Plight Of The New World Witch:

One has to wonder at the stereotypes,
Green-nosed Halloween caricatures,
black hats and totally missed points.

Thum datta thum datta thum datta thum...

Maybe some ancient crone playing with black arts,
Maybe just a vicious tale,
Made to scare children abed.

Unmask the wicked ancient dreams...

When reality is blown free of October fog,
The magic is in the balance,
The dance of Love and Faith against Fear.

A clean clear wind whispers over the green hills...

There's a white light in the world today,
A gift from God and not an enemy,
Simple teachers of believing in Love.

Thum datta thum datta thum datta thum...

When the message is to have Faith,
Mountains will move,
When the message spreads Fear it sadly landslides.

Fear is only Faith that Evil will win...

Satan paints with Fear,
Rejoices in each soul bathed in that tool,
The exact opposite of Loving Faith.

Love is Faith that God wants us all to win...

God's own word teaches,
Faith is the source of what could be called magic,
Granted only through His universal Love.

Thum datta thum datta thum datta thum...

Faith blighted with Fear only illuminates pain,
Faith lighted with Love illuminates the way,
Have Faith we're all meant to be one in a new world.

Embrace Love each night and day.

THUM.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 09/15/2004

Author's Comments;
It's there in His words - all one need do is look.

Broom Rider:

I've often wondered if it was a cackle of glee,
Or a twitch of black cat claw on the backside,.
That lifted the first broom off the cauldron lip.

Perhaps the long green stockings,
And whippy black cloak,
Just trappings to hide picking broom splinters,
Out of something "nether" or such.

What they don't show you in corn bristle assembly class,
Is how to wrap milkweed fiber over toad skins,
So you can cling to an upside down spinning yew spear,
After you blast up the chimney in a puff of soot and sparks,
Big screeching black tom spike hackled and all.

The big question of the day,
Corn strings or long straw,
Batwing leather or worn old scalps,
The best method of cleaning black wax off cracked skulls,
Which type of toadstool stew to use for broomsores,
Or the best angle from which to cross an ambered gibbous moon.

Just remember to tip the vampire valets,
After you finish landing in the pumpkin patch,
Never let them catch you out racing ghosts,
And make sure you have a solid supply of sandpaper,
Before you take off for any spell casting match,
Standing naked and green under the stars,
There in the pentagram of a Druid circle.

There's a reason Fall brings out slang like,
Cold as a witch's...well,
Considering the entry fee is getting kicked in the face by a unicorn,
Is it any wonder you'll eat only small things stewed?

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 09/15/2004

Author's Comments:
For some ghastly reason, I'm looking forward to Fall and Halloween.

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.

In The Burning Shadow Of Fallen Leaves:

It's another year gone and the leaves are piled,
Awaiting their day to smoke and burn into the sky,
The glistening blue of a sky grasping the frost of every breath in the world,
The flames only erase the most visible past,
The ash lies underneath - infiltrating the ground,
The building blocks and foundation for what new will come,
Is it a Spring of green you await,
Shall the harvest soon to come be forgotten?

See the shadow of leaf smoke long across the ground,
It's day is nigh and the stars of Summer are falling below the Earth,
Even as the Hunter rises in the sky once again,
Eternal with sword and bow twinkling in the night,
In the night that comes all manner of ghouls and flying things will rise,
Haunting the inner vision in annual respect of death's reaping,
In the time when each flower knows it's season was too short,
Must pass and fade and brown like last Summer's grass,
And when we breath in the smoke that shadows fallen leaves,
Watch the sparks leap up and licking orange flames,
The bare dead tree limbs and endless night question us,
Did you ever love enough in your short season?

Looking through the knot hole of a gourd,
It begs a question,

"When it comes to love,
What could possibly Oh Great Pumpkin,
What could possibly ever be enough?"

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 09/14/2004

Author's Comments:
I feel this every single Fall. Some more than others, but every one.

On this day, September 11th, of all days:

Turn Away Cold Voices...

