AquarianM and the Heart of Winter post 00001:

It was a chilly December morning, and school was getting out for Christmas tomorrow. Most of the students here were boarding students who lived on the school grounds in the old dormitories. Soft white flakes were falling out of the grey skies and just beginning to cover the grass, which was still a bit green from the last vestiges of Summer. The younger children were playing out in the schoolyard and the older kids were congregated in groups, some small, some large. Anyone looking on from the road might not have noticed much but the gargoyles on the building corners and the old style architecture of the building, unless they just happened to see a snowball curve in mid flight to miss it’s target, or perhaps a passing glance at a child wearing a non-human face for a moment. Magic was generally forbidden outside of school buildings, but sometimes the temptation was just too great to resist, especially for the younger students.

Everyone was hugely excited today, because not only of the holiday tomorrow, but tomorrow was also the day that the graduating students would be told their wizard names. Everyone has a common name given by their parents at birth, or perhaps even a very goofy name, but their whizzyrding name was something else all together. A proper whizzyrding name was not only a mage’s signature in magical circles, but also the key to many of the advanced spells he or she had been taught in the last year. Without a Truename ceremony, most magic users who failed to graduate became not much more than gifted Commons. Oh, they might know parlor tricks and be invulnerable in snowball fights with Commons, but they would almost never manage higher spells. And most that had did so through becoming Singularity mages, or wizards so dark that the very light seemed to vanish anywhere near them.

Four friends were sitting watching the rest of the children from beneath their favorite tree, and old huge cherry that had been hit by lightning many, many years ago. The lightning scar on the tree incredibly looked like a perfect spiral, as if the lightning had swirled as it burned into the tree. The four often referred to their small group as the Spiral Arm Band, a sort of club name one of their number had come up with after studying galactic structures in Astronomy and Advanced Astrology. Sometimes the spiral burn in the wood glowed softly at sunset, but no one now living knew this, and it’s subtle appearance could easily be mistaken as a trick of the light.

“So do you think all of us will be Named tomorrow, Sarah?” asked Daniel Neilsen. Sarah had the habit of knowing things that would be forthcoming, as in Knowing. She was considered by the staff at the school to be the best student in Prescience that had come along in over a hundred years. Her near white blond hair and ice blue eyes gave her a very cold appearance, and she seemed to see through to the core of anyone she looked at with her pale gaze. Sarah VanRossen was tall for her age and very slender, almost willowy, but much stronger than most gave her credit for. The first time they met her, that is. Daniel appeared to come from similar stock, but he had a more earthy appearance relative to Sarah. He was very tall with dark blond hair and steel grey blue eyes, and a keen and quiet intelligence was unmistakable in his gaze. Very seldom did he ever have difficulty with learning anything in his classes, but he was often interested in things far removed from what was happening in his immediate vicinity, which gave him the reputation of being a daydreamer. He had the feeling that if the teachers at the school knew of the theories he ran through the grey matter between his ears, their hair would curl up on their heads, smoke, and shrivel away to nothing. “All I Sight at the moment is white snow swirling, Dan. Every thing I See now is snow and ice everywhere. I do not understand this vision.” A puzzled expression instantly appeared on three faces and troubled glances were fleetingly exchanged. “That’s all right, Sarah, I’m sure we will be, we’ll just have to practice what the Faith teacher taught us this fall.” Dan replied.

Beth Pritchard spoke up. “She’s probably just seeing the blizzard approaching, which will blanket the grounds tomorrow to hide the ceremony. You know they have to hold that under the stars and outdoors, and they call a blizzard every year, and put an Eye of Calm out to hold a clear zone over the school so the stars are out here during the ceremony.” Beth was petite and had coal black hair and eyes, like looking into the night. They absorbed everything they took in and only gave a trace of reflection at the pupils.

Jamar Westhaven laughed and put an arm around Beth in a friendly hug. His dark eyes twinkled with merriment and a keen wit, he was usually the jovial one in the group, and this was no exception “Beth, you have to watch it here, you might turn Sarah into the weather lady on Rockford TV!” He was tall, not quite as tall as Daniel, but close. They both gave the basket ball coach the Hebegevis curse one year at the local Common high school when he saw them playing in mid-air. The effect of the curse was rather funny, because it changed the memory of the person to seem as if everything was actually ordinary and the curse victim had just had a strange waking daydream. The only known side effects were a severe case of goose bumps and spine tingles for several minutes after the spell dissipated.

“Hey, Dan,” said Jamar, “You going to show us any whiz-bang in Technomagic today?” “You being the top student on record an’ all.” Daniel smiled an enigmatic smile and said “You’ll just have to wait and see with the rest of the class, Jamar, but I promise you that you will not be bored at the finals project display.” North American Whizzyrds had a pride in their ability to magic Common technological items and blend the technology with whizzyrding to conserve the use of the world’s magic. It was not uncommon in lower level classes to see things like rulers that would control the actions of pets, or even electronic hand held games that brought their games to seeming life in the middle of the room for all to see. One of the first things that the students learned was to craft items that required the wielder to input just a small flicker of magical energy to the item before it would react by fulfilling it’s intended magical function. This kept any Common who might stumble across it from discovering it’s extra-normal nature.

The Technomagic teacher in Seventh level had learned early to keep close tabs on what Daniel was doing when he had magicked a Common magnifying glass so that it would absorb all the sunlight within the bounds of the horizon one could see. It would then concentrate the light into a beam the size of a pencil lead that would vaporize through any non-magical material that could be found, including diamonds. They had discovered his toy when the sky suddenly went pitch black one afternoon. They had discovered Daniel with a hasty Seek spell. The young whizzyrd had had a look of utter concentration on his face while cutting a diamond, the engagement ring it belonged in, the floor, the ground under the floor, and who knows what else below that in the library. That particular toy was now on display at the North American Whizzyrd College library under the strongest Ensconce spell the Dean could muster. Thirteen additional whizzyrds had also added Ensconce spells as well. It would take a whizzyrd’s dozen to unlock it for use, and if any of them were to die, the key to the Ensconcement would pass out of the world with them. The college was located in an abandoned military base somewhere out in the desert that had a reputation for strange things flying it’s skies, which allowed a greater freedom for the college to experiment undetected. It was the Spiral Arm members agreed upon wish to all attend there after graduating in order to advance their magical skills. Secretly, however, they also hoped to advance the art of Whizzyrdry through their contributions to magical knowledge.

