Poetry, ponderings, ideas, fantasy stories, spirituality and life philosophy, and ecclectic interests of a dyed-in-the-wool Aquarian mind.
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Wednesday, October 12, 2016
Even The Tiniest Place Needs The Sun...
Tuesday, October 11, 2016
Plight Of The New World Witch:
Post by AquarianM on Sep 15, 2004 at 3:14pm
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.
Far Better Than Farcebook...
Yes,
That's exactly the name I gave it,
For farce it is,
But certainly not scarce.
I don't know if I can bear it,
One more cucumbered kitty,
One more skinned doggy,
Not another man shot in cold blood,
Nor the conspiracies you want to believe,
Neither the ones you don't.
The science,
Oh to be sure,
The nieces and nephews,
Sons and sisters and brothers,
The Dads and the others.
The music and invention,
But not the games and deception.
I'll stay here where the Muses never lie,
Yet always always always,
Keep you wondering how and why.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 10/11/2016
Monday, October 10, 2016
Fish Doctah Blues:
Post by AquarianM on Sep 17, 2004 at 8:31am
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.
Sunday, October 09, 2016
State Of Crisis:
Post by AquarianM on Oct 7, 2004 at 6:57pm
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.
Saturday, October 08, 2016
Remnants Of Gold:
Post by AquarianM on Oct 5, 2004 at 8:50am
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.
Friday, October 07, 2016
The She-Devil Of Hanover Pit...
I can't believe it!
She bought me a speedo one size too small,
Took me out to Hanover on a sunny week day.
This old gravel pit has a beautiful beach,
And a solid thirty-foot cliff to leap from,
And now it has her.
She caught me by the broken heart strings,
Near twin to my first love,
But love wasn't what she wanted to pull,
No - I wouldn't call it exactly that.
I was just over nineteen,
She maybe the same,
Only the two of us and her little sister,
The beach all to ourselves.
All hands and no modesty,
She wanted to show me off,
Took me past caring about being a trophy,
My only relief to dive in,
Too late for staring eyes.
Oh,
I could tell you stories about that one,
Oh,
I could indeed,
But I want you to live.
Nineteen hundred and eighty-two was an interesting year.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 10/07/2016
Author's note:
True story. Like any good story, there's a LOT more to it. I couldn't help it, Goldenmyst tossed my Muse right back into my personal gutter! Lol
In The Burning Shadow Of Fallen Leaves:
Post by AquarianM on Sep 15, 2004 at 3:12pm
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.
Thursday, October 06, 2016
Under The Turning Light Of The Moon:
Post by AquarianM on Sep 2, 2004 at 7:30am
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.
Better Ways...
I hear a ticking drumbeat that calls me in the night,
--
Compassion is the greatest sign of Humanity.
Wednesday, October 05, 2016
Birds Diving Off Wires:
Post by AquarianM on Oct 13, 2004 at 12:27pm
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.
Words are the mind's bridge - it's connection to the universe.
Love is the heart's bridge - it's connection to all other souls.
Loving words can work miracles.
Tuesday, October 04, 2016
Those Heady Days Haunt Me...
I remember the hustle and bustle,
There were so many of us alive then,
I fly like a silver albatross to the drumbeat,
Samhain is more than a dream of poets,
All hail!
All hail!
Another Star burned down out of the deep dark night!
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
Author's note:
River Fest...
Post by AquarianM on Oct 26, 2004 at 2:44pm
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 home.
Monday, October 03, 2016
Early Morning At The No Name Cafe:
Post by AquarianM on Oct 13, 2004 at 10:10am
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.
Saturday, October 01, 2016
Dope Me Daddy:
Post by AquarianM on Dec 11, 2003 at 8:18am
Dope Me Daddy:It burns - what they want to do.
The angels are falling into the grass -
Psycho tropic poison flowers fed on tears and paper.
They'll take you away for letting day dreamers dream -
Rule your children for you like they know something better,
Made up a name for it all fancy dancin'.
The death certificates that sing like Elvis's last seconds -
Hearing things seeing things,
Hearts hammering uneven rhythms on the precipice.,
The black shrouds wait and I know it's wrong.