Close your ears,
Listen to the heartbeat of Earth,
Close your ears,
Feel the touch of love and all it's dear worth,
Close your ears and see clear and clean,
Close your heart,
To the siren of the war machine,
Turn away cold voices,
Leave heartache far away in the dark,
Turn away cold voices,
Forget to fan the spark,
Let not the liars tell you,
That death becomes them,
For no heart that beats,
Should by any man's hand end,
Turn away cold voices,
Cause not any river of tears,
Turn away cold voices,
Full of hatred, lies, and unjust fears,
Hold out your hand in kindness,
Together love this Earth,
Turn away cold voices,
And remember the measure of your worth.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 04/24/2002


The Thorn Of Crowns:

One doesn't need to be crucified to die on the inside,
Heavy responsibility is not always easy to bear,
Temptation can blind you at times,
And losing you objectivity can be worse than being blind.

The sepia tones of old photographs can't hold you at night.

Never forget those times you cried,
And how they came about,
Remember the times you smiled,
And what gave those smiles birth.

Everyone has those moments in greater or lesser degree.

Even if you are King of the World,
You can't eat diamonds and emeralds,
And fast cars and jets can carry away,
Just as easily as to.

You could be haunted even on yacht at sea under forever stars.

Think about it,
Will the world truly have been better for you having walked it,
Even just one little bit,
The sum answers of that question alone are set in stone.

The true bits of gold carried by men.

When power comes upon you,
And you've walked the the halls of rulers,
Lying with a rattle in your throat,
As the angels gather round you,

Was the life you wore torn useless by the Thorn of Crowns?

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 03/15/2004

Author's Comments:
I think most people will understand.


Return My Colors:

I saw them waving in the breeze,
Those threads and dyes of freedom,
Pursuit of life, of liberty, of happiness,
Red of courage,
White of purity,
Blue of truth,
They stand for freedom,
They do not belong,
Upon the collars of intolerance,
Upon the poles where heads hang,
In the circle of a lake of tears,
In the halls where our lives are pried open,
Like a clamshell overfed on statute pages.

I want my colors back.

I want those colors to bring tears,
Because they mean a home where one is soveriegn,
Upon the lands we've worked to earn,
Where spies are some dark shadows across oceans,
Or figments in story books,
And no one is disappeared without a trace,
Just upon the say-so of fear's hounds.

I want my colors back,
To wear with pride,
Because they represent a place of good hearts,
And live as you are.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 08/28/2003

Author's Comments:
Our rights and liberties are critical to the character and identity of this country. There is no place on Earth like this place was just two and a half years ago. I want that place back, and the colors that go with it.



Walking The Needle:

We all must face a darkness today,
As a world and as a nation,
For the man-made shadow cast yesterday,
And that just a cumulation of many all over the world,
And as our hearts are torn with rage and grief,
We must remember that we are moral beings,
And that wanton retaliation is no such thing as moral,
And we must remember that violence only breeds violence,
And insanity does not bring death to life,
For how many bombs have been thrown in truth by whom?

We all must face a darkness today,
As a person and as a human being,
For the manmade shadow we contemplate casting today,
And that just an addition to those all over the world,
And as our hearts are torn with rage and grief,
We must remember that we are moral beings,
And that much of what races in our minds is not,
For long after we extend our hands in violence,
We will remember that we were amoral beings,
And ultimately the cost is a ticker tape of blood spots,
And shadows upon more souls.

We all must face a darkness today,
And wonder how to bring back the Sun,
And in no way can I poor poet that I am,
Give out the definitive answer,
For I must face a darkness today,
Staring at the fires within my own heart,
And perhaps that is a good place for each of us to start.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 09/12/2001


By Candle Lit Tears:

You see a soft yellow glow everywhere now,
Millions of points of gentle light at night,
All over this vast land with a common heartbeat,
And the faces may change but not so the tears,
You will know if you look and see,
Down from up above where you are now,
Your gift is remembered well,
The one you didn't know you would give,
As you left for your work and errands on that fateful day,
But you will know it if you look,
Not by the words of angels or historians,
Though those may come your way,
No, you will know it if you look,
By the rivers of candle lit tears.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 09/17/2001

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.

There will be no further posts today in remembrance of the people and cherished intangible treasures that were damaged on this day in 2001.

Fish Doctah Blues:

We've got fish flying 'round the room,
There in the downstairs powder parlor,
Inspired by a picture about dreams,
Something about most people and wealth,
And the writer walking backwards,
Between flying fish and speaking animals,
So we found the little wooden trout at the hobby shop,
Looking just like the ones in the picture,
And I gave them rainbow shimmer wings,
Flew them on the wall like some creator,
And they look at me with beady eyes,
Every time I'm in there,
Like "He made us fly but what's stapled on next"?

