Tiki

 Tiki

john clare 

Zackary, I trust you'd be pleased with Tiki,

Since you left I took her and 

Stripped her down to the bare aluminum

Then tenderly applied two coats of moss grey

Not quite the forest in your glory sixties

But the choice of Landon

I do not think you ever met

And who like you I shall never forget

We mulled changing the name

But a thought came from afar

And so we made a stencil and with the pencil, with care traced Tiki exactly as you had in the sixties, maybe even the fifties.

Tiki has been with me nearly all my days, certainly all of Landon's

We no longer attach the old white five horse Johnson, bearing your last name, it rests in the shed, it's gas-oil long bled.

Days like these after the washing, I take Tiki out to the sunny spot in the yard. And I take turns sitting bow and stern.

And I lay back and I think of Zack, and Landon and his son

And the passing on of Tiki,

Of the stamp tattooed on her stern

Telling all where she has been

And we float atop the green ocean.

Come stranger band

 O Come Stranger Band

john clare 

I hired a band of strangers

To rife through my things

With strict instructions

To spare nothing.

They began with the tools 

Rakes, shovels, hoes

It all must go!

But I slipped in

And hid the dago

And the post holes

The Porter Cable

With a cord frayed;

They were dear to me

They were my daddy's.

And then the books 

They all must go!

The novels, the letters

The romance

But I snuck in

To make hidden stacks

Of poetry

Of love letters

Old commentaries 

John Wesley's journals

For they were dear to me

They long saved my sanity.

And then the bikes and boats

They all must go!

The Old Town, Mohawk,

Basso and Treks

Take them quickly!

But I loaded them

And hid the flotilla 

Along the upper Suwannee

The peloton along the trail

covered in palmetto.

And then the cameras and

Photographs 

They all must go!

The Nikons, the Canons

The Yashica, the color 

And the monochrome

Burn them! And so they did

For I figured, they were only

Loved by me.

I did sneak in the little Canon.

What began as seven meaningless piles

By night mysteriously shrank

And all was as it was before.

I paid the band of strangers 

With amended instructions to return

When I am cold and stiff

And all the stuff they could burn

But please, go up to the Suwannee and cut my flotilla adrift.

Eubanks cross

 Eubank's Cross

john clare 

The ole gospel minister

steeped in the hard shell

way did all he knew to

crack the nuts in the 

splintered pews.

It got so bad as one by

one the squirrels carried

the nuts away

that eventually

only one pew of a few

remained, 

 As far from

The pulpit

As possible.

Eventually ole Eubanks was

called on home to glory

and to this day

in September  they gather

up at the ole Hopewell

pull the splintered pew to the back

to watch that burning cross

march right across the floor

cracking every one of them.

Sirens of Williston

 I've told of the sirens of Williston and shall share again possibly, but tonight two sirens drew me and their names were Crystal and Ethel with Crystal luring  me this bottle of the coveted Frog's sauce she graciously gave me for journeying sixty miles just to come under the spell. Frogs BBQ on US27 east of Williston has long been a destination for generations of BBQ lovers, and to our good fortune continues today, the Poupards passing ownership.  We ate inside the two long picnic table dining area with the trio of men up from Ocala, the Rebounders, musicians performing at the Williston Crossings RV park tonight, Saturday, November 23rd.  One of the men was a dead ringer for a young Conway Twitty. I may just have to slip away and call  Crystal or Ethel and head on over for some Hello darling. Lost at Frogs BBQ.

The gathering

 The Gathering

John Stokes

One day there shall be a gathering

Ten miles inland in the hammock

There the upright piano will be playing

In sight of the tidal creek

Helping the arriving off the boats

Signing the ledger, taking their familiar place

Some to the camp fires smoke

Others to palmetto to deer give chase

Each one vital for the gathering

Just as we remembered them

And as we join hands to sing

The source of our being here entering

No more asunder to part

It gives no more inward pain

But fellowship of kindred minds

Forever like it once was below.

