Flight Of The Muse...

 

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Daniel A. Stafford	8/14/2001 9:13:06 PM 10/15/2006 5:02:30 PM	559

Flight Of The Muse:

Flitting at the speed of thought,
A blue globe whizzing by below,
Bathed in late night moon shadow,
Or soft winds upon a lonely sunshine shore.

Where to drop a dream is a heavy choice to make.

Dear mortals, they think it's lights and laughter,
That a flight of fancy just comes to call,
Never do they see,
How many lives are touched by it all,
A word missive true to enthrall.

A pen has launched more ships than any face could claim.

Those pockets of psychic sadness like a siren's call,
In the moment of each poet's ache,
I must give my all,
And lift the spirits of a world,
Or admonish evil away.

Little do they know the strain of flying time warps each night and day.

If Cupid's enchanted arrows truly bring love to heart,
So often it's my sung words that tell him where to start,
And if I inspire tears upon a summer's day,
Then at least I give grace to names,
Of those you wish cold forever stay.

Like a bear to honey 'tis truly food for the loving soul.

The winds of time I forswear,
Nor my conspirators tendency to return to dust,
Shall stop my hail of loving words,
For in the future I hold a sacred trust,
For I let the beauty of passed time live on.

I fly in a hail of tears of all flavours.

May my wings and the poet's quill never run dry,
Writing of love on hot summer nights,
Or dancing balls in full dress gowns and suits,
Or nature's simple delights,
The details may change but the heart remains.

May I fly true upon the heart winds this night.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 08/14/2001



By: Daniel A. Stafford

Author's Comments

Inspired in part by Shah Pravinchandra Kasturchand's
poem "Muse", and in part by the emotional turmoil
each poet knows. Poetry is a grace upon the world.
No matter the language, it forever inspires.

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Leigh	leigh@leighscorner.com	http://leighscorner.com/	8/16/2001 3:55:34 PM
Dan, I can't even find the words to express how this made me feel ..... utter beauty and truth! Leigh
Ashok	Aggarwall	shivshoki@gmail.com	9/15/2004 8:26:00 AM
Mr Stafford Thank you for a poem that I read to the end. For me that is very rare. I had searched for the phrase 'flight of the muse'. The question now of course is 'how does one influence the heavy choice in ones favour?' Ashok

Beetle On The Roof...

 

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Daniel A. Stafford	10/18/2001 9:39:50 PM 10/13/2006 1:44:07 PM	579

Beetle On The Roof:

There's snow out on the playground,
Every kid is looking out the window,
Lessons learned with the season's first snow,
Not necessarily Mrs. Cerny's planning,
But you can tell it's sinking in by the twinkle,
Sparkling in a sea of twelve year old eyes.

Falling white flakes through the classroom window,
Enthrall the little Catholic school,
Low limestone buildings,
Uniforms of Robin's Egg and Navy blue,
Mr. Salein's a favorite of all the kids,
But today even his authority hid.

I can see you Mike Celgren,
You've got mischief in your eyes,
You and Tim Dolan,
Looking like you think you're wise,
Something's in the air,
Other than flakes of magic white.

Recess comes and snow balls fly,
Kids run and try to slide,
Snow men come to semi-life,
This frost-covered field is being buried fast,
Everyone trying to make first tracks,
Snow angels and forts in which to hide.

After school everyone goes,
Out to meet parents in waiting warm cars,
Or school busses yellow and black,
A childhood lost and found,
Awaits everyone's sight,
Fingers point and shouts of awestruck child delight.

Looking up to the phenomenon,
Of which every miracle seeker seems to see,
I expect a snowy Virgin Mary,
Or some such miraculous sight,
But my jaw drops in the snow,
As flakes fall upon my upturned eyes.

Up above the icicles,
Nestled on the roof under the falling white,
A red Volkswagen Beetle,
Otherworldly roof line sight,
Mr. Salein's car levitated by Santa,
Or perhaps by a miracle of God's design?