Got a wooden child with wings coming loose,
Need to pull out the tape and glue,
Put the imaginary magic back,
Before sad-eyed trout rainbows swim my dreams,
I much prefer scaly ripples of free flight imagination,
Guess it's practice for some future responsibility,
Or just the silliest poet heart,
But if you give fish wings,
It's no fun taking a chance on them splashing down.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 09/08/2004

Author's Comments:
Yes, we do have this surreal scene in the downstairs powder room, and
this piece is both figurative and real life at the same time.

A Spin Around The Prairie:

I walked in the bright sunshine,
In the glad light of time alone with my wife,
In the calm of footstep after footstep,
A hawk backlit by the afternoon sun drifting,
Low over green milkweed pods and tawny dead Queen Anne's Lace,
Darting swallows around a dead tree,
The still green leaves along the river in low September sunlight,
Thinking of giant pumpkins to come,
Small yellow butterfly you flutter along with us,
Only to be followed by the regal orange-black monarchs,
The prairie flowers native to this land,
Some call them weeds the little tiny white daisies with yellow centers,
The brown of dead thistles with the occasional late blooming vivid pink,
I hold a cigar and coffee in hand strolling slowly,
And we speak of future past and present,
Hopes and dreams and wishes,
Filled lungs with the local slow breeze,
Soon enough we'll roll across the creek past weeping willows,
Burst free of the corn field into a world of concrete and brick,
Yet for the moment I feel close to the living Earth,
In synch and in time without looking once at my watch,
Feeling like a high thin white cloud over the field,
Embracing the Zen of a tree trunk that only grows in one place,
A child at play on the swings racing dandelion tufts,
Dancing on the wind in a place that deserves to live.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 09/07/2004

Author's Comments:
A slice of the afternoon - one I want to enshrine, to bottle up and take
home.

Plainfield Live Poetry

I've just added a new link to our live poetry reading group in
Plainfield, Illinois in the right hand border column. Take a peek if
you're interested.

Dan

Labor Day Rain:

I kind of wonder if the edge of Frances is touching us here,
Thinking of far away friends scattered about the windy circle,
But here it's gentle rain and breezes blowing,
No hullabaloo in an unhurried morning,
Ducks on the pond and vast green view out the window,
Simply four Mallards paddling,
A little yellow tinge on leaves everywhere,
Yesterday's ride through the country as gold climbs down the soybeans,
I've thoughts of amber leaves and red and brown,
Of milkweed tufts burst free,
Of wandering the corn maze holding my wife's hand like children,
Of the passing of another year,
Amber moons with black cloud veils,
The occasional bat flying past,
Even in this season young hearts falling in love,
Caught in the hurricane of time,
Enjoying every rest of landing feet,
Yet for now the warm coffee calls me,
And Fall can wait another sleepy day.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 09/06/2004

Author's Comments:
Fleeting thoughts, a note from one of my nieces, a morning of reading
poems after a wonderful day and night.

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.

The Ghost Bird Of Plainfield

It was something graceful,
The way the tree leaves streamed with the afternoon breeze,
The sharp slant of early afternoon sunshine,
Easy old music on the baby blue cream white and chrome radio,
Retro with dials and red hands and yellow numbers,
A wasp flew by and two butterflies,
Three flies and a swift flock of pigeons raced over the rooftops,
Grey and speckled white and seeming swift,
I looked to neighbor Ron's swaying red flowers and purple tall grasses,
It was then that I saw it unrecognized at first,
Hovering at first one red bloom then another then gone,
It took a moment to register,
Just three tiny inches with invisible wings,
In that flash of fleet beauty,
I had witnessed the appearance of the hummingbird.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 09/02/2004

Author's Comments:
Instant replay via poetry.

Under The Vision Tree:

In the soft fog of morning,
Rays of sunlight just peeking through,
A silence of the birds is reverent,
Under the vision tree.

The grass is green in the field yet,
Just beyond the branches drooping,
Eerie white clouds hug the ground,
Back-lit leaves appear black.

The old barn and farm house sit,
Silent and empty of all but shadows,
With the encroaching suburbs at my back,
I feel the ghosts of children who once laughed.

The park has become prairie again,
The boarded windows look over a barren silo,
Bare stone foundations like headstones,
Presiding over the reminiscence of past glory days.

