john clare
Crouching quietly beneath
the English Dogwood focused on a resting Tiger Swallowtail
The photographer knew at any moment his presence would be known
So he had to quickly compose and align the fresnel.
Second nature these things he had done for so long.
But one should never grow complacent in his pride
Smug that his lens alone could capture prey
The Tiger discerned the photographer trying to hide
Exposing both him and his
Haughty way.
Far up the Woodpecker Route, miles from well-tempered White Springs, behind the Prospect Primitive Baptist and cemetery, there is a hardwood and pine lined path that is as a musical progression to the bel canto banks of the Suwannee River. Upon this binary form we call a path, the principal themes are tranquility and harmony. As the staccato weary sojourner makes his slow way along, by the time he has knelt to take in the tannic, he has touched the sustaining pedal upon the grand organ and it infuses him. The Prospect Psaume.
Today i came upon a simple scene
That summed Meme succinctly
The lamp for her late night toiling
The word for her faith never flagging
The desk for her constant writing
The preserves for her cuisine cooking.
Flowing to the Suwannee River
To the roaring
They tell me to take them
To the source of the roaring
They ask me
Is it easy to access
Can anyone come to the roaring
And I sigh
For I fear I have revealed a place
Not of roaring
But whispering
I’ve been to places
Never seen
Traveled great distance
Without going
Gazed upon strangers faces
Intensely knowing
Won countless races
Pacing ever so slowly
Found love overflowing
In all things lowly
In dream
Johnclarestokes
There were long hours spent on the porch
Tin roof shading from the Florida sun
The silence interrupted by the wire swatter
From beneath in sand the ants would come
Carrying below the high porch the silent
ones who moments before sucked blood
The itching persisting into the evening
As the moths circled around the bare
yellow bulb swaying to the rocking
Mosquitoes waking for the evening shift
The fly swatter of little use to defend
bare flesh from the incessant assaults
‘til we’d have to retreat to the front room
the high tongue and groove ceiling above
with the long wire white bulb extinguished
to sleep as the cicadas from sand emerge
to sing the song long into the nocturne
the song of how yellow flies the time
no amount of swat the sting assuage
ever more from Florida sands to swarm.
John Stokes
In the realm of the kingdom
The departing
A separation
Of spirit and flesh
Lone canoeists
Departing
At our given intervals
Some through Shoals
Too soon to Succumb
Some to Gulfs
Long journey making
Great clouds of
Boatmen gathering
Rejoining of
Flesh and Spirit
Welcoming the
Ever homecoming of
the canoeists
Lately the angels were lagging
In their guardian duties
And this displeased the Lord truly
To the 4th heaven His laggards sending
For today a new teacher has arrived
Experienced already in angelic duties
And to boot she’s quite the beauty
As the remedial angels sighed
Now class stand and pledge allegiance
Hand over heart and wings straight
And thus began the whipping in shape
The new teacher and her host of students
Soon it came time for mid eternity exams
These once lagging guardians beamed
As all passed with hundreds times hundreds
Not a finer angelic teacher was ever found
But the angels were saddened somewhat
Though now promoted to the fifth heaven
Word was it wasn’t such the blessing
As with this new teacher of 4th heaven Summers.
My mother, Clara Jean Orander Stokes would have been 92 today. She taught 4th grade mostly.
Here shown in Wilmore Elementary, Kentucky.
Anthem Ascending
john clare stokes
End of fair faded fall
Down the stem the leaf wends
Who can hear the distant call?
Sweet refrain above the din.
Gently to sweet home ascending
Sounds afar drawing ever close
In the dim awaits the friend
Life’s tears He so knows
From clays abode she breaks
The leaf grows evergreen again
Eyes open and seen faith she takes
Ne’er more the limbs to bend.
Arise! Arise! My talitha today!
Upon the low skid chariot ride
Enter now this your eternal birthday
With Christ on the pinnacle abide!
Wake
John Clare Stokes
Tonight I sit up
With a dying moon
Soon to slip beneath
Tree sheets
Alone
I mourn
And then it occurs
I am the one
Soon to slip beneath
The forever sleeps
The moon
Mourns
For me
The longer grew our memory of home, the greater the boards, brick and tin took on a perfect mend. The December air in the slits, once as a siren, now but a gentle wind. The November smoke from the chimney, once billowing the black soot, now but a lazy waft upward, the April rain pelting awake upon the leaking tin, now a lullaby in our tender sleep. The front porch the only relief from the July heat, now a siesta in the creaking swing.
Johnclarestokes
Freed at last from the oval frame
From Crumpler the studious girl came
Sitting in the parlor quietly she read
Then far into the night upon her bed
Coal fields outside frozen in purest snow
To thaw into springs of darkest flow
Lost in a novel by Edgar Rice Burroughs
My every thought upon the girl so wonderful
In the leaves falling from the holler hills
In the summers first cooling chill
The studious girl forever reading quietly
To my children’s children far into the night gently.
Meme’s Roll call up yonder eight years ago today at 1:11.