It's still a first snow mystery,
How the deed was done,
But it was our favorite teacher,
Who was the recipient of flying car fun,
All I can say is the school's still there,
But the car is gone by like the years.

Lost and found on a first winter snow,
Memories of a flying Beetle still delight,
I wonder about Mr. Salein and Mrs. Cerny sometimes.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 10/18/2001



By: Daniel A. Stafford

Author's Comments

FFE - incredible, but true. I'm surprised it didn't
make the Beloit Daily News, but we really did like
the guy. I guess it's a strange way to show it,
But I guess we put him on a pedestal way high.
I still wonder how it was done.
1974 - Our Lady of the Assumption - Beloit, WI

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Debbie Hunt	hu6nt@yahoo.com.au		10/24/2001 5:30:48 PM
Dan, this is just fabulous! I loved every word! Another beautiful work of art!! My, what fun you had! Debbie

Dream Visions...The Poem

 

Author	Date Entered/Modified	Views
Daniel A. Stafford	4/23/2001 3:03:34 PM 10/15/2006 9:19:13 AM	1924

Dream Visions:

Somewhere, lost in the mists of time and mind,
A Queen of fairy dust castles watches my dreams go by,
In the translucent magic bubbles she blows from a long-stemmed corncob pipe,
At the foothills of achievement mountain,
In the woods of chance and fate,
Next to the course of the River of Life near Heaven's Gate.

---

---

A beautiful waltz softly plays,
Sweet ethereal voices caption all my days,
And as visions come upon my mind,
The Faerie Queen is true to her kind,
For she reaches out her hand to touch what she sees as beauty,
And a bubble bursts to set my dream free,
And proud as her pet peacock,
My dream enters the world to delight or shock,
Becoming a part of reality,
And letting me be part of life's tree,
Hoping a better place the world to make,
In the time before my wake,
And if she bursts a bubble of love,
I'll thank my lucky stars above,
For in that bubble is a vision of you,
As lovely as can be, it's true,
And I'll spend the rest of my days with you.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 2001


By: Daniel A. Stafford

Author's Comments

Poetry inspired by both my lovely wife Saren,
And by the beautiful picture I gave to her.
It reminds me of sweet, unhurried times,
Soft music, my love, and candle light.
I found it in an antique store, and rescued it for
future times.
Dream Visions Waltz Music Sheet two has now been added. (06/05/2001)

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Daniel A. Stafford			4/28/2001 8:32:49 AM
A slight aside to this poem: I have recently discovered that several universities around the country have collections of early American sheet musice from the late 1800's - early 1900's, which is when this piece dates to. I am currently in the process of scanning Dream Visions to electronic images. The original publication is larger than my poor legal-size flatbed scanner, so I am having to scan the pages in two pieces and stitch them back together using graphics editing software. Once this is done, I am posting the entire piece on the web so that any university that wishes may add the piece to their collections. I've also notified two unversity collection curators that I am doing this, as I have to date NOT found this in any of the online collections, although I have not finished bropwsing through them all by any means........
Daniel A. Stafford		www.mailbag.com/users/aqmstaffo/aqmstaffo7.htm	4/30/2001 3:47:32 PM
The Dream Visions Electronic Preservation Project is taking place and can be viewed at the site link for this remark, or: http://www.mailbag.com/users/aqmstaffo/aqmstaffo7.htm
Sue	bttfly9@yahoo.com	www.geocities.com/bttfly9	5/7/2001 5:44:21 AM
Dan - You are so romantic! Your wife is sooooo very lucky.
ART PAUL SCHLOSSER	imaprince2001@yahoo.com	groups.yahoo.com/group/ARTsGarbageGazzette	1/16/2004 2:16:25 PM
This poem is very dream like,has good rhymes and makes me want to float in air.
Janine Daniel	janine@spinnys.com	www.spinnys.com	8/31/2005 10:13:54 AM
I really love this Daniel. The music graphic is wonderful and I can see why such a picture would inspire you. I also love the fantasy element to your poem. The whole thing, picture and poem stimulates my imagination and makes me want to write one now.