How many children climbed those branches,
Full of imaginings in Summer heat,
Dreaming of grown up lives far and wide,
Or of the school year's end in Spring?

In the spine-tingling shadows,
I see hints of sunlight just breaking through,
The bees will awaken as morning warms,
Blooms will open to hummingbirds and rabbits.

Like the husk of last year's monarch,
Faded orange and dead black,
The laughter of children long faded to empty silence,
Perhaps echoed betwixt nursing home walls.

Still I can almost see horses,
An old grey tractor and fresh brown Earth,
Clothes pinned on a line and puppy tails wagging crazily,
Long lost music staring me down,

As I stare afar under the vision tree.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 09/03/2004

Author's Comments;
The park where I practice saxophone in the Summer was a farm once. Most of
it is still there, but not the people, nor the life. It is a haunting place.

Under The Turning Light Of The Moon:

The evening was fallen between clouds and stars,
Billowing black traipsed across the face of amber,
It was as familiar as bats flying on All Hallows Eve,
As the wind whispers departing secrets,
Soft syllables upon the just-turning leaves and grasses,
Milkweed pods full almost to bursting yet still green,
Brown tinge at the edge of Queen Anne's Lace,
Black birds are gathering upon the wires as the calendar comes to nine,
The breeze is warm in evening and cool after the witching hour,
Prairie flowers fading away to golden seeds,
The stars are changing and Summer is growing weary,
Yet for a time yet she will warm us still,
Watching as the corn leaves edge with yellow,
As the fruits begin to bear,
Squirrels hoarding and rabbits burrowing,
Sweaters and jackets checked for repair,
The passing of another season looms,
Beautifully bittersweet,
The only way left to greet it is like a child,
With wonder and wide open eyes,
And the feel of ghosts rising into foggy nights.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 09/03/2004

Author's Comments:
It seems we've hardly had Summer this year. There have been so many cool
days, rain and fifty degree days in August. Another year gone, another year
farther from Spring. I'm going to ride my bike for all I'm worth and just
try to remember.

American Stones Face East:

Stones Face East...

...In the new museum of Native Americans in Washington,
This is true that there is reverence for the sunrise,
Yet another sun may be rising.

In the cool morning of golden rays Red and White touch the Earth together.

In Tibet the ancient religion of Bon,
Belief that there was undying spirit in all things,
Animals and winds and the very stones of the Earth.

In the Time of Ice men crossed the world hunting.

Somehow the Manitou walked across water while changing names,
And where is the surprise in this,
For Spirit is beyond our limits and small understanding.

Man can not create so much as a leaf without a living seed.

God is a complexity we can scarcely understand,
The strange mirror of East and West yields reflections to careful patience,
Tibetan ancestors would know the soul of Native America.

In the distant mists of time we all have a Source.

In the march of time,
Buddhists walked East,
Christians walked West.

Bloody footprints must be washed from this Earth.

Many spirits flew beyond Mother Earth,
In these tangles of early Spirit and complex God,
Borne of misinterpreting intolerant followers.

Only love can heal ancient pain.

In the ages to come there is another mirror,
Perhaps West and East can see each other,
For in Tibet and Washington mergers play out.

It is long past due we learned to become one again.

It is long past time for reconciliation,
For the long painful birth,
For the best of ancient and modern to merge.

We must no longer be children as we step out of the cradle.

In both lands those of ancient wisdom still stand,
While hordes of younger ideas swarm,
Youth and wisdom both lose in separation.

The stars are twinkling above and the sky is all one vast lonely place.

There is much for Youth to learn,
Yet Age is not all there is to wisdom,
Where do the generations finally meet?

The seasons go on and we have much to lose as leaves bury the path behind
us.

How can we ever heal and become one?
How long will there be two sides to the mirror?
The best of each place and time is there in the dichotomy of silvered glass.

In the Autumn the Earth is bearing fruit yet we must plant seeds for a new
Spring.

The evil Manitou Spirit Devil laughs as he melts more sand -

How long will we be grains within his intolerant fires?