Wilmore Thanksgiving

 There was the time we gathered in Gulf Hammock by Ten Mile Creek,

Around the tables a hush ascended as Preacher began to speak.

If you signed the registry you were invited to return forever,

Who could dream so many were on the brink of never?

And so in memory we now gone extend a withered hand,

As the infant gazes into the camp fire and sees us stand.

Gulf Hammock

 There was the time we gathered in Gulf Hammock by Ten Mile Creek,

Around the tables a hush ascended as Preacher began to speak.

If you signed the registry you were invited to return forever,

Who could dream so many were on the brink of never?

And so in memory we now gone extend a withered hand,

As the infant gazes into the camp fire and sees us stand.

By eight

 By eight

Thanksgiving morning in Crawfordville and already the mill would be turning, squeezing out the sugar cane juice into the 5 gallon buckets with the burlap filter, to carry and pour into the sixty gallon Columbus iron kettle, twelve times, to make sixty gallons. The campfire would be stoked to stave off the morning chill. Mamma would be in the kitchen over the gas stove lit by fat lightered sticks, making pancakes and bacon, the aroma wafting down the dog trot hallway, waking those not already up. And so we made Ole Homewood Syrup. Near noon the first cooking would be poured into the Wild Turkey whiskey and various bottles and around one o’clock we’d pause and have Thanksgiving dinner beneath the pear trees surrounded by the grape vines and blueberries, rife with myriad memories.

Shadows Underfoot

 Shadows Underfoot

by john Clare stokes

Must train for the marathon

Twenty mile training run

Roger comes by tomorrow morn

A bike ride over to Wellborn

For now I must prime this canvas

Start that ole Jubilo Master left us

Is that Stokes with the new Nikon?

I forgot that fall is already coming

Here, let's load the Mohawk, help me,

Let's paddle by Steve's on the Suwannee.

Think I may bring the scuba tanks

Never know what treasures hide along the banks.

They say there's China under Cone Bridge,

And a hidden Spanish fort up on the ridge.

Can we ride a ways through the Osceola?

We may just uncover another arrow point.

I must work on my notes from Guadalcanal

My Navy days and the seas burning for miles.

Is it Wednesday? Its bean soup night I forgot.

Roger you said is gone?

Do you see the shadows under my feet?

I finished that marathon strong.

Robert “Bob” Jones

Edge past

 Edge Past

john clare 

Imagine in that

Glimpse to edge of sight

When transfixed

In a colour scent

When beyond your

Downcast eyes

You are drawn beyond

The old pecan grove

To the edge of past

And you walk

And you talk

And you long

Surely you must have

Imagined

Tracing Camellia petal trails

Abruptly ending

Just at the point of 

You weren't alone.

Kirk

 With Kirk in Cedar Key

We had moved from Williston to Lake City in 1977 after ten grand years there. My friend from Williston Kirk Hartley got up with me and I had one of my all time epic days. We took his boat and put in at the Wacasassa Marina in Gulf Hammock and went down coast to Cedar Key where we fished. We later went down the river where the Wild Hog Canoe Race is held, finding shark teeth. Great times they were. Thanks Kirk.

The Wilmore Thanksgiving

 The Asbury Thanksgiving 

Upon moving from Monticello, Florida to Wilmore, Kentucky to the Asbury College duplex in 1965, the family was complete with Lewis, born in Tallahassee in sixty-three and sister Paula. Present were Wayne Tarpley, a Georgia boy unable to go home for Thanksgiving and our beloved late Uncle William Clark, who lived in the little apartment behind us with his brother Billy. A grand two years. Also there, but not shown was Monnie, or Ethel Orander, my mothers mother from West Virginia who lived with us, sleeping in Paula’s bedroom. Lewis and I shared a room with him on the top bunk. Daddy was the Alumni and Public Relations director under President ZT Johnson, long time family friend from when Mamma and daddy attended Asbury.