The Midnight Phone Booth Poet...

 

Author	Date Entered/Modified	Views
Daniel A. Stafford	9/6/2000 6:36:58 PM 10/13/2022 8:51:27 PM	900

The Midnight Phone Booth Poet

Darkness your ally, as your boot crunches on broken glass.
A black Fedora hides your eyes in shadows akin to the alley's rulers.
Long black coat, shoes the color of the night.
Walking past the wino's barrel fire, a crinkled wrapper fluttering at your step.
Mystery is the only name you carry on your tall frame.
The case in your hand has a weight beyond the physical residing within.
You step out, into the world of street lights and storefronts,
Twinkling reflections on plate glass windows and neon colored.
The girls at the corner laugh, flaunting sweet looking flesh too well.
The coffee in your hand isn't shaking just from the caffeine,
And the sweat trickling down your neck under your collar,
Well, that's not just from the hot and humid foggy night.
You see your goal in red metal and glass, under the streetlight's pooled gift.
Looking five directions or starters, you enter, bringing out your tools.
The mouthpiece dangling from the chrome coiled line,
Never meant for this, never conceived of.
Your laptop screen's glow just covered in trench coat shadows,
You send your secret racing out over the wires,
Net bound produce of hard work and intellect.
The poet Anonymous has published again.

The wind whips paper past the working girls' ankles as you vanish into the night.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 09/06/2000

Author's Comments

A bit of dark fantasy humor, thanks to a muse riding Andy's Note down the lines...

Author	Date Entered/Modified	Views
Daniel A. Stafford	9/6/2000 6:36:58 PM 10/13/2022 8:51:27 PM	900

The Legend Of Lone-Hand Dan...

The Legend Of Lone-Hand Dan...



Euchre - the only team sport that uses playing cards.

He lived in the Carlton Hotel,
An old run-down place in a small Wisconsin town,
Built in the late 1800's,
With a bar in the lobby,
And two floors of drunks and lost souls above,
A God-send at $30.00 per week.

The crowd would gather on a Friday night at good ol' Steve Kessler's place,
Stick Man who looked like Festus only taller and way skinnier,
A decent soul maybe a little lost,
Russell and Mikki who were brother and sister,
One cool and one beautiful,
Egor of the silence with a vacuous but deceptive smile,
Rotundo the Young and Round,
And of course,
Lone-Hand Dan.

The beer was bought,
The kitchen table set,
The cards were readied,
The first two teams of partners chosen,
The contest began.

In Euchre the deal always passes to the left.

Steve's house and cards,
Steve's first deal,
Who's got the Jacks,
Who's got the Aces,
Who calls trump,
Who's laying in the weeds?

Faces intent,
Cigarettes smoking,
Beers sipping,
Strategies unfolding,
First points earned,
An all-nighter fore shore.

Second round,
Deal passes to Dan,
That special deck of Steve's,
The slow methodical shuffle Dan uses,
Old-school let the cards fall over the cards,
Intent with focus he shuffles and shuffles...

"Will you quit shuffling and deal already?!"
"Nope."

...the final card fall he feels it,
"Snick!"
One more time over and the cards are dealt.

The light over the table is burning bright,
The crowd around the table watches,
Sure enough someone calls Trump,
The inevitable words are spoken:
"I'm going alone."

It's a little bit heebie-jeebie,
But when Lone-Hand Dan deals off THAT deck of Steve's,
Somebody is getting dealt a loner,
Might be Dan's team,
Might be the other,
But SOMEONE is going it alone.

Another round,
The deal passes to the left...

And THAT my friends,
Is why in Edgerton, Wisconsin,
Where they still have a Tobacco Days festival,
THIS poet will always be known to a certain crowd,
As "Lone-Hand Dan."



AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 05/03/2012

Author's note:
Entirely true story, Any resemblance to persons living or dead is blatantly intentional, and in their memory. It was uncanny, even to me.
(In fond memory of Steve Kessler, who rode off into the Sunset some twenty-three years ago. I hope your butt is living it up Up There, ya ol' coot.)

Words are the mind's bridge - it's connection to all the universe.
Love is the heart's bridge - it's connection to all other souls.
Loving words can work miracles. \\//_

---

All of my currently available poetry Chapbooks are for sale at:

http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/coloringbookforallages

#Poetic Memoir

Max Eclipse...

Max Eclipse...

Max couldn't wait,
It was coming on the morning,
The greatest show off Earth these days.

He was all ready,
Got the specs from a friend,
Cheesey paper hot to hand,
Lawn chair in the driveway.

Like a strange throwback to the 1950's,
Max bug-eyed the sun,
Holding onto reality for dear life,
A lonely geek planted on the concrete.

His namesake hit it at sixty percent,
Max Eclipse watched the max eclipse,
Of the Sun,
Just like in the Carly Simon song,
Without any of the vanity.

2017 should be a good year.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 08/23/2017

The Universe According To Space Cowboy…

The Universe According To Space Cowboy…

Some people called him Ray Gunslinger,

And he was kind of cool with that.

He wore a white hat, and steam punk shades,
Carried a weapon that crossed a sonic screwdriver with a badly used lightsaber,
Scared the crap out of everyone he met out there in the wide cosmos.

Space Cowboy also carried a six charge ray gun on his hip,
Modeled after an old Earth Colt revolver and holstered in antique leather.

He was faster than light beamed at a black hole with either,
So don’t mess with the kid.

A guy in a Tardis picked him up out of his back yard,
One crazy Summer day when Ray was ten.

He had some crazy adventures,
Learned all about galaxy-conquering deathbots and how to un-bolt them,
Then escaped the Time Lord of gibbery goodness in a crazy Tardis junkyard.

Ray was a mechanical man,
Even though he was made of flesh and bone.

He cobbled and he cribbed,
Tinkered and jiggered,
And danced off into the galaxy rise,
Proud owner of a fully-functional but butt-ugly time and space displacer,
Which looked for all the universe like a flying garage.

He was great about fixing stuff,
Be it evil or old junk,
But he was better at telling a story.

His yarn didn’t come off a spindle,
No siree, Earthlings,
Space Cowboy’s yarn came from his lips,
But it was so fantastic,
It was hard to figure he could’ve made it up.

If there was an evil critter out among the stars,
Ray would just as soon talk ’em into the Ever-After as shoot a blaster at their behind.

His only regret?

That cobbled-up replicator was only good for beach towels,
Beans and Starbucks coffee.

The cool part?
His go-lever in the Tardis made a sound like “yippee kiyay!” every time he took off.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 07/14/2016