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 09/01/2004

Author's Comments:
There are interesting similarities between China's relationship to Tibet and
the United States relationship with Native American Nations. In both cases
both the younger and older cultures would stand to gain much if they could
find a way to take the best of both cultures and blend them into a new world
that was good for both. In the larger picture, the same is true of East and
West. In the microcosm or macrocosm each is diminished without co-existence
with the other. Native Americans and native Tibetans in their own ways bring
a spritual value to reverence of and stewardship of the Earth and nature. I
feel that impact in the environmental movement in the Western hemisphere,
and I wonder if it is not present in the East. This is but one example - if
we took the time, I would imagine there are many more subtleties that could
be of great value to the world as a whole, yet the fear of change tinges
everything. A question: if God created everything, is it wrong to think that
everything is imbued with a bit of His undying Spirit? Another: Could not
His name have been heard differently in the aftermath of Babel around the
world? It's always been we humans who misunderstand Him. I wonder if there
aren't fractions of truth and misunderstanding all about this world. Two web
links help to illustrate:
http://www.tibet.cn/english/zt/culture/..%5Cculture/200402004512103207.htm
and http://www.enn.com/news/2004-08-31/s_26782.asp .

Remember Your Ghosts:

When someone we love dies,
It is appropriate to miss them -
For a time.

It is the natural thing,
We think of all we will miss,
The loss - we - bear.

When we are finished with - our - loss,
We face a great choice how,
They will live on in us.

Make no mistake,
They live now partly through us,
Partly through God.

The part through us is small yet,
It is their connection here,
To the Earth.

We can show the Earth their angry bad,
Face or remember their love,
Faces leaving war masks,
To the silent invisible dust.

That choice only slightly defines their existence yet,
It greatly defines our own.

How do you call upon your ghosts how,
Do they appear when you call?

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 08/31/2004

Author's Comments;
I picture like in legends where we call upon our ancestors to save us in dire times of need, yet we live in the shadow of the way we choose the memories of them to hold every moment we breathe.

All of my currently available poetry books can be purchased at:
http://www.lulu.com/Daniel-Stafford

Why Must I Cry?

I could write a thousand pages,
Of woe and tears and gloom,
Like every child I suffered wounds that can not be seen.

Where does the pursuit of these tales bring me?

I comb through my life looking for gold,
Because the dross isn't worth immortalization,
Let it lie buried in the past.

If I fill my eyes with jewels from the past life sparkles.

If my poetry is golden,
If it is like a ray of sunshine in Summer,
Why should I shed light on the rotted leaves that fell out of season?

The balm of a rich life is not found in a bucket of pain.

Aquarianm

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 08/26/2004

Author's Comments:
I've heard from somewhere that my poetry is one sided when it comes to
childhood. My reply? "Thank God I have that choice."

Manna, Manna

In the heat and confusion,
Rest from wailing and tears shall come,
Look to the sky and see it rain.

Manna from Heaven is needed again.

Bless the children oh Lord,
Those that run from steel and lead and blood,
Rest their weary feet upon green grass in a garden.

The loaves from the sky fall with an end to tears.

Soothe the mothers' worried brows,
Fill with love distant hearts,
Let manna fall like rain.

Somewhere there is a place for them all.

Manna,
Manna from Heaven and love abounding,
We give thanks it shall be so.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 08/26/2004

Author's Comments:
For the souls lost in Darfur.

Outfly Your Wings:

Outfly Your Wings:

In the seconds before you disappeared,
I know your souls flew up,
Did you outfly your wings there below the pearlescent throne,
Like butterflies exiting chrysalis,
Irridescent and glittering,
The dew of many tears may follow you,
Though yours no longer flow,
I feel compelled to hold prayer for you,
May God grant those who love you solace,
To see you dancing with the stars,
Unlike poor Icarus,
You outflew your wings.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

Author's Comments:
In sympathy with the passengers of the two planes down in Russia and those who lost them.


On God's Doorstep - ISBN 1-4116-0710-4
The Beach Poems - ISBN 1-4116-0112-2
are available for sale at:
http://www.lulu.com/Daniel-Stafford

Blessings And Rain:

I have a friend who will be travelling,
I will be practicing the saxophone outside,
Under the wooden roof at the park.

Blessings and rain - bring the green grass and a safe flight.

I am thankful for the cocooning of a grey day,
The quiet place in the soul that reflects off fog and raindrops,
The flowers that rise when the sun returns.

Blessings and rain between brass notes and airplane wings.

I feel the sun shining on my saxophone looking golden,
Just as I'm thankful it will after she lands,
A flowering of life unfolding.

