Johnclarestokes
The pioneers of Price Creek
have long since in their planting
tilling
toiling
Scraping some living
resting from being
Wary of the Indian
Going off to help Finegan
stave the Ocean Pond
Invasion
amid the carved stones
One by one
We plant for them
reminders of home
petal portals
upon the thresholds eternal.
Johnclarestokes
Perhaps I have met a living poet
Katie I once visited every Sunday
We called her group the R word
Before everyone became a bit
challenged with special needs
But Katie was the one person
who ever loved my three chord
Guitar playing
Or the harmonica serenade
For sane ears not made
Katie at one Christmas party
Gave me a handwritten
Bound book of poems she
Painstakingly penned
in all caps it seemed
And in the years ensuing
And all the moving
The little book of simple poems
Went missing
And we quit going to Garden Park
On Sundays
And Katie I’m sure kept on
With her poems
I trust someone came into her
Life again
She could side up to and
Say, I just LOVE you.
johnclarestokes
I’ve yet to truly meet a living poet
Once I went to hear ciardi read
Especially the one of the scalpel
Or the knife
To cut and kill
Or to cut and heal
But mostly I’ve just read
And wondered how
The words they wrote
My spirit could cut, kill
And heal all at the same time.
John Clare Stokes
Over me
silently came the
Osprey
tell me
of the sky
of the sea
of earthly
mystery
tell me
said he
of the eye
of the beauty
of earthly
artistry
Tell me
I sssslurrrr
I sssstaammmer
I'sss strriiikkkesss
I slllleeeepppp
King Cobra
That's what's for
Breakfast
Dinner
Supper
To the Airbus
Flying to Cancun
You’re much faster than I
So when you arrive
Meet me at the
Isla Contoy
And tip the bell boy
For the room with a view
john clare
It was supposed to be carefree
Fun in the Vilano sand and sea
The surfer I imagined myself to be
A close knit band of brothers free
Living only for the next wave
To our own language we'd clave
From the rip tides each we'd save
Patience with the Barney all gave
But it just wasn't to be
Taking their play way too seriously
Bitchin' and running off the Bennies
Daring anyone to enter their gnarly
And so I became a happy fruby
Never riding a wave with the dudes
Dwelling on my funboard in the shore break foam
A grey belly far from the homies.
On the left hand so soft, sweet the sound
On the right so loud, strong the pound
The pause then the intense play
Who guided little hands that day
By John Clare Stokes
In the murky mists an uncertain
Disturbing, stirring
Whirling, whirling ever luring
Ancient of years
Source of all fears
Eyes of firing light
Drawing me to the brink
Sinking, sinking into the
Murky mists
The ever stirring, disturbing
Luring me deeper, deeper
Whirling, whirling
Into its terrible allure.
Down the road a bit off Price Creek
No corners for the devil to hide
Now a place where the goats reside
What’s the cliche? If only Billy’s could speak?
the ever nearing touch
such a desperate race
the crown of life to clutch