Daniel reached into his jacket and pulled out a package folded in a cloth Tarot card wrap. “I have a present for each of you here.” he announced. All the other three looked at him curiously, in this case even Sarah didn’t know what he had. “What is it, Dan?” asked Jamar. Daniel carefully unwrapped the cloth and uncovered four beautifully carved wooden spirals on leather thongs, gleaming in even the grey wintry sky’s muted light. Each was covered with tiny runes and Celtic knots, forming a spiral that led to a single crystal in its center. Sarah gasped as she saw the crystals. “Those are Witness Tears!” she breathed. Each crystal was the solidified tear of an honest witness of an act of devotion, solidified with a touch of Earth magic and very rare. Whatever magic they were employed in could not be corrupted by any means, magical or non. “Yes, “ said Daniel. “Should any of us ever be in dire peril and need, they can be invoked by the owner and cause all four of us to appear at the Mill Pond raceway. Their secret place had been a small cave near the old Mill Pond in the countryside, just out of the city on highway 81.

You see, the Chandler School of Whizzyrdry was located on the grounds of what had once been an old orphanage in the countryside of Wisconsin, just west of a small town called Beloit. As far as the Commons in the small cities around the area knew, a rich eccentric had bought the old place and remodeled it to appear like an old English country house, and opened a boarding school for gifted students on the property. It was set back off the road a bit and the huge yard was bordered by a rural route and a line of large trees on one side, and a stand of dense trees and brush on the other three. A small creek ran past the back of the property just inside the tree line, and a stout and well maintained limestone wall ran along the road, the old trees growing over it. At night, Weredogs patrolled the property, scaring off any curious youngsters and keeping the school’s true nature quite secure. The school was commonly rumored in Beloit to be so exorbitantly expensive that no local family had attempted to enroll a child. That is, until Daniel Neilsen. He had been born into a Beloit family during the Grand Stellium in Aquarius in February of 1962. His early Astrology master had looked very curiously at his chart, then at the young boy standing in front of him. “Seven planets in Aquarius at birth, and we shall see what we shall se, young Daniel! In the last 250 years of planetary revolution, seven planets in one sign, what I term a Grand Stellium, has occurred only nine times.”
Daniel had of course walked away determined to find out what that meant.

The four were walking inside to attend their final Transmagic class, and passed by an open door. Beth Pritchard heard a brief snatch of conversation waft out into the hall. “…before there is never Winter again, Stanley. Dean Whithers at the NAWC has called an All Whizzyrds official board gathering for three days from now on the subject. It is of the gravest nature, Sir!” Beth heard an unfamiliar voice coming from the school administrative offices, and whoever it was must have been talking to the school principal, Stanley Segrenth. “One moment, let me..” she heard the principal say. Then they all felt the unmistakable small hum in their stomachs and the slight bending of the light called a Serge that accompanied the use of nearby magick. Clearly the Principal had used a Muffle spell to cover the conversation, because even the small background noises from the offices stopped. The other three stopped talking and looked around upon feeling the Serge as well. Beth resolved to tell them what she’d heard immediately after class, but they had to go now before they were late. None of them wanted to jeopardize their chances of getting Named tomorrow!

They arrived in Transmagic just in time, and the door was still open and unwarded. Mr. Sailings was usually quite intent on closing the classroom when the class bell struck. His personal pet peeve was being late for anything, and he considered being tardy every bit as atrocious as being absent, so if a student didn’t arrive precisely on time, they would find the door locked and magically warded from entry. Most students figured this out one of two ways. They either found themselves locked out of what often was a young whizzyrd’s most interesting class, or they found themselves in the Principal’s office facing their last school reprimand before their parents were brought in to the situation. The latter was extremely rare. You see, Transmagic was actually short for Transportation Magic. It was quite the whizzyrd’s equivalent to the Common schools’ Drivers’ Education classes, but it started at a much earlier grade and lasted through several years of schooling. And since Mr. Sailings’ specialty was Transmagic, his reputation had always been hinged on the skill of timely arrival, which made a certain sense of his punctuality peeve. He also had a certain fondness for leather coats, cardigan scarves, slicked back hair, and aviator glasses. One could say that winter was definitely his time of year. He also was quite a favorite of most students, as not only did he teach a subject that granted the students much greater freedom of movement in their lives, he also was quite kindly aside from the punctuality peeve. His choice as favorite teacher was not an exception of the Spiral Arm Band, either.

Jamar smoothly swung into his seat, looking forward to the last day of his favorite class, as were the other students. Daniel and Sarah slid into seats behind him and next to each other, Beth found herself one seat removed and to his right, making it certain she couldn’t pass a note to any of her band mates. For seated directly between Beth and Jamar was the most hideous gossiping popular snoop, Lisa Syzens. Lisa Syzens, with her big red hair, blue eyes, big letterman’s’ sweater, and loud red nails, and wicked rumors. She had once started a rumor that Beth was sweet on one of her teachers, and the whole school had teased her for weeks, asking silly things like if she was hiding apples in various places about her person, and other unmentionable trash. All because she had kindly offered her help when the teacher had asked for volunteers to help clean up the lab. No, she certainly was NOT attempting anything while Miss Megaphone was anywhere within half a mile. Then the usual happened. Lisa turned her big red head towards Beth, and sneered. “It’s so kind of you to consent to join us, Miss Last Minute Betty Preacher.” Beth just gritted her teeth and did her best to act like there was a dust speck occupying the seat next to her. A couple of Loud Lisa’s yes-bunny friends heard and sniggered nastily. She was saved as Mr. Sailings began his end of term speech.

To be continued...



By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 01/2002

Fallen Leaves:

It was in the chill of a dark night,
I was walking alone up on Barrows Hill,
The wind was a flicker of cold breath,
Dancing with whispers through the reaching trees and brambles.

It caught my eye faint but persistent,
A soft glow off in the distance,
Toward the biers and hummocks and stones,
In the quiet place where leaves have fallen,
Naught to pick them or rake,
Great drifts whirling in the lonely dark.

I slowly edged through the night,
Pulled in the direction of a soft reflection,
As I broke through the darkness under giant oaks,
The clearing of the stones rose above me on the hill,
Markers parading up to the sky,
Occasionally one fallen,
Cut out a dark line through the stars,
There wheeling over the top.

