By the time Orion

Had lifted into orbit

Behind the fog

We were three miles

Down range east

Traveling at the speed

Of forty-five

Heading for our 

Destination

Experimental mission

To see if

Man can sustain on

Hardee's biscuits.

Watertown Cormorants

John Stokes