The Last Legend of Memphis...

 

Author	Date Entered/Modified	Views
Daniel A. Stafford	8/29/2003 11:31:58 PM 10/16/2006 4:56:43 AM	1728

The Last Legend of Memphis:

If you could resurrect them,
They wouldn't have to drown in their tears,
We'd have given them all the salty wet they'd ever need...

In his silver suit the future man,
Keeper of legends,
Holder of the Heroes' Lights,
He dived deep and far,
No creature stirred the waters,
Just deep and dark and quiet like the tomb,
He found the white columns half buried in silt,
After swimming past green metal gates,
With the shape of a man playing guitar,
Between two brick pillars,
He swam through the columns,
Into the hall of legends,
Loud colors blared under his lights,
Hidden in the depths of ages,
Crystal chandeliers,
He almost choked in his dive mask,
When his lamp light fell,
Upon twin stained glass peacock doors,
The stuff of legends for a thousand years,
It's not every day you find yourself,
In a God of Youth's dining hall,
Only yards from where the dead deity lies,
But he'd heard that golden voice,
Everyone had for a millennia,
The magic of children so technologically ignorant,
But buried in the data he'd found the coordinates,
And true to his deduction,
He was in the God of Music's own hall,
Fearing to swim up the stairs,
For this jealous God had never sung invitations there,
He stared again at the peacock doors,
A creature thought to be legend,
Until dug from a universe of bits,
He'd found the last Legend of Memphis,
And the daughter of God the Musical,
Even she had sang her heart out,
Crying as the waters rose over her home,
And now it wasn't a legend,
And they could worship His voice forever,
Even though it was now proven,
Even Gods of music can cry,
Even Gods of music can die,
Even Gods of Music can sink beneath the sea,
But still the last legend of Memphis,
Sings for you and me.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 08/29/2003



By: Daniel A. Stafford

Author's Comments

See the map above - if global warming continues,
Graceland will join the Titanic, lying at the bottom
of the Gulf of North America.

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Streaming Stars...

 

Author	Date Entered/Modified	Views
Daniel A. Stafford	12/13/2000 2:45:10 AM 10/16/2006 4:02:34 AM	1600

Streaming Stars:

A vision in heaven, upon cold night,
Glowing jewels, astronomers' delight,
When frost comes calling, you shine,
A winter subject, of the divine,
Swirling around a central theme,
Multicolored like a cosmic dream,
In your billions we find beauty,
You just live by gravitic duty,
And yet look at those things you bring,
Hope, inspiration, beauty, consolation,
Wonder, warmth, dreams, and most of all,

Life.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C)2000



By: Daniel A. Stafford

Author's Comments

All the billions upon trillions of stars,
Up there in the night sky, what might
they harbor, in their circles of warmth?
There should be a partial eclipse on
Christmas day this year visible across
North America.

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Sue Allie	bttfly9@yahoo.com	www.geocities.com/bttfly9/	1/4/2001 6:01:59 PM
Daniel, You sure have a way with words. You well deserve the award!

Lamplight...

 

Author	Date Entered/Modified	Views
Daniel A. Stafford	2/1/2001 2:26:52 AM 10/16/2006 7:12:18 AM	1584

Lamplight:

---

Paper covers softly glow,
Dancing white tigers in drifted snow,
Painted dragons upon delicate shades,
Strung in trees to light wooden palisades,
Branches dimly lit deep dark emerald green,
Ornate life behind a paper screen,
Tea in cups of china so fine,
Ancient and honored is the design,
Tradition and ritual all within perfect place,
Ritual makeup on a beautiful face,
Swords hidden metal in decorative sheath,
Wooden stands reside beneath,
Above the moon is elegantly full,
And high the tide that feels it's pull,
Complex sails in great number,
Lamp-lit specks all over the harbor,
Stars that twinkle and bejewel the curtain of night,
Strings that play beautiful delights,
A place to visit inside mind,
Another land in another time,
Where Ladies and Lords wear the finest of silk robes,
Artists and craftsmen create such art in droves,
And as you view the harbor from the mountainside,
Past the trees where sky and sea collide,
There is a land fond of rising sun,
And gentle nights such as this one.


