To the pen

 I've many friends

Some in the pen

I've other friends

Who need to be in pens

Had I the key

Some I'd free

Others 

I'd throw away the key.

I went to

  I went to Yeats for surely Yeats

wrote of the summer lilies

I went to Emily for surely Emily

told of the bee among the lilies

I went to Thoreau for surely Thoreau

lived less desperate by the lilies

At last

I went to you for surely you

would abide with me in the lilies.

Every journey

 Every journey begins with the prospect of never returning. Thus we count as loss all but that which would get us there, embarking in our symmetrical vessels for lands we've read of in words of red, upon linen pages, sacred, yet so down to earth we yearn to see it.

The old ways

 I have considered the day of old. Psalm 77:2

While scripture says forgetting those things behind, to press forward, there is much scripture that tells me to look to the past, to consider. Perhaps I’m guilty of spending too much time looking back, looking

to those who finished the course, of old paths, of golden days. It serves as hope for coming days, it helps keep me on the old, narrow path.

Masters Keys

 Masters Keys

John Clare Stokes 

He came upon the keys to the garden

Tucked long away in the tin box

Tarnished and dusty with the closed

lost locks 

In brittle leather pouches on soft brass

hooks hanging 

Once upon the hinges the gates swung wide 

the ole blue Ford tractor passing 

through the unlocked gate to unturned fields

Neatly hung in the shed the 

tools to abundant yields 

the little boy hoeing hard at the Gardeners side

And he would send the boy with the keys

the Gardener waiting patiently 

in the furrowed row

To the little one which keys he must know

his first prayers, “dear God, the Gardener

depends upon me!”

And with a sweet click and quick return

He ran with the right tool for the seed 

The Gardener pleased with the 

little boys deed

As wide eyed there was so much to learn

And so the keys to the garden are in his hands

the old Blue tractor waits for him to 

find the key 

But the gate is long gone along 

with even the property

The Gardener rests in the cool of eternity

I trust the Master understands.

Secret place

 Secretly there remains a peaceful place

  Tucked down the far lane 

 Perhaps a southern Thrace 

 Where summer snowmen yet remain

2018 trip

 Mr Ern’s way

Melanie and I are seldom the adventurous couple

But tonight we are setting out on the double

For a brief weekend meeting with some Mississippians 

Mr Ern’s people 

My grandfather 

The man who had two families 

Of which my daddy was one of the first

Jeanne, Joe, Tony and Sue too

Jimmy and Mary of the second living 

And quite a host yet remaining

Cousins and such I hardly know

 But we deemed it most important 

To keep Mr Ernest Stokes bus line running

Not let it fade into an Guthrie type of dream

Tell Jim we came to see him

Stand with him if only for a moment

But just as important 

Even if we had to stand our years in far off Florida

For he is family

They are family

And family is worth the long haul

Name

 There’s an old name written down 

My father was good at engraving, stamping and writing his name or initials on his tools, for he knew their value and sticky fingers as well. I cannot recall what this nameplate originally was on, but I put it on the old syrup mill.

Mr Foote

 In 2012 when I was a meter reader for FPL, one of my many walking routes took me monthly to Mr Foote’s little house on Rose Terrace. Bob, my trainer, told me he always stopped and left Mr Foote a treat.  Once on my own, I continued to bring him a granola bar or something not too sweet, as he was diabetic. Always on his front porch, it was one of the highlights of my year meter reading. His old home was eventually torn down and was replaced with a nicer single wide.

Flow over me

 Flow over me

I want to be like Itchetucknee 

Clear and cool

Everyone wanting to float

Over me

Giving them pleasure

Them paying me big bucks

Just to be with me.

Forest

 Drawing a blank

Oh how sobering to see the strong men drawing blanks, the mind fading away ever so incessantly.

Saw Forest at the dealer today, confirmed to me he is living in the assisted living facility, after the wife died, the house sold. Always the consummate yard man, lamented the new buyer, a single mom, letting the grass grow.

I promised I’d come visit him in room 38, or was it 36.

I’m drawing a blank.

Forest Wright

At the hour

 at the hour of eight 

 the red bell was rung 

 quickly now it's late 

 the chariots of fire have come

  and from the homes

  they poured into the streets 

 not a child left alone 

 all agaze as heaven and earth met

  then on into the east

  the trail of fire glowed

  and from the greatest to the least 

 the glory on all bestowed.