I too
grew between the pew
Wood, cushioned, splintered, soft
I knew them all
It was the start
Of a life in art
The bulletin becoming
My first canvas
I love the pew
The many I sat
Beside, behind, upon
Those who nudged me
They who held me
Knelt beside me
I shall see them all
When around the
Fathers pew we are
One day called.
The oldest oak's
That grow so slow
Before we know
Towering o'er us
We give them sway
And we pray
When comes the time
We are not
In their way.
Madison County
Rocky Springs Road
John Clare Stokes
Upon the dying beds
Heard whispering
You were the one
Never in my possession
Though I carried you
All these years
Locked up deep inside
Where we'd abide
In your fine longhand cursive
Writing down the poetry
For only our eyes inside
In our confines
At my soon dying
Take the spiral bound lines
And scatter them liberally
About the wondering ones
Don't fear our revealing
The words rhyme in a
Dialect foreign.
I think of those now gone on
Some to eternal worlds
Others yet remaining here
And I’m ever grateful for their labors
In the kingdom not of calloused hands
Men as ZT Johnson of Asbury
Who helped usher me into the kingdom
A father, Luther Ray, who welcomed me
At the altar of repentance
There were many following
Razziel at Florida Southern my brother
Mentoring me so lovingly
A long chain of laborers
From Russell and a community praying
Melanie back to us
To Aaron singing softly to a dying mother
Touching beyond knowing this
Heart prone to hardening
So grateful for the workers in the vineyard
So looking forward to drinking in
The fruits of their labors one day.
ZT Johnson, President of Asbury College with Rev Luther Ray Stokes and Bert Roddenberry at his farm in Sopchoppy, Florida.
Johnclarestokes
Old Town Chipewan trimmed
Paddles poised in remember
For tonight from shiver to timber
We stroke upstream to forgetting
From Cone pylons to Limp bend mystery
Our journey quietly wends
Suwannee time suspends
Sand bars all open
Full moon all enveloping
Tupelo tonic mixes with the tannic
A doe dips low for a taste
Barred owls who do you think
Pileated's pine bark rain falls
Coyotes call on the prowl
Wet wood hisses and growls
Soon by firefly light we sleep
To mares of critters creeping
By dawns dew prints revealing
Pungent fresh the nocturnal fumes
Stoke the embers to live
Coax it to warmth give
All is misty in the limp bend
By first light the Suwannee
Amnesia begins.
John Clare Stokes
What possible good was I
The aged poet called to her side
One of her end of days requests
Made no doubt in mad duress
What would she reveal
Would she tell of love in secrecy
Of trips to the beach by darkness
When all the world was sleeping
The setting moon, the rising sun
It knew us
A few starfish too
But that was about all
Holding the frail, withered hand
Warmth as of old still in the veins
The writing once so eloquent
The touch so tender
Parting the old, old friend
To my ear she began whispering
The dying words of a lover
Read to me again
Our poem of the ocean.
Watching the hummingbirds
In their final days among us
Soon to journey far
To their winter home
And what of us left behind
Will we heed our inner call
To seek our eternal home?
john clare
Mere metal things
multiple coatings of
rustoleum yet
rust keeps coming
determined to
keep the soaring
to a minimum
Mere metal swings
meant for soaring
still yet
no flyers coming
determined to
keep the sore
open
Mere metal wings
making their way
across oceans
thinking
the swing has
fallen and
forgotten.
What things
Once cling to
Slip away
What things
Once held to
Fade away
What things
Once loved too
Go away
What things
Once drawn to
Stay
John Clare Stokes
Come Saturday September mornings
When the land begins the autumn cool
The goldenrod on roadsides is seen growing
Persimmon on the tree to sweet turning
Faintly within there is this calling
To journey far into the Gum Swamp pines
Past the Sanderson fork beyond the Ocean Pond
On past the Taylor grocery store break
Far, far over the St Mary’s river into Moniac
Where the Nehi streams flow forever amber
You can reach right up and pluck
A moon pie from the South Georgia sky
Sit and stare lovingly into her snaggletooth eyes
Hear her say, “where you been all my days?”
And you reply, “Burning daylight!
Burning daylight, my darling.
Now here in Moniac I can die.”