Dope me, Daddy, I'll get my homework done -
Dope me, Mommy, I'll keep quiet my mouth shut,
Dope me, Teacher, I'll get my homework done,
Dope me, Doctor, was it kickbacks on the drugs,
Dope me, Principal, more big federal bucks.
The death certificates fall from the trees -
They let the winds bury them in the bushes where you can't see,
It keeps the kids in that uniform size box,
First cousin to coke and blood brother to meth,
They'll take away your kids for negligence -
If they don't dope them to cold in the ground death.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 12/11/2003
Author's Comments:
www.adhdhelp.org
Ritalin: government-backed and school-enforced kiddy cocaine.
They'll push you and push you until you cave - or just take them
and do it anyway. But this is America! So they say. I'm being pushed to OK
my son being put on this garbage from every direction by well-meaning killers.
I will NEVER say it's OK to do this to my child. Just because his head doesn't
fit in their little tiny square box of a picture of how people should be. Thank
God they didn't get to do it to me. They just ignore the deaths - the "small" percentage.
Cigar Chair Secrets:
Post by AquarianM on Sep 25, 2003 at 7:31am
In the loud silent space,
Inside your mind,
Falling into your eyes,
Every nuance of sun angle,
Every changing detail of cloud,
Every passing bird and rustling grass,
Frog voices and wind blown,
Distant words fall in your ears,
Every hint of wind or breeze,
Patch of magenta sunset cloud low,
You feel the Earth spin,
Remember Grandfathers,
Flavor and aroma of,
Life and Earth and,
Then and now,
Small and huge and in place,
Blow through you like,
Smoke,
Landing gently crushing,
Underskin upon your bones.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 09/24/2003
Author's Comments:
A fine cigar, late afternoon sun, a note book and pen,
big cup of coffee, lawn chair...timeless.
The Long Shadow of Time:
Post by AquarianM on Oct 9, 2003 at 7:15am
I feel it in every cool breath,
The ones I can see and not just hear,
In the slow turn of the stars I so adore,
In the disappearing green,
Like a flood of ennui in a field of stalks of gold,
The barest hint of purple twilight coming behind me,
The long low visual hush of fall fog over hugging the corn,
The way the geese are in ever larger vees overhead,
Or the growing blackbird clouds,
The death of green leaves and flowers last week,
In a hard night time freeze,
The slant of sunlight in disappearing afternoons,
The incessant insufferable inevitable ticking of clocks,
Every last tale of another year gone,
I sing with the mourning birds,
I could fall into the sky and hear stars whisper,
Or maybe spend a season in the headstones,
Crying over those I lost,
Candles with ice and snow coming,
How many more springs will we see,
Before I'm dusting pyramids in Egypt,
Specks on the wind that outlasted me,
Like all my personal legends,
Forgotten and fallen off the world,
So I write and I pray midnight mysteries,
Beg Eternity for a stone in it's pool from which to croak,
Pray that it's not the lilly pad,
Floating transient and lost,
Somewhere under the long shadow of Time.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 10/09/2003
Author's Comments:
The changing season always drives it home, like a stake through the heart.
Time Warps Do Exist...
Which must be the theme for this morning, because people were posting pictures of their Deloreans on Facebook, and the comments went all the way back to the future.
Now, getting past that digression, I just went through and skimmed over the content on this ol' blog, and just wow! It goes back all the way to November 1st of 2002. I'm pretty sure that's close to when I first started blogging, period. It can't have been too long before that.
I'm amazed at how much of my poetry is archived here. I'm damn lucky that it is.
I had at the last count I remember, nearly 1,800 poems published on Lightverse.com before it went down. I'd thought I had emailed myself almost every one of those poems as I posted them. They'e nowhere to be found in the email folders I expected to find them in.
There are many of those poems scattered across multiple poetry sites around the web. However, nothing was as comprehensive as Lightverse.com. Luckily, a lot of my early poetry survives here, on this sweet old blog. I'm very grateful for that.