It was a lonely little Jack O' Lantern,
A tenacious little candle flame whickering aflutter,
Perched atop the stone of one named Rose,
An artful wreath of fallen leaves and withered dry roses,
Round about the marker's cold base,
A soft glow amidst the kingdom of sightless dark,
Even the moon was fallen from the sky.

A soft glow alone in the night,
Surrounded by cold stones named and fallen leaves,
A yellowed parchment envelope sitting wax sealed,
Atop the marker under the glowing gourd,
Whose smile was carved wistful with no malice,
I dared not break the seal in such a place,
Yet I couldn't help but see it's tender address,
"To Darling Rose my tender leaf,
Who fell on All Hallows Eve,
With love eternal."

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C)_ 10/30/2004

Author's comments:
This one fell out of imagination and into prose.

Last Ride Of The Black Hat...

It was the last dregs of twilight in a bloody season,
Too many scalps hanging from the saddle,
Pale ones too it didn't matter with this hombre,
He'd shoot the fingers off a baby of it would turn a buck,
Look forward without sweating,
Practiced in the art of denial,
He'd repeat the story until even he remembered the lies,
Walking under the stars alone,
He'd rode his nag into bones in the desert,
No firewood it was frigid out here,
Even the rattlesnakes were ducked under the dunes,
But there were rumblings beneath his feet,
The Earth opened underneath him,
Searing at four thousand degrees pardner,
The voices you'd thought delivered to damnation,
Howling for your blood,
Even the shrieking sheiks you'd tussle with,
Welcome to the Hell you tried to create.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 10/29/2004

Author's Comments:
Trick or treat! Anyone come to mind?

Bwaaaahahahahaaaaa!!

River Fest...

I was born in a little town in the Midwest,
In the heart of Winter when it was the harshest cold,
In a small industrial town with a mighty river run through it's heart,
The length of the city it flows,
From far North in Wisconsin down to the big Mississippi,
Seeming to freeze over in this time,
Never believe moving water is more than passingly solid,
Stay far from the dam,
The water is green with a strong scent as such rivers like to be,
People have been drowned in it from time to time,
And such is the nature of rivers...


In the summertime when the leaves are green,
It's hot by the river and there is a long park along it's Eastern bank,
Maybe two miles and a bit more,
The trees are large and towering mostly,
The lagoon where the pedal boats play has a warming house,
They plow it for skating in colder winters,
But in the joyous Summer the leaves and water are green,
And everyone from here goes out that weekend,
In boats packed like a school,
In flowing human rivers of feet,
Strolling up and down the sidewalk there are carnival rides,
Bright colored lights and popcorn and hot dogs and cotton candy,
Children darting forever around the trees and laughing on the rides,
And all along the park stages and music -
Country bands - blues bands - rock bands - polka bands,
Time crosses over in a small town and the river flows seemingly slow,
Cheap Trick is on the big stage again tonight,
Way down by Portland Ave - local boys from twenty minutes away,
This river runs through their town too,
For all of us it's banks are stuck in our definition of home.


In child days I walked hand-holding along these banks and sidewalks,
Seeing all the rides and dreaming of being frightened out of my wits,
Sugar cookie in the hand not in Noni's and it was Summer,
Bright lights and lightning bugs were filling my eyes,
The cotton candy puffs were like giant balls of wished-for Heaven,
And I learned to stay a good bit back from the river,
Because I might fall in and drown,
And there would be pasta with meatballs on the table tonight,
When the teenagers and twentylings owned this place,
These lights by the river and the endless flowing sounds.


In first love days I walked hand-holding along these banks,
She had bright blue eyes the color of pale ice like when I was born,
Raven hair and part Native American only neither of us used those words for it,
I almost missed the carnival lights by the river completely,
Every ten minutes we ran into friends somewhere in the flow down the sidewalk,
All going to see Cheap Trick play for the first time here,
River fest was growing and my dreams were growing,
Dangerously I swam the currents,
Never knowing her ice blue eyes were the river,
I reveled in my strength swimming,
In joy in that season before the ice came,
I had flashbacks of cotton candy and lights,
She had another man's ring and children later that Winter,
And I swam in the green scented waters freezing and thawing for ten years,
Drifting with whatever flotsam would keep me breathing,
While Summer became half over.


In what I thought were growing up days I walked hands-free along these banks,
Seeing children care-free and lovers and old friends missed since last year,
Or was it the Riverfest five years ago,
Or maybe two but they were here again,
Where the carnival rides played their music and I wondered,
Wishing I were hand-holding here along these banks,
Standing alone as the rock and roll washed over me,
Drinking and walking because I could and it's what we did,
Dancing now and then and pretty eyes reflected the carnival ride lights,
Passing me by like the green water of the river twenty feet away,
But I cared less about cotton candy,
And the hot dogs with chili were all right,
Don't hold the blues on the halfway stage,
Twentyling swimming the riverfest,
Still caught in last year's ice.


In one short summer I walked hand-holding along these banks,
Seeing an occasional old friend and saying hello,
How many years has it been now,
Proud and beaming like the lights on the joyrides,
Awash in the rock and roll she had auburn hair and cinnamon apple eyes,
And I was swimming in the water as I walked,
Understanding it could drag you down dogged my heels,
Worrying like a child wanting to be on the rides,
Hoping the cotton candy was going to be sweet,
Unconscious and vividly awake at the same time,
Cheap Trick was playing the big stage,
And I ate the hot dogs and chili gratefully,
Glad to give whatever I had and in love like a doormat,
Begging for even the touch of cold feet,
I learned after that Summer was gone like the carnival lights,
That no one can respect someone swimming in a river of obsession,
No matter how beautiful the pretty lights and cotton candy,
Too sweet is too sweet is the wisdom,
Yet the ride on the other side of the sidewalk was it was a great summer,
That I'll love likely all my life,
And the green water still flows along and the dregs of that summer,
Long flowed down the Mississippi and out to sea,
Like an old tramp steamer you miss her and all the dancing but she can't keep you,
The stage is empty and they turned out the rock and roll lights.


In another time I walked hand-holding down these banks,
Not seeing a single soul I knew,
Styx was warming up for Cheap Trick on the big stage,
It was hot in the Summer night,
Children were darting and crowds were flowing up and down,
Circling the sidewalk circle under the stars and big trees,
Red and green and white boat lights and the occasional firefly,
Glow stick necklaces and the music blaring from the rides,
And I felt solid ground beneath my feet,
A warm hand in mine as the bands played,
Noni and Nono were on the other side of town,
Years in the ground but right here along this river of green water,
Mom was fading to ashes but I didn't know it yet,
Honey was unimpressed with this little town.