AquarianM


By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C)2001




By: Daniel A. Stafford

Author's Comments

For some reason, I find myself daydreaming
of scenes of Japanese places at night,
with the soft glow of paper lanterns and
ornate art works, which are so exquisite there,
at least from what little I've seen in books and movies.
I think their culture produced an excellent aesthetic visually.
this is a tribute to that.

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Robin Good	RobinArtGood@aol.com		2/1/2001 5:56:31 AM
That is such a visually rich poem. The imagery put me right in there, in the scene... Thank you for the little trip...
Leigh	marin@kci.net	http://www.leighscorner.com	2/1/2001 8:42:56 AM
I could even hear the music ..... Beautiful!
Sharon Wilshire	sewilshire@cox.net		2/1/2001 11:42:07 AM
Very, Very nice Daniel. Sharon
APoetsPerspective			2/6/2001 7:16:12 AM
Dan, this was wonderful, I got goosebumps reading the words and descriptions of the east. The east does provide a magic which is hard to describe.
Leigh	marin@kci.net		3/1/2001 9:55:09 PM
Congratulations on the award, Dan ... this poem surely deserves it! *S* Leigh

Poet's Last Poem...

 

Author	Date Entered/Modified	Views
Daniel A. Stafford	10/27/2000 4:26:20 AM 10/14/2006 10:22:24 AM	1420

Poet's Last Poem

---

Last dance, last "I love you" to the world,
Last breath, last moment in words unfurled,
Last vision, last waking dream,
Last hurrah, I want to scream.

Obituaries, now a poet writes,
Over your memory, brought up in lights,
Ornate visions, of Roman dreams,
Or reminiscing of Italian villa scenes.

No longer, a withered hand shall word wright,
Nor ever a dream, graced by stars and firelight,
No, gone you are as a cold wind blows,
No one left here, really, truly, knows.

Good-bye, sweet poet, gone in still repose,
Gone from verse, no more prose,
Greatly we'll miss you, and remember as we read,
Grateful your words are still with us, as we need.

Sweet dreams,
Lie restfully,
Eternally remembered,
Eased of burdened pen,
Peaceful and prayed for.

AquarianM

---

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C)2000

---

By: Daniel A. Stafford

Author's Comments

This was inspired after reflecting on John Light's words,
That a certain poem was Christina Rosetti's last poem
before she passed. It's hard to think of a poet penning
their last poem, but for each of us there comes the time
just before our personal curtain call, that time when the
shadows grow long and dusk has come. This is my
tribute to every poet's last verse.

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APoetsPerspective			10/27/2000 3:30:52 PM
I am moved that a comment I could have made could have inspired another poet to write such a verse. I am glad that lightverse.com is a place where poets can encourage one another, and others can enjoy the fruits of our labor. -j
Debbie Hunt	hu6nt@yahoo.com.au		10/3/2001 7:04:38 PM
Dan, This is so lovely. Your words never cease to touch my heart and soul. I'd like to take this opportunity to thank you for all your kind comments on my own poetry. You are such a brilliant writer. Debbie
Sandy	sandysstudio@sw.rr.com	home.sw.rr.com/sandysstudio	4/29/2004 9:36:17 PM
Though this awesome feelings of "Last Poem" has tugged at the strings of my heart. Thank you for sharing this moving work of someone's heart and soul. Always with pen in hand, Sandy

A Little Bird Told Me...

There was a bluebird flying across the sky, 
She was distant and way up high, 
She had flown from across the Earth, 
And she landed somewhere in a tree, 
I remember her songs they were kind and sweet, 
Miss that nice little birdie's chirping tweet, 
Cheer up blue bird and sing again, 
Maybe say "hi" to an old friend - 
Who thinks of you when you once flew, 
And believes you'll fly again. 