Blessings and rain from God's tender hands.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 08/25/2004

Author's Comments:
For our friend Hope.

Question Spiritual Aspects Of Poetry

Often when writing poetry, the writer feels a sense of "tapping into a
source." The sensation is as if something larger than you is actually giving
you the words to put down on the page or keyboard. The favored manner of
writing differs from author to author, and really is irrelevant for the
purpose of this discussion. Many times when writing under this "spell" or
"trance" state, for lack of better words, and author feels they have written
some of the most important and profound writing.

Another interesting phenomenon that I have noticed in such instances is that
usually two or three other poets at the boards I post to will write on very
similar themes when I feel this happen. Most often it is two other poets,
and it seems to happen with three of us at a time.

Another area of interest is the concept of prayers through poetry, or as
poetry. I would like to investigate this type of poetic expression in my own
writing, and to hear from others if they use the same technique. I have
written a few poems of my heartfelt wishes in the past with lines like
"releasing prayers to electronic winds." I wondered even back then if poetry
could be used as a request for spiritual energy, for the feelings and
desires of readers to resonate with the request inherent in a poem. In
effect, the reader is "speaking the word to God for the writer" by
sympathizing with the poem's emotional content. Readers of Florence Scovel
Shinn's work "Wisdom" will have a deeper understanding of the subject I am
raising.

Could wide-spread poetry be used to bring the energies of peace, love, and
prosperity to a wider group of people? Certainly writings in the Bible's
last books, as well as things such as Norse mythology's Ragnarok and others
have brought a view of a cataclysmic end to the world into the larger
consciousness of mankind. Writing of any nature can do this. Writing of a
spiritual nature may in some way alter the universe we inhabit by altering
our basic beliefs about the universe we inhabit at a very deep level. Modern
physics touches on the possibility, theorizing that the universe exists out
of unlimited probability streams because we observe it to exist. The Bible
says in one part that "He who believes enough can move a mountain." and that
we should give thanks to God as if what we ask is already granted. Some
modern preachers warn us that the words we speak to ourselves are also heard
by God, and we can speak ourselves into trouble or into joy.

This raises many questions about poetry, and how it might be put to use to
bring positive spiritual energy to a large group of people. If this is true,
and possible, then poets bear a heavy responsibility for the visions they
craft and display. Perhaps it is time we poets as a sub-culture examine this
aspect of our art in detail. Certainly the world could use all the positive
spiritual energy that can be found in these times. It seems that the world
is at a turning point and the focal point of this is here in the United
States, in the ideology and path we choose to follow going forward. There is
a great rift in this country in view point at this time. Could the gentler,
kinder side of poetry be utilized to help heal this to some extent? Could we
possibly write our way to a somewhat better world?

Please address any comments on this topic to the e-mail link at the top of
this blog. I would like to deepen this discussion if possible.

AquarianM

Spiritual Poetry:

Spiritual Poetry:

Is this a poem,
Perhaps the rambling of a creative mind?

Is this a path,
That passes through healing,
Into self-knowledge and light?

Do the fingers on the keyboard,
Become driven by some cosmic under-mind?

How do you explain,
Poets on similar topics,
Usually posting in threes?

Can a poem become a prayer,
If written in love and light?

If so then let's pray for peace and love,
Good  things,
All across the world to come...

Starting with tonight.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 08/24/2004

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Poetry Is In The Moment:

In the mindless foolish transition,
I lost my words in searching too deep,
Looking for mountains of meaning to pour out,
Hoping for some grand place in the heavens,
Forgetting the simplest of things,
When my eyes are opened and I see a small space,
The dusty trails I walked between cornfields,
The footpath along the railroad tracks in early 1960's sunshine,
The insects and prairie flowers of Wisconsin Summers,
The goldenrod and oriole and wild child hair,
Deep in rural Nebraska,
The stark contrast of dark night skies in the desert,
The deep blue of a rare New Mexico lake,
The salt tang of a midnight beach in Galveston,
Poetry is in the moment,
In the small places you live and see and breathe,
Those slices of life too precious to forget,
And all the moral ground and beliefs,
Wishes for the future and hopes and dreams and fears,
Nothing is exempt,
No single piece is all there can be,
Because poetry is life,
In the words you can find to capture it.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 07/08/2004

Author's Comments:
Sometimes I forget and my voice falls silent in a false lack of words.