This God who sends
Lightening
Thundering
Loudly yet
Goes about ever
So quietly
Secretly
Never lifting his
Veil
Telling us
By faith
Not sight
In weakness
In suffering
In humility
Poverty
How men
Worship Him
Bowing
Then going about
Living apart
Alien
Mean
Denying
Like it seems
He wants them to
Lift the veil
Revealing Him
Calmly
Striking them.
.
Many a Sabbath we were admonished to set the
Affections on the things above
Look away from the things of this world
But we couldn't stop gazing at what we loved
It became obvious as a white flag unfurling.
We did not have to go about wearing scarlet letters
We knew the color of our deepest affections
Down to the very rhyme, symbol and metaphor
A straight on literal view void of tone or inflection.
Unable to see the flip side of the veil
Deaf to the heavenly refrain of angels
It wasn't a mystery, we could tell
To us it was mere metal, not a holy grail.
Today I looked for signs along the way
Of directions to take
Remain among the living
Dwell among the dying dead
It never came clear at any turn
Right turns just as compelling as left
In the long, slow straights void of weights
It kind of made some sense
Laziness seems to win in the end.
I dreamed again I was in high school
on Coach Robinson’s basketball team
of all brothers and some sisters
I wasn’t a starter as I sat on the bench
eating pizza and complaining about
the starting five not working for a shot
just throwing it up
At some point my name was called
when I went in I envisioned being the hero
but I could barely dribble, throw or shoot
the ball
at some point toward the end the other
team left the court and it took me five attempts
to make a layup unguarded
we were still down by twenty
Everyone was lining up shaking hands
I was still playing
trying to win.
Johnclarestokes
Yesterday I heard the sirens heading your way
Later I learned you had fallen and couldn’t get up
And I was saddened by my long ago prophecy
That this fall began when we broke up
It wasn’t so much that being mine was grand
That immunity from distant falling was granted
It was best we never made a home stand
That the Passion flowers were never planted
We went our separate ways and faded in memory
Occasionally I would ask whatever came of you
Someone would vaguely say she seems happy
I’d nod and think of sirens flashing red and blue
Can rehabs mend the lovers lives long fallen
Prophecy fulfilled can be such a cruel thing
In the night I’m awakened by your frantic calling
I lay there and count the haunted rings.
Johnclarestokes
The days have come where I am thankful
for some of my most memorable times
the camera was along to preserve the day
the very place where we’d sit and would
barely say any words, deep in thought
of those things growing, those lives going
those things coming to break the silence.
For now I’ve come to live long enough
that these things are gone from there
I’d be hard pressed to stand upon the
spot we once sat in the afternoon sun
the gardening done, the supper simmering
the tinge of fall in the air, the hum of a
hymn upon the wind, the silence listening.
Father and Son on a Sunday morning
Crawfordville
Kodachrome
1980’s
John Clare Stokes
They say the Suwannee is a living entity
That if you stand silent and listen
You can hear the respirations
Faint as a wisp at times
Breathless gasping loud at others
When I stand in the places others stood
I sense the river continues their breathing
Keeping the memory of their lives alive
And I exhale slowly and the river
Takes my breath.
Judy Hancock by Suwannee
John Clare Stokes
There is never a rhyme or reason
Adequate to explain His coming
He comes at the opportune
He comes at the inopportune
When least expected
When most expected
Today He beckoned above
The First Baptist steeple
Just as the insurance man
Was lured at the same time
John Clare Stokes
The men of my beginning days
were the best smokers I ever knew
with his end of day shot and smokes
East River Mountain behind us
I’d open my candy pack and we’d chill
selling Mustangs for Andy Clark
was hard work for Uncle Kermit
but Bluefield was cool
and soon we’d spread some
of Geneva’s apple butter
Up in sweltering Smyrna, Georgia
I’d pull up near the recliner chair
to pack the pipe and wait anxiously
for the sweet tobacco to ignite
see the smoke permeate the room
with the Braves on radio and Aunt Grace whistling
some Hurt Road Baptist hymn
Tell me again Uncle Curtis the story
How do you ask a girl if she likes chicken?
To hold out my arm and say,
Well take a wing?
.
Down in ole Sopchoppy Mr Emory Rudd
On the porch steps each morning
His match boxes and Prince Albert tins
Gifts waiting for a little tow head boy to play with
As back in the kitchen Mrs Mary stirred
over some bread pudding for the two
one packing a pipe and the other pretending too.
John Clare Stokes
I do not know if Aleph still abides
as once He did long ago
He was present in the shadow
Present in the light
You could sense His moving
It moved you, even if only subtle
The shadow on the pew forms the first letter of the Hebrew alphabet on the long gone Mt Tabor Methodist.
And was read among us.
Even dwelt inside some of us
And we beheld it wondrously
As e’en from the Father o’er us.
Falling Creek Chapel