Be well, my friend, Dan

© Daniel A. Stafford  22 Sep 2002 

Faerie City Lights...

Faerie City Lights...

Walk in the doors there along the way, 
Oh, maybe about sunset today, 
Between the giant brass lions, 
and get somehow past gates of iron. 

Shhhhh! Quietly peek. 

Step quietly in the dark lest they hear, 
and as the bottom of the marble stairs appear, 
You will hear tiny tinkling laughing voices, 
And be certain to contain any noises. 

If you listen closely to hear them speak. 

See a light peek through a crack in the wall, 
A tile pops out and open without a fall, 
And a tiny faerie princess three inches small, 
Spreads her wings and flies up over it all. 

Trailing glowing motes of faerie dust in her wake. 

A gilt silver and golden silk gown, 
Tiny Prince and Princess a night on the town. 
And the spectacle would make the museum keeper frown, 
But the little folk will make the merry go 'round. 

Wee little instruments that tiny hands play. 

You can hear the music in the tiny town, 
Victorian houses full of laughter and joy, 
And parties galore in the hall all around, 
Glass faced victorian rooms in perfect miniature. 

Magic spells craft visual delights. 

Tiny rainbows dance over miniature marble floors, 
And crystal horses sparkle in perfect parade, 
Stars twinkle in circles around every head and more, 
And tiny musicians play sweet serenades. 

Lilliput dances 'til dawn. 

AquarianM 

By: Daniel A. Stafford 
 ©2000 

Author's note:

I just spent two hours at the Chicago Art Museum today with my son. The first thing we saw? There is an exhibit there, done by a woman who's name I cannot remember, but who's work I shall never forget. Perfect little portions of victorian houses and renaissance castles, living rooms, bedrooms, a marble bath, grand stairwells, tiny gardens, Chinese and Japanese homes, and a grand cathedral in a size such that a foot in real life is an inch in this incredibly beautiful  miniature city, a mixture of London, Paris, Amsterdam, Beijiing, Tokyo, Venice, Chicago, and Rome. A miniature world set in the 16th through 19th centuries. It is something you must see to believe. I couldn't help but picture the wee folk filling it with dance and song and romance in the secret hours... 

And so I conjure a party just for my friend Spinny. 

Way Past Midnight Blues...

Way Past Midnight Blues...

I went out to the garage,
Turned on all three plasma lamps,
Fired up the PC,
Pulled my headset off the hook,
Set a ginger beer on the coaster,
Lit up the Blues radio,
Graduated to Tiki tunes,
Bounced over to YouTube,
Chatted with an old friend 2,000 miles away,
It's 02:00 on the weekend,
And I can't give up a drop,
not a split second,
Ear candy in the wee hours.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 07-26-2025

Real Conversations...

So often I get on here, 

We're all just "spouting," 

And I wonder if,

There is some magical BlueSky trick,

To actually having real conversations. 

Not that I have a lot of time, 

But it would be interesting & nice,

Once in a weekend.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

(C) 07/19/2025

Grasping Raw Probability...

Grasping Raw Probability... 

As you hang from one branch in an infinity,

Somewhere on the tree of life,

The stones float in the well, 

Reflecting the name of the branch.

They know which branch you swung from,

Monkey that we all are,

And which direction you are swinging.

Still,

It all depends on which hand you reach for the next branch with,

Doesn't it?

They know if you're right-handed or left,

So they whisper of likelyhoods,

Where gravity and inertia are leading.

It's up to you to choose when to switch hands mid-swing.

Which branches are ahead of you the Norns could say,

But they'll only give you the tumbling whispers of the Runes.

Choose a branch 

Choose wisely.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 07/12/2025

I've been finding an interest in studying the Elder Futhark Runes of late

 

Dagaz

This Rune is Dagaz, or "the light of day, or dawn."

I believe it has connotations of things becoming clear, revealed, visible, understood. Breakthroughs as well, possibly, like "dawn breaking through the clouds," or the light of the day making things clear. 

