Journey with John Stokes

Saturday, September 5, 2026

Cats in the cradle

And the cats in the cradle

In the iPhone consumed

Little boy blue and the man

On the itune

When you gonna look up Dad

I don't know when, but by then, the wind will be gone

But then you'll be texting.

I know you'll have a great time texting.

Let us labor

Johnclarestokes

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.

The “first” church

This was the first church my father oversaw the building of, the Sopchoppy Methodist Church. It replaced a grand old wood building upon hindsight I wish they had preserved, along with the old wooden Baptist church behind it. Our white block parsonage is beside it. Today the parsonage is gone, it’s no longer a Methodist church, as years ago they purchased the new brick Baptist Church beside it, who built a new church west of town.

Paw

Years from now

When we are long gone

People will stop and pause

Saying

Paw was here.

Slip sliding in

Side doors

John Clare Stokes

I never was the sort of front door one, no grand entrance down the main aisle.

Most of the churches I attended had a side door I preferred to slip in quietly.

Some of the slipping was guilt from a Saturday night of slipping and others from sleeping in.

Early on when my father was the pastor I did not need the side entrance for we were always in place early as we were “examples” for all the sides.

It was only after I was grown that the side

entrance was preferred. For by then, I was no longer an example but one with the side sliders.

Friday, September 4, 2026

Big foot

He tracked the three patiently

For he was hungry

Come late night fall

To the campfire he did crawl

By dawn's early red canoe

They only found two

So if you make it through Suwannee Shoals

Better pack Jack Links I'm told....

Old Steichen

Steichen

Old Steichen was

Losing his mind

Never knowing

Once in time past

It was him who made

The memories last

By some quirk in the

Wheel with every third

Revolution it would click

Akin to a sound distant

He vaguely recalled

Some days when Steichen

Was in a good frame of mind

He would click the wheels

Like a motor winder

Not pausing or even

Contemplating direction

Other days in more the

Pensive melancholic mood

He would slowly click then

Look

Look then click the wheel

Smiling at the capturing

A foot entering the frame

An orderly passing

The pattern of shadow on

Carpet

It was the unknown click

In that wheel that kept

Steichen from totally

Becoming lost in this

Place.

Like a hurricane

Like the ole farmer before morning dawn

The poet quietly went about his orisons

Searching pastures for those not returning home

Setting out provision for the anticipated coming

For words and images were important

Even if the congregation was but few

He could not force any to the nourishment

Convince any that manna was in dew

It's always been the way of the givers

Always the way of the prodigal wanderers

Starved upon the husks of the swine

Provision before them of water to wine.

Lady in red

The smoke I thought would mask my scent....then the shepherd started to bark....eyes in foam shielding intent....In a sudden lunge the waters did part....leash in teeth and hand....the death spin began....the red blouse mingling with watery blood....who dares bring a shepherd to my hood?

Chosen pew

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.

Old oaks home

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

The dying

Upon dying poetry

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.

Thursday, September 3, 2026