But I was born on this river and the music was good,
There was real gold on my finger and I was far from drowning,
The bratwurst and coke were tasting great,
Funny thing it still feels like home,
I've left and come back so many times,
I could feel these banks under my feet and never mistake it,
Maybe next summer I won't be on the pager,
The carnival will set up and the moon will shine on the river,
The bands will play all up and down the heart of the city,
After all this is Rock River we're speaking of,
And I will walk the banks searching for long-forgotten faces,
Yes my brother's out there on his boat,
Got two little boys just like him now,
I'm not sure if Dad or Sis came down this year,
Yeah they're still around here,
No my other Sis is up in Madison,
My other brother's living in the area still,
Step brother's out in Michigan and got married,
How's your mother and your brother,
Yeah Beloit doesn't change that much does it,
By the way how long has it been,
Since I last saw you at Riverfest, here along the Rock?


I was born in a little town in the Midwest,
In the heart of Winter when it was the harshest cold,
In a small industrial town with a mighty river run through it's heart,
The length of the city it flows,
From far North in Wisconsin down to the big Mississippi,
Seeming to freeze over in this time,
Never believe moving water is more than passingly solid,
Stay far from the dam,
The water is green with a strong scent as such rivers like to be,
People have been drowned in it from time to time,
And such is the nature of rivers...

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 10/26/2004

Author's Comments:
I just woke up a few minutes ago, I'd been dreaming of old friends and back home.

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 titles are for sale at:
www.lulu.com/Daniel-Stafford

Early Morning At The No Name Cafe:

Life is something ticking in the city,
When the sun comes out you only find it by looking at reflections,
Steel and concrete and glass cocoon you,
There in the No Name Cafe they have bright colors,
Back in the corner of the building,
Only those at this address know,
No signs at all anywhere,
Nothing in the windows facing out to the bustling streets,
But they speak spanish and flip up eggs and sausage with a smile,
Corned beef hash only on Fridays,
Change from mariachi to light hits at seven,
Always cheerful to precede sun or rain,
Clutching my umbrella I order up,
Surrounded by brilliant yellow walls,
Grilled potatoes with onions and bell pepper shreddings,
Breakfast sausage links and a bottle of orange juice,
One plastic fork and two paper packets of salt,
A single napkin and those fifties tables and chairs,
Yellow and green vinyl and formica with banded chrome,
Stainless legs polished gleaming off checker tile floors,
The scents and early morning faces smiling in greeting,
Finished I pop the swiveling trash can lid,
Whip out the revolving glass door with the second half of cigar,
Pop my umbrella from it's folded up respite,
Strut between raindrops under my tote-a-roof in green,
Elevate up to the sixth floor of the parking ramp,
I close the umbrella and lean on the concrete wall,
Flick the lid open on my Zippo *snick*,
Light up and puff as I look down on the sidewalk,
A river of umbrella colors moving in some semblance of order,
I look up at the buildings with all their glass windows,
Seeing the billions of individual drops in the cascade outlined in hive relief,
Zipping up the black sweat jacket full and relaxed,
I just left work for the day,
After stopping by No Name Cafe.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 10/13/2004

Author's Comments:
I wanted to write this a few days ago, but it just popped out today.

Time Of Fire And Gold:

Everywhere, everywhere,
The leaves are burning without smoke,
Sun or grey skies the fields glint of gold and harvest,
The land is calling to be taken and I walk the hills and paths in my dreams,
The honking of vast clouds of geese circling whirling over corn,
Blackbirds fill the trees and wires,
The burning bush is rampant and replicated innumerably,
I landed in a field of harvested corn with still neat rows,
Walking in the morning that should be silent,
But the geese are speaking in volumes and I long for open hills,
Free of the concrete burdens of clocks and city,
This is no time of life for lifeless lines and angles,
Give me the wild disarray of red and orange and gold leaves,
The sprawled leaves lying in evidence of harvested corn,
The endless wisps and blankets of grey fall clouds,
Breath on the wind and following the sun and moon,
Haunted nights speak to me of dreams and changing guard,
I am ancient in the fields and reminiscent of fire in stone circles,
Of stealth in the woods and grasses and wielded hoe and scythe,
Of dancing to echoing drums by firelight 'round golden sheaves,
Watched by the blazing yellow of Jack 'O Lantern eyes and such ilk,
Silent in the moment of drawn bow in my mind like Orion in the night,
The world is starting to turn here in earnest,
The world is ablaze,
I am bathed in the time of Fire and Gold.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 10/13/2004

Author's Comments:
Fall is an incredible gift.



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.

Birds Diving Off Wires:

Must have been a flock of fifty,
Up against all the greyed-over sky,
A day for old blues piano,
Solid voices roll over golden grass,
Singing songs of falling love ends,
Fires as painful as burning leaves,
Guitars twang and echo,
Blinga blinga blue like cold creek water,
Another Fall season burns,
Birds are diving off wires,
Flocking South in the grey-blue sky,
And I am thankful I've found home.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 10/13/2004

Author's Comments:
Listening to old blues on a fall drive.

State Of Crisis:

It's a sad sickness these days,
The thousands and thousands of messages,
A never ending litany of fear and fire,
The flames of the Beast must be stamped out,
And I'm hopping upon e-mail after e-mail,
Dancing like a clown in too-small shoes.

In every place I look the Beast seems to be raging.

Slowly I'm coming to realize,
Some subtle understanding of change behind my eyes,
In the analysis of near poetic standstill,
I've come to a state of crisis,
Barely able to lift my hand to dip pen in ink,
Let alone delisciously stroke the page.

In every place I look the beast seems to be raging.

What the soul says is the answer is hard to believe,
It's wispy and willowy and ephemeral and electric,
It's a dance of the merger of physics and spirit,
Some might call it even shamanistic,
In every place I look the Beast seems to be raging,
Until I look inside my heart.

Defuse the state of crisis,

I refuse to be a lonely heart.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 10/07/2004

Author's Comments:
KNOW the Beast will lose. KNOW that Spirit will win.
JOIN in.

