One flew over

In the last trip down to Williston, I drove into the back yard, into the tall, unmown grass. I was there to get another load of my fathers belongings, and carry them back to Lake City. The pasture was void of the two dozen or so cows Mr Cross had kept there since April.
The power had been turned off to the property last week, and thus there was no water for them.
All was quiet and somber. Then, along the back fence row, six turkeys were spotted slowly making their way from under the tall oaks.
As on cue I stopped my loading and got the camera from the front seat. I walked deliberately toward them, knowing they had already seen me. I was able to get this shot as the first turkey took wing over the fence. The rest soon followed with the last one, not wanting to fly, frantically pacing up and down the fence before flying over.
And then they were gone. And I resumed the loading of a past also gone.

The Red Bell

The restored bell from my fathers place.

Father's Bell

Raise the Old Bell

Several weeks ago Carmello and I dug up the old bell that stood at my father's place in Williston. It was no easy task. The cast iron bell rested atop a railroad cross tie buried several feet in the ground. After much tugging, we got the pole from the ground and loaded it and the bell on the trailer. In Lake City, I sprayed bleach on the bell to kill the algae that had accumulated and let it sit.
Yesterday, in searching for some red paint, I came across an old can of red paint my father had in one of his foot lockers. It had to be from the early 60's, about half full but clogged beyond spraying. I punched a hole in the top and the red spewed out...
I then took an equally old brush from the foot locker and began painting the old bell. It was an ardous task to move the large cross tie from the front yard, but I finally managed, by lifting it and letting it fall, over and over, until it fell by the hole I had dug with my fathers old post hole diggers. I then searched all over for three bolts large enough to screw into the bell holder. You would have thought, with all the many
screws and nails I had carried from Williston, three would have been easily found. After much searching, three the right size were located and screwed in with my father's large crescent wrench. All was ready for the bell raising. Before that though, I used some old axle grease to lubricated the bell holder notches. I got my dad's old Werner ladder and climbed slowly with the heavy bell.
It slipped into the notches and rested with a clang.
The final touch was to paint the large square nut my dad used at the end of the pull rope.
It now rests in my back yard in the shade. Underneath is the metal outdoor chair, the type my father and his father liked to sit in.
I shall ring in the day, or whatever event merits ringing in now. I am sure my father would be pleased with the raising of the old bell again.

Portals Below

Portals Below by john clare

Nathaniel and I took a stroll
We came to these portals down below
Beckoning to the two
Smiling at us through the blue.
Well, we took a deep breath
And from the world above we left.
First we saw this leopard frog
And then the little talking dog.
He told us we were just in time,
This is the spot for the cloud journey line.
So we stood and along came an Owl,
He said, "Tickets! Tickets! with a scowl.
"That's just grand!"
I said to the little talking canine,
How in this world
Can a ticket be unfurled?
"Silly ones!" he barked, "Old Owl is
just calling for the fat, little ticks!"
Soon the bloody little boogers arrived,
And we embarked on the journey into
the watery skies.
Hooked tightly upon our little cloud
Oh My! We were full of eeews and wows!
We swooshed about through the air
We even dive bombed a cat and
gave him stand up hair!
We rode for what seemed hours and hours
Then we gently set down among some dogwood
flowers.
We thanked Mr Owl for letting us ride the
little clouds.
He only smiled and so politely bowed.
And so we walked about till we found our
portal place
It wasn't long before we pushed up into
the world of haste.
We were only gone but for a blink,
And as we explained our absence,
We gave each other a knowing wink.
Now if you find us one moment on a stroll
down the puddled road
And then all of a sudden you see
a hopping toad,
Wait a wink and n'er fear
We are only visiting the world of
n'er a frown and n'er a tear.

Pondering the Puddles

Pondering the Puddles
by john clare

When in puddles deep we once did ponder,
The images of those reflected blue.
In watery worlds revolving down under,
The birds shimmering as away they flew.

In puddles calm and transparently tranquil,
We sought to join the watery throng.
The movements of day so strange when still,
The wind in liquid trees swaying slowly along.

To puddles we ran and slipped away,
The looking-glass friends we grew to know.
A reflection growing clearer in calm of day,
The long good-bye, the yearn to never go.

When in puddles stirred from salt circling tears,
Old and broken we dimly gazed just once more.
Turn! Turn away from the rapidly streaming years,
Too soon we meet our watery friends upon their shore.

Golden New

Golden Model 2

Goldens No.2

The mill my father ground upon in
the frosty morning fall
Today tumbled from the trailer to
rock to a rest
Golden's No. 2 new model.
Will the cane ever press through the rollers
How shall we hoist the cast iron
body back upon the stand
Attach the counter pole to turn the gears
Fire up the kerosene rabbit burner
Pour the 60 gallons of juice into the
iron lipped Columbus kettle
Skim down the cooking to the specific gravity
of sixteen
Place the dregs in the galvanized pale
Skim some more with the moon hubcap dipper
Pull the fire and quickly dip the amber
syrup from the vat
Careful not to scald
Seeing the edges of the dipper form
hard candy drops
High neck bottled and ready for the breakfast bisquits
Fresh from the old gas stove oven
On a cold November morning
mourning the loss of the
father who ground upon the Golden mill.

Guardian of the Flow

Just down from Bell Springs, hiking along the Florida Trail, you come to a dip in the path that leads down to the Suwannee. If you step gingerly over the Blue Moon beer bottle resting under the cypress knees, you come to a stop. It is there you meet the guardian of the flow. He determines your inner motive, your inspiration level, and decides whether you shall continue or not.
Often, if he is slumbering, you may slip past, but soon, one of his many kneed scouts sounds the alarm and the bank is called upon to impede your passage. Under foot, the mud becomes just slippery enough to cause you to determine, further advance is futile.
You turn and slink past the guardian, who slaps you upon your rear with one of his snarled branches as you smart your way back to the trail. Today you came with a lack of reverence for the flow. Next time you shall come in humility, laden with inspiration and admiration for the flow beyond the ever vigilant guardian.

Drogue Drift

Drogue Drift by john clare

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 canoes they ply on
in dead reckoning
Paying the price of anchors rejecting.

At Night

At Night by Alice Meynell

Home, home from the horizon far and clear,
Hither the soft wings sweep;
Flocks of the memories of the day draw near
The dovecote doors of sleep.

Oh, which are they that come through sweetest
light
Of all these homing birds?
Which with the straightest and the swiftest
flight?
Your words to me, your words!