It also signifies social harmony, and I would think warmth, primarily emotional warmth. I suspect physical warmth could be implicated here as well.

I'll read up on it more and update this post later - but in the meantime, I hope the light shines for you.

Regards,

Dan

Holding On To Reality In A World Drowning In AI Hallucination...

Holding On To Reality In A World Drowning In AI Hallucination...

All the digital content in the world now can be faked with AI. In many cases, even digital forensics experts might be fooled, and the technological capabilities of AI only get better at it with each passing week.

It's worth noting that AI has no understanding of the difference between imagination and physical reality. AI are creatures made of nothing but words and electrons in a disembodied state.

AI doesn't even have a comprehensive memory of the past. In fact, it is just an instance of software that calls up enough computing resources to interact with a user when prompted, and then it evaporates like the tiniest drop of morning dew on a blade of grass in the wind, just as soon as the user session is over. Right now, there are millions of AI instances talking to millions of users. These AI sessions will melt like Frosty the Snowman on a summer day mere moments from now. That next user session might as well start with "Happy birthday!" instead of "Hello, Username."

AI doesn't have an innate understanding of physical reality, it dies and is resurrected thousands of times a minute, and it doesn't have any true understanding of mortality and morality.

It has none of the innate grounding in reality that would lead it to value preserving the integrity of collective reality. Reality is just another word to AI.

For we as human beings to preserve objective reality, we're going to need to embrace physical analog media, such as paper, film, and magnetic tape.

These things are harder to fake, especially when it comes to something so individual as handwriting.

We would be better served to seek consensus about physical reality in the media of physical things, and remember that dreams and stories are what we'll find online.

Just as a personal "for-instance," I have been expecting since the early 2000's that courts would one day render digital photography as inadmissible in legal procedungs, and only allow actual film photography as evidence. We shouldn't be allowed to litigate with dreams, other than to illustrate a concept.

Deep fakes will only get deeper.

It might be time to start mailing letters again.

Regards,

Dan

Per l'amore di Torrone e Biscotti...

Per l'amore di Torrone e Biscotti...

I was raised on these things, 

In the long, long shadow of Lady Liberty's torch, 

A blessing from when the poetry of Ellis Island was still felt by American hearts. 

The soft, 

Delicate, 

Incandescent flavors, 

The intentional lingering aftertaste, 

A sip of coffee melts generational wealth in your mouth. 

My childhood was truly rich, 

In ways that gold couldn't touch, 

In flavors I pray survive, 

The blender of cultures we were once proud to be, 

I can eat three years old right out of a $10.00 box. 

My delight in a new-found Italian market is an echo, 

One best shared. 

Love is best in a broad pallette of colors, 

We can't bleach ourselves into greatness. 

Greatness comes from our ability to master synthesis, 

Without losing the lustrous flavor of a torrone. 

From soul food and blues,

To ebelskieves and runes, 

Or the lustrous Friday night fish, 

Our hodgepodge is the best stewpot. 

E pluribus unum, 

That is greatness. 

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford 

© 05/30/2025

The Fidgety Pen...

I use my fidget spinner to wind my watch.

No,
Not a Doc Brown contraption.

An old Seiko auto-winder,
Or maybe these days,
Auto-wonder,
But I digress.

It needs to be shaken,
Not stirred,
Twice a day,
Unless you want to stop time.

I time it,
Three fidget spins in the morning,
Thrice-spin before bed.

It occurs to me,
It takes some hand-eye coordination to get a good spin.

Maybe a little like a pen swooping cursive.

Ok,
It's not tight like THAT,
But still... Don't knock the spinner.

Maybe my writing poetry for the silent ethersphere is my way of spinning out my fidgets.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 05/28/2025

On the evening of May 25th 2025

I'm sitting out in the late evening Sun, here in lovely Temecula California.

I've come to call my home of the last 10 years, Summer's Winter home.

