The river of dreams

 The river of dreams

Johnclarestokes 

There is this river of which the man dreams

That someday he will paddle in the entirety 

Knowing every bend of her native beauty

Just two in the canoe of long journey

The Old Town is outfitted and trimmed

Bending branch wood paddles for the two

Lean to tent and supplies generously secured

Nothing spared for the journey of the two

But this river of which he dreams doesn’t exist

The canoe but a dry stored upside down hull

Paddles dry rot from many years out of water

But constant in his dream the thought persists.

It’s what every old waterman longs for

That journey with the elusive love he lost

To return to the rivers source at any cost 

There to dwell upon her shore for ever more.

Traveling at home

 Traveling at home

Wendell Berry

Even in a country you know by heart

it’s hard to go the same way twice.

The life of the going changes.

The chances change and make a new way.

Any tree or stone or bird

can be the bud of a new direction. The

natural correction is to make intent

of accident. To get back before dark

is the art of going.

Tooley Farm

Madison

Giant kiiler

 And by the way mr giant

While down by the stream

I picked up five smooth stones

Four for me and one for you.

Of pens and needles

 In the 1980’s I was not only a road runner, but a race director. I always made sure all bases were covered down to the little details. Things went without a hitch. One year I decided to step aside and run the race instead of direct.

On race day I tried not to take over, but came unglued when no one thought to order pins for the numbers. A frantic run to an open store found only straight pens not safety pins.

I later felt bed for such harsh words to Tom and Kathy. 

The next year I ordered so many pins that even today I have a box full just in case. 

Emily

 Emily printed poetry in her pajamas for no one to see til long she was in eternity

Oceans know

 Oceans know

Johnclarestokes 

For they have been ordered

These be your bounds

Are we without orders found

Mightier than the ocean?

Where we gather

 Where two gather

We had given up on the eagle flying from the snag by the waters edge, the shadows of days end enveloping him. We retreated ever so slowly perchance he knew we waited, toying with us, when came the gulls toward the rising moon. He got the moon in focus, I got the birds in focus. We were both pleased. The eagle could sit there all evening for all we cared.

The winding down

 The winding down

In the morning mystic

Came one most majestic

The mists declaring

The presence of blue heron

The beach of life

The beach of life

Johnclarestokes 

We take our special beach chairs and find a good spot. We settle in for the parade of our lives passing by. The new mother in the joy of her child to the singular old man in his thoughts. In between the varying stages of girth and gait. And we rise from our chairs to join the never ending parade, becoming to the spectators their own images of admiration, longing and loathing all taking our place in the journey.

Well run

 O youth and beauty

As Cash Bentley in the John Cheever short story, we harriers come the approaching New Year, would begin with ardor the training, the lining up the furniture in the living room if you will, for the hurdle race, the race being the March 15k River Run. Lately with the shedding nearing twenty pounds, the old legs again want to break into a trot on the morning walk. In the mists I have this urge to surge, to overtake Joe, Jim, Bob and Roger up ahead, to embrace them upon the awards ceremony field again, to share the sponsor beer and toast another race well run.

AI

Took two photos and made one. 

Sand In face

The day Mr. Sand in face received the Charles Atlas plan in the mail. Just wait until summer at the beach!