Candlejack's Night:

It was deep in a moonlit night,
Amber was writ large in Luna's face on the horizon,
Even as she danced in and out of a veil of thin black cloud,
Frost was gilded like white on grass and stone,
Deep in the woods even the magical Little People stayed far from,
The occasional star peeping through the night,
Peering down through shadows upon a long cold trail,
Overgrown nearly with ripping brambles,
Flush in the rustling of flaming October leaves,
If it were daylight you'd see the red,
Now just a black cowbell of announcement for lost feet.

She wandered between groping black oaks,
Wicked buckthorn dressed in black cloaked night tearing the sky,
Stones now began lining the sides of the path,
A soft green glow tracing the lines of ancient characters upon them,
A language she didn't know at all,
But the path was clear now,
Even cobwebs had fled the darkness of this place,
And in the eerie glow of Stonerune light,
She could feel every drop of crimson pulse in her veins,
Every beat within her shivering chest was amplified,
Spine chills and hackle-raising tingle flames on the back of her neck,
Yet she couldn't bear going back into the woods,
Hearing the rustling of some creature back at the first stones,
Pawing and huffing and a mournful howl thrown into the long night,
Resigned she stumbled on and on.

Set now upon smaller stone pedestals that danced the sides of a monolithic valley,
Giant pumpkins with glowing red candle faces carved in them,
Pools of softly glowing light illuminated leaves fallen from the heights,
The only thought of life and bounty to drift into this bleak place,
Save her and her wayward lost feet that wouldn't stop cold,
Something daylight's more rational tone might have stressed,
Far more so when the first pile of small creature bones appeared,
There in the candles' puddle of orange-yellow glow,
Feet that carried her unasked,
As each candle stand claimed it's own bony pool.

Wide eyes and silent scream the Candlejack leapt out of the dark,
Towering stick body supporting a huge pumpkin head,
Vile purple glow in the carved-looking eyes,
The curl of bony fingers danced snakes across her soft throat,
She whimpered as her bones shrank back,
Her mind was beyond stopped,
Another spirit soared the sky as Candlejack,
Screamed and something lifeless fell,
There at the base of the pumpkin stand,
Harvest of another Fall and victim of her own fear,
For Candlejack's cold rest was again undisturbed,
The silent tomb was brushed with one more falling drifting leaf.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 10/07/2004

Author's Comments:
Inspired by the season.

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.

---

Remnants of Gold:

Late afternoon in low sun like a dying year,
Gone to bursting milkweed and dead amber everywhere,
Flaming leaves dueling in ageless dance with still-yet green,
Walking round the trail the river is slowly flowing reflection,
Hand in hand we wonder at stalks and leaves and tufted seed,
Flight is a marvel as the vee circles again and again,
Hovering over golden corn stubble low and slow,
Like this sky without a cloud,
And they mate for life just as they gather in the harvested corn,
Hundreds and hundreds and voices of forever,
The sun is falling and we're walking past the barn,
Boarded up with it's children long gone away,
The sky will be all stars tonight and sheets over the mums,
A hard freeze will come they say,
It never ends but it ends every year,
We'll turn to sweaters and coats as tawny returns,
Tawny in every corner of the world and gold in the sky,
The turn of sunlight angle speaks to your soul of time,
In the manner of stone-shouldered hills and book-pressed flowers,
The world bears fruit despite harsh masters,
Yet the amber prairie bones fill our eyes,
Calling for a healing long overdue.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 10/05/2004

Author's Comments:
We have duties and we have treasures.

Dreaming In Druid:

Sitting in a calm chair slowly,
Early October afternoon sunshine drips between my crossed feet,
Like the wax of a candle made of whispering yellow leaves,
Falling and drifting and rising in spinning glee amber,
Tall grass rustling in tune to the wind dance,
Wildly gyrating young leaf-spangled Oak and Maple,
Cloud of blackbird flock endless whirl in the visions haunting me,
Someday to walk in a church with no roof,
All stone heavy immense and thick breathes in slow flowing heat,
Candles flickering in the twilight as leaves spin rustle round pews,
Stone seats that pass through time like soft water parted,
Broken bits of fallen leaf fade to soil in time,
Source of all God's gifts are in the rich black Earth we turn,
And the secret whispered by the stars and echoed on wind,
Along with dominion comes stewards' responsibilities.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 10/04/2004

Author's comments:
Genesis 1-26: Then God said, "Let us make man in our image, after our likeness; and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the birds of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creeps upon the earth." Genesis 1-29: And God said, "Behold, I have given you every plant yielding seed which is upon the face of all the earth, and every tree with seed in its fruit; you shall have them for food." Genesis 1-30: And to every beast of the earth, and to every bird of the air, and to everything that creeps on the earth, everything that has the breath of life, I have given every green plant for food." And it was so." Genesis 2-15: ¹⁵ The LORD God took the man and put him in the garden of Eden to till it and keep it.

Someone said in another forum that "walking in a chapel open to nature was unnecessary as God is everywhere we do so every day." I agree for the most part, but I've seen a chapel open to nature once before and it was distinctly beautiful. I felt it did an excellent job of allowing me to focus my thoughts on relating to God while enforcing the connection He gave us with nature. Look up New Harmony, Indiana some time. Actually, I can do one better - I'll post a few images that hopefully can illustrate the point.

Dan







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.

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

All of my currently available poetry titles are for sale at:
http://www.lulu.com/Daniel-Stafford

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.

With The Voice Of Rain:

In no uncertain terms I described the sky,
Every hue and color and their meaning to me,
The mesmerizing dance of leaf and wind and raindrop,
The utter rhythm of raindrops upon roofs,
The chill I feel at the way ideas fall on Earth,
The frightening vistas of change and passage,
How it burns that those younger do not know the value,
How it burns that I fail to see the worth of new,
In these moments I chastise myself and find youth,
In others I find staunch deliverance in timelessness,
Still leaves whisper upon the branches of trees,
Fall is filled with beautiful contrast,
Love is the final air we all breathe.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 07/22/2004

Author's Comments:
I miss old times and love new times. Sometimes I wish I were more a part of them, others I realize I am.

Rainbow Of Hope:

The thin thread of light in the sky,
The painted wisp of God-word,
Contract of peace in one fashion,

When the triple rainbow of peace falls across a Northern sky,
I will rejoice in the futures now untouched,
In the rich silk of youth coming home,
In the fine glow of the stars that just exceeded black clouds.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 07/26/2004

Author's Comments:
I will rejoice when the last person standing has walked home.

