Dougon

 Dougon, the ancient manatee, was the name of the canoe from Mohawk Bob Jones and I paddled in.

What went ye?

 What went ye out into the wilderness to see?

A Swallowtail shaken with the wind?

The world dawning

 The world dawning

John Clare Stokes

It’s a kind of world

One could grow fond of

Wolves and coyotes joining

Stars in their brightest twinkle

Prayers it seems come easier

Distractions yet to awaken

Frosty Morn

 Frosty morn

John Clare Stokes

Like Frosty the Snowman

I long for some magic

In the old pith hat

My father once wore

To work the bee hives

To weed the acre pea rows

Below Wakulla County skies

And how the gardens would grow

There is now so much I do not know

So little that I can remember

The crepe myrtles need pruning

The Christopher lilies aren’t blooming

But am I even in the right season? 

I rub the old pith hat

Bend to separate the clustered bulbs

An ever slight hint of fall 

Is in the hot Florida air

I pray for another snow

as in eighty-nine

so I can build again my father

and place upon him

his old beekeepers pith hat 

I know there must be some

magic in.

The Watchmen

 The watchmen

John Clare Stokes

Sabbath sunrise where he once sat

sins weight upon his back

to rise and deliver the word

from empty chairs yet heard

Echoing words from the watchman

lifting up one voice

together they sang for joy

eye to eye they saw

the return of the Lord to Zion.

Sabbath sunset where I sit

sins weight pressing yet

rise up my son to find

eyes and eyes upon Zion

Mrs Mary

 Mary Robinson Davis Rudd  1885-1960. My fathers first appointment to the Florida Conference of the United Methodist Church was the tiny Mayberry-like town of Sopchoppy in Wakulla County in 1955. The panhandle town of under 600 was located on the banks of the crooked dark waters of the Sopchoppy River, which ran into the Oclockonee River, which ran into the Gulf at Panacea. My father preached one sunday at Sopchoppy, then the next at the county seat of Wakulla in Crawfordville.  My mother taught fourth grade at the nearby native stone school and during the day Mrs Mary kept me. Mrs Mary and Mr Emory Rudd lived next door to the church and parsonage on Rose Street in a wooden one story white cracker style house with the two front rooms and the rear kitchen. I loved the time with the Rudd's, looking forward to Mr Emory showing me the rats he had trapped in the barn the evening before, saving me his match boxes and Prince Albert tobacco tins to play with.  A good carpenter, Mr Emory made me a nice wooden high chair I could use to sit at the kitchen table with.  Mrs Mary and I would walk about the yard and collect the eggs the chickens had laid in the barn and under the bushes in the yard. She would then make me my favorite food of all time, her special bread pudding.  It had to be the eggs I assumed, for even to this day, the consistency has never been matched. Mr Emory was a fiddle player in a band that played down at the skating rink across the street on the river and he liked to rock a horse me on his foot and sing to me.  They had a nice front porch swing under the shady magnolia I would lay upon and watch as the occasional car would pass. One morning in 1960, mamma told me I would not be going to Mrs Mary's today. I remember looking out the window in our living room to their house and seeing a hearse. That evening mamma took me over to the house and there Mrs Mary was, lying in wake in the front bedroom.  It was one of the first death's I had seen, yet somehow I understood at the age of five. Soon after I went to stay with Mrs Porter, then the beloved Angeline Donaldson, who kept me in our home. But of all the dear ladies who kept me, none were loved more than Mrs Mary.

Where the Methodist church now is on the left was once Mr Emory and Mrs Mary’s home. The magnolia tree over hanged the front porch. Across the street was the Sopchoppy River.

The three

Buteo Bearing

A spot of bother

Great Blue Drops 
 I went ahead and chose. For the Last Wally Reichert show I had the framery do my two entries. It was 200.00.ouch! I won 100.00 for first so not too bad.

For the Branford show 8 glicee prints from Mpix cost around 42.oo and three frames from Amazon around 30.00. For 11x17 and 9x12 print. I want to see how much emphasis they put on how it’s framed.

Also, I didn’t go outlandish with my subjects since judges generally don’t go for it. I stuck with wildlife. 

Some of the Club members have $$$ so they will enter their triple matted scenes from Iceland, Scotland and beyond. 

Branford Show

 The 3rd annual Branford Camera Club Show is due this Saturday. I can enter three for 15.00. I’ve narrowed it to 8 and  have asked several to choose their top 3. The heron is number one, then it’s up in the air, probably the river next.

Pause past

 He paused at the waters edge.... peering beyond into the cypress swamp....Hearing that elusive Ivory Bill calling....Cross over into the darkness falling....it was not my claim...to receive a poets name....my life has been an eighty mile journey....to find my Mary Joyce...not my choice...the name was given to me....

Those sons of Isaac

 Those sons of Isaac

And Jacob wrestled with that bike all night

While the squirrel Esau barbecued was out of sight

Sea Lovers

 Sea Lovers

Johnclarestokes 

After the smoked mullet and foaming brews

As the morning catch iced on the slimy dock

And as the stinking chum began to stew

Into the ocean the two lovers did drop

Pressed against the rusting rail they clasped

Gulls scattering from oyster shells openly seeping

Lurching out beyond memories of caresses past

Far from the bar the lovers were swept

Throw the Jim Buoy to rescue the down fallen 

tumbling couple tangling in monofullfillment

Slowly sinking to Asrai’s calling 

Beyond the grasp of mortal help

And yearly we return to gather on the docks

Throw the wreaths to appease the craven sea

As the tide swells and the waves lift

upon the outgoing tide receiving the gifts

We raise a toast to lovers whom oceans need.

The Gospel Mile

 The gospel mile

John Clare Stokes

If anyone has ever run the mile on a track, for time, one cannot appreciate the agony and euphoria. The gospel mile is my analogy. Lap one is Matthew, all your genealogy of workouts, of the sprinting power poles, hills, long distance, pacing go into play. Lap two is Mark, you usually run your fastest, most confident lap before the wall is met. Lap three is Luke. By now you’re in need of a physician as you starve for oxygen. You do not think you can continue at the needed pace. You need grace. Lap four is John. The mystical experience. The way revealed. You get that second wind as spent you find the energy to run beyond yourself. The barriers are broken and you run not upon your air, but the air that comes from above. 

Laying in the infield, looking up at the stars of day, waves of adrenaline coursing through the legs still twitching, you are at one. You are a miler.