Johnclarestokes
Day into day
Night into night
We wait for a sign
Perhaps today the sojourn
Perhaps today the arrival
A word from afar
A hope quite close
Are all the paths destroyed
Do all the watchmen sleep
Cold grows the land
Quiet goes the man
Florida Trail
Little Shoals tract
Suwannee
Johnclarestokes
it was an icy January...when the Angel came in spite...it was not good to part...leaving the ball in mid flight...but he said, it is time...who makes the last shot...you will soon find...is soon forgot...now lay you down.....the ice will soon thaw....with a swishing sound...in the fields of basketball.
To the memory of Pistol Pete Maravich
Jan 5,1988
Johnclarestokes
The sun would rise and play tricks
upon us making one think he is the moon
and every time I’d say, way too soon
to rise in the fog so thick.
And eventually the clouds would reveal
the ruse, and the sun would glare
while at this faux moon I’d stare
Oh, every time the blind fool I’d feel!
For today I said, to you I shall be kind
So good my friend behind a cloud hid
In order that I’d not go blind.
John Clare Stokes
Wheresoever he roamed
He was never alone
Pausing often upon trails
And He would tell
Of what lay beyond
And from what we'd come
Wanting to run on
Or turn back winsome
He'd whisper gently
Abide right here with me.
Trail along Suwannee
With two in tree
Someday you will
Mysteriously cheer for Kentucky
And love the color
Royal blue
Extremely
They will try and sway your mind
Not recalling the far gone time
The love was bestowed to you
From ole papa passed
Watching proudly from
The heavenly bluegrass.
johnclarestokes
Walking low we
grow accustomed
To the cadence
Of the downcast
Seeing not
The Aufzug
The pulling up
For but a moment
Revealing the stairway
Made upon the clouds
Then the curtain lowers
And we walk on
Low below the
Stairway made.
John Clare Stokes
Between every pull upon the ropes
Nearer would we hover over
Gazing below to the other
side of a life so full with hope
From the apex of lift we’d return
Below the little ones so joyful
A mother with her little boys
And between the swings we’d yearn.
Both of us were bounding merrily up the trail, when our eyes met, precisely about the time we both froze. She thought me an odd one eyed creature as I kept the camera to my face. I won the day eventually as she, with a stamp of hoof, took to the swamp instead of passing nearer to me. I have that affect upon them.
by John Clare
There is a black we were told that was blacker
than all the coal that came from the company mine
A black always black for all of time
Worse than the black lungs of miners hacking
Some escaped from those Crumpler black hills
Beyond the black snow covering the death
To anywhere from the black Sabbath killing
Empty pews with few black shrouded widows bereft.
The Pocahontas mine is now but a memory
Company script not worth a wheat penny
Yet still they speak fondly of this entrance to hell
Blacker than black where once the devil did dwell.
Bouquet boy heard a certain song
From Patience to perseverance
A life of stroke, shutter and sonnet.