Flowers In Dull Places:

A bloom in a window,
In a yellow brick wall,
In an alley seen only,
From the height of a parking ramp,
Hearts reach everywhere,
One piece of beauty that lights the definition of invisible,
Just look where you expect nothing wondrous to live.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 07/27/2004

Author's Comments:
Inspired by a real sight in the middle of nothing in real life.

Invasion Of Bones:

The breeze blows softly,
Flowing through open truck windows,
Carrying the sounds of parking lot denizens to my ear,
Home Depot breathes in the heart of the Burbian Blob,
With the setting of the sun imminent,
I stare at the steel bones digging into concrete laid over the Earth,
Metal frame studs reaching two stories,
A see-through cut-away precursor of more blocked sky,
Where the crops once grew,
Gone - verdant fields and slow time daisies,
Creeping steel bones and parking lots.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 08/03/2004

Author's Comments:
Incessant sprawl was driven home by my surroundings.

Digging A Spark Out Of Exhaustion:

They said it'd never be done,
It was too cold a place,
All frozen ground and ice chips and whatnot,
Red-eyed like a demon with tears streaming,
Mouth yawning open every five minutes,
Yanked by the anchor to fall into the sleepy sea,
Still my fingers flew on keys like a tattered sail fluttering in a gale,
Struggling - reaching - clawing for a bit of tack,
In a humble moment of utter faith,
The sun struck down through the clouds,
The muse flew back in from Saturn or wherever,
And !WHAM! there it was on the page,
A bit of profundity and dazzlement,
Lighting up the decks and scaring off the sharks,
The oil lamp lit and my head hammered pillow down.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 08/06/2004

Author's Comments:
Weeeeee'reee Baaaaack!

Stars After Sunset:

The cool breeze of the evening whispered from the left,
Grasses waving and tree leaves danced,
Birds flew and gold lined every cloud,
The sun was fallen below the building across the street,
Cigar smoke was swirling slow and easy,
The fading blue and orange West called to me,
Haunted by the twinkling lights overhead,
The first stars winking knowing another day gone,
Further and further from roots and nostalgic longing,
Closer and closer to whatever knowledge or wisdom,
Well something like that I suppose,
The music on the new CD full of beautiful angst,
The red cherry of my cigar glows,
Still I wonder what we really know,
Thankful the only lights and sounds,
Only music and grass rustles and glowing stars and clouds,
Underneath all our worlds we know it,
The sadness is borne each day in bloody blackened sand,
Search for hope or meaning whatever you will,
Should we hurry or hold slow a major dilemma,
Another day’s light is going out,
And I want to crawl slowly through the beautiful night,
Up into the far haunted twinkling bejeweled sky.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 08/07/2004

Author's Comments:
The politics of the day seem unwilling to leave the back of my mind. I want to see right and humane choices made, want the country I grew up loving to touch once more it’s kinder and hopeful soul. I feel like we’re all searching for that somehow, like we’re all lost in a nightmare with morning glowing just out of reach.

Bannana Freeze:

Hot sunshine on endless cornfields,
The sky free of haze and open blue,
The fearsome high dive,
First time swimming under without holding your nose,
Ripples of golden light on blue-painted concrete,
In the ear-ache deep end,
Sounds magnified clicking rocks on bottom,
Flying like Superman with mask and fins,
Holding your breath until desperate tingling,
Driving up with all you can muster,
Splash fights and cannon balls,
Hating the sounds of distant thunder,
Lifeguard whistles and numbered pin in your suit,
Lying on a damp towel and hot grey concrete,
Everything from Elvis to Beatles playing,
Tinny grey bullhorn speakers,
Finally-over fifteen minutes trying not to run,
No eating they say you'll cramp up,
Fifty cents for a day in Heaven,
Hop on your bike at hot evening,
Last ten cents gets you a cherry-dipped,
Frozen luscious bannana at the Tasty Freeze,
Just a tiny-town Nebraska swimming pool.

AquarianM

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

Author's Comments:
1970 Genoa, NE, population 1050.

King Of The Orange Track:

Fifty cars strong,
Two Slingshots,
Rubber band powered zoomers,
Two loop the loops,
A California Eight set,
Juice Machine and ten Sizzlers,
Twin side-by-side thirty foot runs of orange track,
The best Hot Wheel set in town,
The pinnacle of it all,
A purple 1968 Didge Charger RT,
Would run the whole circuit every time,
Never flew off,
Eight year old King of the Orange Track.

AquarianM

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

Author's Comments:
1970 Genoa, NE

One Black And White Step:

Third grade I remember,
Teacher said it was something special,
Something completely amazing,
Rolling a black and white TV out,
Front of the room on a metal cart,
Quick draw the shades so we can all see,
I heard the tinny voice live,
Tranquility Base it's one small step,
Followed by incredible bounds,
Eagle had landed on the Moon,
And in those moments everthing had changed,
In all our hearts hope sprang forth,
Earth was tiny and beautiful,
Too small to hold us,
We'd witnessed the fire three days back,
Burning away the infancy of Mankind,
We all grew up expecting to someday fly.

AquarianM

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

Author's Comments:
Winter 1969, Genoa, NE.

August At Four A.M.

Standing over the wall four stories up,
The gentle scent of cigar smoke slows me now,
Hot perked coffee sips on my tongue,
Looking down from the parking ramp where I stand,
Each pool of street light on the world below is a little universe,
I wonder if the man pacing by the bus stop knows he's famous,
Carrying his umbrella and wearing a back pack,
Staring down the street waiting for the one that will take him,
I watch the red LED signs at the EL stop scroll,
Illuminating no one in particular,
Occasionally someone strolls down the street,
What strikes me is none of them hurry at all,
Just an easy gentle walk every one of them takes,
The low lights of empty restaurants and offices,
Apartment windows like a million dark shining mirrors,
Delivery trucks stop by the newspaper machines,
Herald or Tribune or a fresh baked batch of help wanted ads,
Cars and cabs driving easy without any edge or push,
Trees sway over sidewalks ever so slightly,
As I watch another ghost flow up up up off my cigar in the quiet,
Thinking in poetry and believing that this is the real world,
I see the clock glowing down the street on the side of a building,
Looking like the only warm frozen object under heaven,
I reach decision time with reluctance,
As the bus rolls past with people sleeping,
Will it be one more puff or two,
Before I lay something gently glowing,
In the ash tray atop the garbage can,
Thankful I'm a creature of the night,
Free of the harsh world of five minute cigarettes,
High voltage coffee shop hustles and watching a watch,
I slide into the sunset truck,
Turn up NPR's gentle Jazz hour,
Listening to the thrum of an acoustic bass expertly strummed,
Thumping easy like the ocean a saxophone floats over,
Passing the river on the draw bridge,
I see the sheen of lights rippling off it like city stars,
Out onto the barely full interstate,
As NPR slides into gently romantic latino hour musica,
And the cruise home is soft and cool with the window cracked,
Ten miles an hour less and home twenty minutes faster,
Pulling into the drive with a soft blue glow in the East,
Venus brilliant high above the approaching dawn,
I close the door and ease out the poetry of the night,
A place where you can now go without fear,
Without urgency or drama or tears,
Kiss my barely awake wife in a space of comfortable love,
And leave the day to those in high gear,
As the pillow key eases my engine off.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 08/15/2004

