in that moment, the white heron glanced upward, as if looking directly at his maker, then it was back to looking forever down into the water for a catch. Perhaps he was saying grace.
John Clare
There is a bus line
In our minds
A kindly old man
Who loves his grands
Is calling us aboard
We are heading toward
The ole stucco home
Up the holler
Monnie is there
All her brothers
The two sons
The only daughter Clara
Her best friend Evelyn
Even the Looney preachers son
Everyone down to
Alfred up from the mine all black
The old Crumpler to Northfork
Taking us back
To end of line
Every evening mamma would watch
For her little prodi gal
Long, long lost the innocent smile
Up the lane with a happy hopscotch.
Upon the road of shadow and dust
We journey with a deeply held trust
Of the green pastures upon the other side
Where ne'er the dust or shadow reside.
Clark Samson turns Eighty Six
John Clare
The Southern Exposure volunteer stylist clipped
his locks for his eighty sixth birthday party
Telling him how young he looks
Reminding her of the Clark Samson
her grandmother knew in the seventies
Who once she said swooned the ladies
Lately paying for all the toppling
Leaving the once strong loins krypton weak
the igniting of foxy fires a dim glowing
kept going on the long regime of prescription
filling
Such were the travails one endures for Delilah Louise
Pestering him daily lazing about in the faded
suit of Royal and Red saying to Clark,
“Outside lurk the Philistine Witnesses, with
lustful intent upon your Delilah Louise, coming
to crop your locks!” “You better find some jawbone!”
“Now make a wish and blow out your candles!”
Taking a deep breath and...
Seeing the Philistines...pressing on the call button...
pleading for someone to please bring his walker...
so Clark can amble down the long corridor, out the alarmed door, to the smooth granite columns,
to make his Delilah Louise proud of him.
“These Kingdom walls shall fall! The foxes with their flaming tails shall burn the crops!”
“I see the flames before me!”
Spitting and gasping for breath, smoke rising,
soon the alarm to trip, not one Philistine in the room, reality and dream as one dream of reality.
Gathered about the bed his lovely Delilah Louise
and the Good Samaritan staff singing,
Happy Birthday Clark Samson, happy birthday to you! The cake was chocolate, the ice cream
butter pecan, the food of gods and super heroes
and Clark Wayne Samson on this 86th birthday.
He could create a name for you
tell you this one is for you
for the journey
For he could see
you seemed to be
right there along with him
You were the one fondly
that told of poetry
along with photography
always with artistry
It made him happy.
It was the year 1984, the month October, the Jasper 10K race. The previous year I ran a 36:25, finishing 6th on the rolling hills out and back, and yet third in my tough age group.
The following year, as I lined up for the second attempt on the hot Saturday of October 6th, I felt my prospects for a better finish were good. As the gun sounded, Rusty Jones, the shoulder white hair length speedster from Valdosta was soon out of sight. I too was stuck in a lone no man’s land making distance on James Lee, the muscular black hometown favorite. As we entered town on the final mile, I found the strength to increase my lead over a charging Lee. This year I finished 2nd overall and first in my age group with a time of 36:14, a 5:50 pace. Rusty had over a two minute margin of victory. In 1985 we repeated the same order, but my time slowed to 37:26. The last 10k I would run was the Gator Bowl 10K on Dec 21 with a 37:25, 34th in my age group.
Was it in the blustering, restless wind
the red wing did lift and sing?
Was this the place where our journey ends?
or do we again wing and begin?
The red wing blackbirds were going in and out of the reeds in droves, it was nearly dark and I could hear more than i could see. I held the camera against the kayak as steady as the rocking in the wind allowed and used a shutter speed nearing a second in length, giving movement to the reeds, blending and softening in the sunset.
Itchetucknee Winter
In mists obscured, through water flowing pure
Itchetucknee spring
Lifting on the white wing, over clear stream
Itchetucknee summer
One by one they did come, bumping every one
Ichetucknee fall
It was all a mystery, this Ichetucknee season.
It was in all, a good season for photographing the gem of North Florida. While I did not get there as often as I should, and I have yet to make the winter voyage, there were several pleasing photographs captured in the times there.
Buffalo Gals
Beware the buffalo gals
They come out at night
They come out at night
Beware the buffalo gals
That dance by the light of the moon
That dance by the light of the moon
Beware the buffalo gals
The one with the hole in her stocking
The one who's hat keeps a rocking
The one whose toes keep a knocking
By the light of the moon
