john clare
To awaken the darkness
In the night
the poet had the temerity
to believe old sage tales
of incantations with
lilies waving chanting
Yeats and Keats with
A touch of Emily
he had faith
Eventually the
Stars would commence
to heed the words
Long dormant mute
To the day dwellers
Twinkle here twinkle there
Awaking the sons of
Heaven one by one
with but a swirling
Lily.
Should I take thy breath?
Would thou flow in stream?
Would thou drown in depths?
for with every gentle down the stream....lurks quietly the water waiter ...echoing down river a primal scream...appease! appease! the watery vindicator
We purchase the black box of great price
Just to achieve the greatest sharpness
As if sharpness is the zenith
Only to take the black box of great price
And force it to render scenes fuzzy
Then have the audacity
To call this thing of blur photography.
There is always an exhilaration being noticed intently if but for a passing moment by a wild creature. The eyes meet, and you, the one with reason and discernment and wonder, ponder if his eyes ever go beyond just the function of hunting.
Greatly enlarged photo
Artist: Diego Rivera. Mexican Master Painter and Muralist!
Born: 08 December 1886; Guanajuato, Mexico
Died: 24 November 1957; Mexico City, Mexico
Field: painting
Nationality: Mexican
Art Movement: Social Realism, Muralism
School or Group: Mexican Mural Renaissance
Style: Art Deco.
Genre: genre painting.
Imagine the joy of coming upon the scene
Of the flower seller with her many lilies
To bouquet boy such a thrill
Thinking of all to whom he’d bring.
We don the blue
But a different shade
of blue
The true blues color
not that Kentucky blue
the little boy blue
hue.
The ditch down from the house
is always the first place I see the
rain lilies appear.
Used to be with meme on our
way passing, she’d remark, and
I’d pull over and pick a few for her.
The bouquet boy misses that duty.
Why some folks
they smoke
Some they brush
On the
Down stroke
Some they just
Sit there like a
Pig in a poke
No joke
Watch that box
All day
Who you say?
Why some’s my
own kinfolk
John Clare Stokes
One thing for certain
When I’m gone
If anyone dares
Or cares
I’ve amassed a
Body of work
Of absolute worthless
Proportions
Of homeless at intersections
Of bikers on back roads
Of college co ed’s crossing
Of Skinny ones behind poles
Of white face cows conversing
Of even road kills
Nothing much was ever missed
The ever observing lens
Taking it all in
A streaming daily account
Of our lives passing through.
The hydrangeas and the pioneers
Price Creek Cemetery
Few are those who care for a swollen Suwannee
hiding the limestone and sand banks
Smoothing over the shoals and falls
Causing one to walk the trail above the trail
Give me the low trickling lazy Suwannee
Not this rapid racing torrent to the Gulf
by W.B.Yeats.
I heard the old, old men say,
'Everything alters,
And one by one we drop away.'
They had hands like claws, and their knees
Were twisted like the old thorn-trees
By the waters.
I heard the old, old men say,
'All that's beautiful drifts away
Like the waters.'