Author's Comments:
There are some good things about working nights.

Mirror The Eyes:

In the space of sixty blinks another story flashed in,
Watching the Watchers was the hard and fast line,
Moment after moment filled with shadows of great import,
Would that it could be,
Poetry can make of no less reality the flood,
Your eyes wide open are all that stand,
Sooner break a leg than leave the booth unattended,
There's a call to duty in the push of a button,
The reason you're not walking laryngitis,
The flash of a silver handle flicker,
If you say it doesn't matter and walk,
Don't waste your bacon grease,
Considering you left your eggs in everyone else's basket,
Shut your mouth as everyone else feeds,
It doesn't matter it's an overflowing flood of ink on white,
If you don't sip and spit you forge your own chains.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 08/19/2004

Author's Comments:
Educate yourself as much as possible then vote.
************************************************************************
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.

A Walk On The Side Of The Hill:

Fourty five degrees is not something to sneeze at,
But this was only a gentle slope so no worry,
Grass underfoot and green interspersed with ancient stone,
The same grass crowds had sat millennia past,
Olympia was calling her own home,
The bodies glisten in the sun after 2,000 years and more,
The columns dinged and cracked and fallen,
The sea visible off in the distance and salt on the breeze,
The challengers were all hushed with awe,
This was the birthplace of Democracy,Of philosophy and more,
The place where heroes were granted stars up in Heaven,
A place where the strongest youth of all nations journeyed,
The Games are the oldest contiguous tradition,
Maybe, maybe - and then you realize the voting booth,
That and the debate circle are all equal in birthday count,
More or less a crown of olive wreath,
In this place and time where the only war of the moment,
Is an attempt to shatter conceptions of human limits,
In that spirit then let the games begin,
There in fair Olympia.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 08/20/2004

Author's Comments:
I find it utterly fitting that the Olympic games this year are being held back in Greece and at least some of them on the same field where ancient Olympians challenged the limits of human nature in so many brilliant ways. Take a pictorial tour: http://www.magicaljourneys.com/Olympia/olympia-interest-photos.html

Unfortunately, Literary Angels Publishing went out of business after only ten copies of On God's Doorstep were printed. I have now moved the book to a new publisher, Lulu Press at http://www.lulu.com/Daniel-Stafford . I have also released three other titles at the same publisher with more coming in the works. You can find a link to all four titles currently out in the right-hand column of this blog or you can visit the link in this post to see them. Such is the nature of Mejik - when one good thing leaves you many new good things return. I am stil on good terms with the former Chief Scribe of Literary Angels, often reading her poetry to my great enjoyment.

My new Chapbook, "On God's Doorstep" a season of Saturday mornings at the Madonna Della Strada Chapel Terrace, Loyola University Lakeshore Campus is now available for sale at: http://www.literaryangels.com/Danstafford.htm This is a collection of poetry and photography about a very beautiful place, and not the religious work the title may imply. A postcard from a place of beauty and serenity, so to speak. It took a year to write the poetry, and nearly another year and a half to get the photography and publishing work ready for print. All photography is unenhanced, and was taken with a very inexpensive toy 35mm film camera, and yet turned out stunningly beautiful. Here's a peek at the cover photo - ther appears to be an angel praying in the sunlight, and this is exactly how the unedited 35mm photo turned out, nothing was touched up or added:

Inch By Inch:

In battling the brass,
There is no fast and furious,
Only incremental improvement,
A microfraction every day,
Slowly getting better,
Like a snail catching on,
Each note dragged out by it's squeaking hairs,
Yet the however is simple and stark,
I'm still moving up hill,
And if it takes me years,
I will play yet someday,
I will win the sweet battle,
Of buttered brass and reed.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 01/10/2004

Author's Comments:
I'm steadfastly struggling to improve my saxophone playing just a touch every day.

Grey Sky And Angel Feathers:

I fell into reverie,
Lost in clouds and sun departing,
It was flurries on water frozen into a sheet,
Sparkling white dust like a diamond circle,
Turning a plain pond into something mystical,
I won't cry over Winter as I hold her dear,
So much in this world needs these days of rest,
How man's clumsy hands are hurting the Ice Queen,
How careless and callous it can be,
I wonder for a world devoid of snow,
All the creatures that will die away,
All the cities that will be awash or sunken,
All the changes and hardship this might bring,
I dance at every flake like a new-christened child,
I feel joy in cold drops upon my tongue,
I see my breath in a cloud and consider it righteous,
I would be the Druid standing at the Stones of Winter,
Looking between the snow covered fir trees,
Sighting down the East and seeing sunlight not yet in,
If we truly knew what was coming,
We'd be frightened out of mind,
But today the snow was falling,
Like God's whiskers and angel dusted feathers,
And when the night is muffled with clouds,
And the pretty flakes dance in the beams of streetlights,
I hear sleigh bells ringing and see warm fires and hands holding,
Children with rosy cheeks and snow-filled pant cuffs,
Ice skates and sleds and snowmen,
And I could care less if I drive slower,
It's easier on Winter anyway,
And when I lose the child inside me,
That's when living will be a separate issue from breathing,
But right now I'm going out into the pretty snow,
And let the twain joyously collide.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 01/10/2004

Author's Comments:
Snowy weather is a treasure. It says the world is not yet truly unbalanced, just teetering. It says be child-like and have faith. Global Warming is a nightmare and I owe a very great debt to Winter and all it has brought into my life. There are so many reasons to rejoice in that the Winter is come to bring the world to order for the mad rush of Spring.

