But till then…
One by land
In the winter of twenty twenty
We had to make a stand
Two by sea
One by land
They came
Take the jab
Or lose your job
Johnclarestokes
In the land before time of man
The dinosaurs roamed the land
Creatures larger than imagination
Primordial acts of Gods creation
Our little son rode his plastic dino
T Rex tamed by a young Lando
At night the stories were read
Of lands where giants tread
A wallpaper was finally found
Now the creatures did surround
Years passed and so the theme
Dino deflated with the dream
The dinosaurs were covered in brown
With deer and bears all around
Later, Danny and Gator glory
Then Tebow's inspiring story
Next came Kelly and the ocean blue
Surfboards galore of every hue
Finally to shades of modern gray
No hero found to guide the way
The little hawk with wings had flown
We paused to recall the Dino song
Yesterday, the gray border tore
Revealing faint tracks gone before
We chose not to repair the Dino print
The priceless uncovering of a lost moment
Ride Dino! Ride Dino! Happy song of the boy!
The layers of a life peeling back to reveal the joy!
Landon Randolph Stokes
August 25, 1988
Johnclarestokes
I proudly shot daddy's Purple Martin that day
Not knowing they kept mosquitos at bay.
Mamma told me, Quickly! Go bury the bird!
And to your father not breath a word.
I dug a hasty grave behind the shed
Then hid the Red Rider under the bed.
Each evening I looked in fear as Martins flew
That somehow daddy counted and knew.
Such the guilt on a little boys brain
That a tiny bird could cause such strain.
Years passed, the Martin houses rotted and fell
Now I'm old, but bless mamma, she never did tell!
The first kill haunts us through our days
Till at last, Martins keep mosquitos at bay
Above our graves.
Johnclarestokes
You could call it the bitter end
of the rope
the point beyond where the fire
fused the strands
the unraveled part that did not
go through the ring
In the taunt the line turns astern
in a vertical load the lift
as the sea claw is freed
then a straight yaw as the
drift begins
Into the beam sea they go with
memories of mooring
Above the laughing terns
mock the folly
In cabin crafts they ply on
in dead reckoning
Paying the price of anchors rejecting.
John Clare Stokes
My the splash you made upon the shore
Nearly drowning us in your under tow
Losing the glasses just bought from the store
Leaving us spinning in surf to and fro.
You were born for greater shores than these
We imagined you as a Tsunami wave
Raging to a boil from Oriental seas
Lifeguards frantic the many to save.
Instead you came gently to the shore
For not all waves are born to kill
A playful push to the ocean floor
Came so far just our joy to fill.
Thirty-six years hence we stand
And as a new wave roaring comes
We brace and clutch our glasses in hand
My how you splashed our gentle man.
Landon Randolph Stokes
August 25, 1988
Above Prospect we did venture
Told the bear and panther were there
Parting palmetto beady eyes staring
It got no better this kind of faring.
Mashes Sands
Johnclarestokes
I do not know how the sand
came from Mashes Sands
to my sand pile in Sopchoppy
But my father got it there
And it was my kingdom
My perimeter I only left
whenever I would swing
and jump past the pure sandy
Border
Flying about up into the evening
Til I heard mamma calling me in
And I would park the fleet
Open the sluice gates
Post the real plastic army men
With strictest orders
To guard the Mashes Sands
Kingdom in the county
Wakulla
The township
Sopchoppy
the state Florida
Ruled by the kindly
Tow head king, Jumpy.
Mornings
We’d take our red jet
And go out
And go way up
Moon tipping
How it
Upset so
his setting!
John Clare Stokes
There’s a bend in Suwannee
Slow and deeply curving lazily
Complete with a rope swing
The arc matching the curve
Dropping you squarely in the middle
Where the current takes you
Back to the sandy bank
Where you swing again and again
Into the deep curving bend.
john clare
sit with me
in ninety-nine degree
humidity
atop a drain field
the view is grand
sans the yard debris
from years of accumulation
growing each year
less dear
as the memory fades
and the lure of youth
no longer bides me stay
and play torture
content for the time
given to steaming situations
to wait out the fritillary
intent upon being elusive
invading his comfort zone
sit with me
in ninety-nine degree
memory
mounds of my making
views of neighbors yards
their accumulation
equally as dear
to them as mine
one content simply to
sip the tall neck
giving up on the belly swelling
surrounded by his goats and
chickens
not understanding his neighbor
who sits atop his drain field
wondering if the sun has
not gotten to him
listening to the other neighbor
yelling at his granny
and in the distraction
comes the fritillary
and he misses his shot.