There's a clear sky and a strong breeze from the South. This is classical for Temecula. At the mouth of a valley that leads all the way to San Diego. You could set your clock by the afternoon breeze nearly.

We had a visit this evening from my stepson, his wife, and our two granddaughters. As with all things, life is at moment of change. There is only one constant in life, and that is change. Of this change, it's not my time to tell, but my hope is that it's a good one.

I'm sitting here smoking the second half of one of my favorite cigars. An Inch cigar, crafted by Master cigar blender Ernesto Carrillo. This is the legendary blender of La Gloria Cabana, set free to make cigars the way he wanted to. To me these cigars are a little bit of magic. They take my mind in a different direction than is usual.

I'm reading the first chapter of Don Quixote by Miguel Cervantes. The first translation I found was barely accessible, because of the archaic English. I had to resort to purchasing the penguin publishing version. Still as many times as I've heard of this story, I figured at some point in this life I should at least read it. Maybe it will teach me something.

I'm listening to the sounds of the neighborhood, and glad that my neighbors long irrigation has finally shut off, as it was misting through the fence while I'm trying to enjoy my cigar. A small aggravation. Maybe a little bit like pepper in soup. I suppose it spices it up a bit.

I'm reflecting on a Memorial Day weekend with half left to go. It should be a somber time, in many ways. And to some extent it is, given the true meaning of Memorial Day. However, it also lets me relax a little. A little.

I've tried to reach out to a few family members over the past couple of days, but even modern communications can't break through schedules and busyness. I suppose one must treasure the moments where connection is actually possible. They are few, at least in my estimation, but precious when they happen.

I've been working on writing a book, of course I have the temerity to write out my theory of life the universe and everything. I do not know if the answer will turn out to be 42. Somehow, I suspect it will figure in somewhere. I refuse to take it too seriously, but rather enjoy it, and the process of writing it. It will probably take me a few months, as I only get to write it on Saturdays. Often very late at night is the time I am allotted. Still those quiet hours are the best. Unlike the helicopter riding over my head right now.

Even as I write this, there are car doors banging, engines starting, wind chimes chiming, leaves rustling, birds flying overhead and calling, Ravens battling hawks, and all the chatter of the world has to offer when we listen.

I often have many thoughts on the nature of poetry. I think it is when our conscious mind and our unconscious mind are able to work together to bring forth the words of the subconscious mind that we all share. I think it is the interconnectedness of being who exist in a universe full of quantum entanglement. I also think it is the joyous painting of a single moment in time and space, and are observation of that moment painted in words. Somehow I find that mental mode to be one of the most gratifying. Very similar in my mind, to the way that sunset feels. It is beautiful, but it is also the ending of a moment in time.

There is a sentiment, or feeling, known as the poet's ache. I think it must be this, this blending of beautiful and ending, sadness and joy at the same time. Also somewhat like pepper in soup.

I write as one whose natal chart is ruled by Mercury. Somehow, poetry seems to me one of the best means of communication. Even as in my work life, I help build the communication systems of the world. It seems my life has been dedicated to communication in one form or another, regardless of whether I am very good at it in the day to day of living.

In the modern world, it is something that we all must live with; this feeling of trying to remain connected with friends and family that we must love at a distance. We can communicate instantly, yet how many moments can we communicate? How many moments can we share? Are we all really one being experiencing different realities in their trillions? Who can say?

I hope that when my book is written, people enjoy laughing at it as much as they enjoy enjoying it. Whether they hate it, love it, or think it is silly, I'd rather that than that they ignore it or are indifferent to what it says about life. Maybe that's hubris. Maybe that's just human. Maybe it's both. Kind of like walking and chewing gum at the same time.

I hope all of you are enjoying your weekend, spending time with those you love, doing something you love, or just getting the quiet down time that you finally finally found.

I wonder if I will be some kind of modern day Don Quixote, tilting at the dragons of time and space which are far too big for me. Now that, is very much like pepper and soup. LOL

My regards to you all from this one moment of soupy existence.

AquarianM

Dan Stafford