A Cigar With My Ghosts:

I won't play favorites I loved those gone,
Every one was something special in my life,
Still is 'cause I hear their voices,
Feel the love they left in this place,
On some sunny days I sit and slow time smoke,
The scent reminds me and I see them there,
One in pony tails drumming tennis on the floor 'n gum poppin',
One sitting back with a newspaper no longer toiling over the stove,
Another next to me with a glowing cherry in a cloud,
And as the music plays back behind me,
The wind whispers by like yesterday did,
I feel the chill of all they are,
And smile because in my heart,
I'm sharing something with these spirits that still move me,
In the sights and sounds behind my eyes it's all good,
I remember and I dream and I play fast forward or rewind,
Just one of the special scenes that graces my mind,
I could listen to that part of my soul for hours,
Some times I do,
But I guess it's a gift to me,
This little happy fantasy,
That let's me hold on to the best of you.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 01/10/2004

Author's Comment:
I wish sometimes in life I'd been able to share a cigar chair day with my Grandfather, but I'd bet Mom 'n my Grandmother would've been there too.

Limestone Under Sunset Siege:

I walked the path today,
Saw the crumbling limestone,
Foundations a shadow of when,
Simpler has gone or so we'd say,
Blacktop paved prairie paths,
Between tame milkweed ponds,
Canada geese sail a spring fed gravel pit,
And the only signs of amber waves,
Are crumbling limestone squares,
Planters for shrubs and trees,
Reminders of where children dreamt,
And people lived close to the land.

The sunset swore soft pastels,
It was late December and warm,
Barely ice on the water,
No speck of snow to see,
Just Canada geese and crumbling limestone,
In almost hidden shrub covered squares,
Buried under Prairie grasses seemingly freed,
I wonder how long the herons will be gone,
In this only place they still make little herons.

The ghosts are trembling amidst the crumbling limestone,
Under the barely chill sunset rays,
Looking at the sunfire on water,
Tied to disappearing haunts,
Even Winter holds their trembling ethereal hands,
Walking with them into faded memory,
Like the sun at the end of a beautiful day.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 12/27/2003

Author's Comments:
It all seemed to come together, the fading sun, the crumbling ruins you barely knew were there, the lateness of Winter. The world changes and it only seems slow.

Last Breath:

The Oil Demons breathed their last breath,
It was thunderous rejoicing,
Children need not die in the sands,
In the streets or in the far countryside,
Winter could someday come back home to stay,
Poison could leave the land and lakes and seas,
In the silence of golden sunlight,
In the peace wrought of whirling white blades,
In the bountiful cascade of rolling waters,
In the field of golden harvests,
The treasures of gold and heart,
Home again to stay, to stay,
And once the people finally believed,
That was when the monsters were no longer needed,
And we could all walk closer to what God gave us,
Even though it took so much horror and filth to understand,
Cleanliness IS next to Godliness,
Just expand the concept,
Because the entire world is your home.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 12/24/2003

Author's Comments:
My biggest Christmas wish is that people will truly see what oil is doing
to us and add their voices to the clamor for a clean life and world. It's
worth it!

"In the six kinds of fantasy I inhabit, in the lands where my mind must go,
I will picture resolution's face in a blur, and yet it shall come to be what I see."

Belief is a powerful thing. Many practice this mejik without understanding it in the least. So many have been told of the doom of fire for so long that their beliefs demand it to appear - and so it does. Yet in the understanding that beliefs can change is where the answer lies. There is a solution to the rising heat of the *Monotnussverse*, and it will be found by those who believe it will be found.

When China Comes Calling:

The dust bowls that are a quarter the size of the USA,
Blow hard on the minds of the prescient,
The rise of the Yangtze River screams the death knell of temples,
As the peasants climb away from home,
The grain stocks are almost gone and crops are failing,
Oceans rise and push inland slowly,
Squeezed between hungry blowing Earth and drowning swamps,
The deserts, oceans, and river are coming,
But who's going to feed that nearly a billion,
When China comes calling?

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 12/18/2003

http://www.earth-policy.org/Updates/Update31.htm

By: Daniel A. Stafford
Author's Comments

The Earth Policy Institute's analysts believe that China's grain storage will be completely depleted by 2004 - and that the huge country will for the first time in history turn to grain exporters such as the USA for food imports - In such quantities that US citizens will be competing with Chinese import companies for food. At the same time, crop yields worldwide are declining due to the advance of global warming. See the report at the link at the end of the poem.

THe structure was somewhat unusual. It was entirelty crafted of some yellow metal. I couldn't for the life of me tell where the seams or joints were, it looked like it was all one piece.

Also, the ice was on the verge of turning to slush, so I had to stop my descent and set up a shield bubble spell. The shield bubble would stop any physical matter from getting through by diverting anything that touched it into a random mejiverse on the entry side and returning it to it's original mejiverse on the exact opposite side of the bubble. This could present problems for living beings, considering that their trip through the random mejiverse could take them through either a mejiverse with hostile phylaws that didn't allow life to exist, otr through an environment that was hard on living tissues, such as rock or hard vacuum. For this reason, the shield bubble spell also had a component that caused a blood red glow on the outer edge of the shield. This didn't serve as an effective warning to every life form, but at least 85% of known life forms are carbon based, and most of those in oxygen rich environments and using an iron-based liquid oxygen carrier for blood. Perhaps it's a superversal, but for some reason nearly all creatures stop when they see red. There could possibly be a psychic component to itas well. That would also qualify as superversal, but mejikal research was still in progress on the question and had been for a few millennia without a concrete answer.

Once the shield bubble was glowing, I advanced through the remaining ice between the yellow metal structure and myself until I was within three meters or so. At that point, I conjured a rubber ball out of the superverse and hit it with a slight impetus spell. The ball shot through the ice and hit the side of the structure. No reaction. I even set up a sensate spell and listened in for vibrations on the physical plane of the deep rumbling sort that usually proclaim danger in adventure stories. Nothing. It appeared that at least this portion of the structure was deserted. Perhaps it was too cold for watery life forms at this level. At any rate, I started up an Oxyjen spell to keep the air in the shield bubble within my phylaw tolerances for gas composition and temperature, and headed downward looking for an entry point.