I'm probably going to work to recover a lot of my poetry from a couple of other sites that have quite a bit of my more recent poems. Maybe from 2005 on.
We'll see just how much I can recover, and put up here in this place where my mejic still reverberates through the webverse.
At the moment, I'm killing time in the wee hours of the morning working on a computer that has just been giving me fits. The thing has been an utter nightmare to work with. I'm on my last-ditch attempt to fix it. I'm waiting for a system image backup to copy over to a portable hard drive.
I had a great email from my dear old friend Spinny yesterday evening. That was cool. She lives way Down Under. We've been online friends since back in 1996. Who has friends on the web that long? The internet was in its infancy then. It was like a naive little baby compared to now! Seriously, Netscape Navigator! How many of you remember that? Or AOL? Remember the first time you found out what LOL meant, or ROTFLMAO? Windows 95? Yeah.
At any rate, I'm going to go find a poem and bring it over here. Happy morning world!
Thank you for reading!
AquarianM
Wednesday, September 28, 2016
She Speaks Yinglish, He Speaks Yanglish...
A wise man once sang that love is all you need,
A lot of it indeed.
Did I ever tell you I worked for a communications company?
Twenty-one point five years in fact,
Connecting all corners of the globe,
Data and voice as far as Antarctica,
As near as down the street.
I wonder how many trillion words are spoken each year,
Trying to get across the great divide?
"Turn left, turn right, do the dishes tonight."
To quote the fabulous Joan Jett,
"Do you wanna touch,
Do you wanna touch,
Do you wanna touch me there,
Where,
There,
Yeah?"
Exactly where that center in the male/female brain is,
The one that gets the exact image and emotion I mean,
To be recognized and understood.
Twenty minutes is forever,
Only to find you've both said the same thing,
All unknowingly.
Thankfully we have a lotta love,
To make things turn out right.
"No, go left here!!"
AquarianM
(C) 09/28/2016
By: Daniel A. Stafford
Tuesday, September 27, 2016
So My Oldest Blog Has A New Look...
I love to think in poetry and metaphor. I think they're powerful tools for awakening the human mind. This morning, I think I need to speak mostly in a more straightforward manner.
I'm remembering three poets who have passed away since I began writing poetry online back around the year 2000...or was it 2002? I don't really remember for certain.
Clearly the online poetry world has gone through major changes in all that time.
All three of these poets I wrote with for several years on different poetry boards before their passing. Some of their poetry can still be found online, should one care to look.
These are my poetry ghosts:
- P.G. Smith of Perth, Australia. (Known online as Hope Smith)
- Ivor of Britain. (Known online as Poetic Piers)
- Christine Doran of the USA. (Known online as Talitha Ruatha)
Use yours well, my readers. Thank you for stopping by and reading.
Friday, September 23, 2016
Blog Updates And Wow It's Been Six Years Since I Posted Here...
I still can't believe it's been so long since I posted to this blog, (I have over 30) but I'm super-glad it's still here to post to.
*Spell Book* is one of my oldest blogs. It was showing it, too. The blog was running an ancient "classic" Blogger theme. I went in to try and update it a couple of days, and the Blogger Gremlins damn near ate my homework. The blog went down hard. It just fixed itself and came up on a modern template today. Maybe it just took several hours to convert to the new blog format. All I know is that I wanted to kiss my screen!
Worse, much of the poetry on this blog had been lost from elsewhere on the web. Some of the poems here may be my only surviving copies. Try any of those links on the list of poems I had published on Lightverse.com. They won't work. The owner of the site got a major hike in hosting costs, so he let the site go down. I've gotten emails from some of the other poets asking about it. I've emailed the guy. He says it will eventually go back up, and he has a copy of all the content, but it's going on two years now. I'm not holding my breath.
Now I get why there are always "unpublished" or "never-seen" works from so many artists that pop up from time-to-time. It's damn near impossible to stay on top of everything anymore. I have numerous notebooks and journals, and well over 30 subject-oriented blogs. (Including my main home online, www.SuperAquarian.com)
I've been through a lot of life changes over the years - moved three times, the last to California. Swapped out a 21.5-year Telecomm career for two small businesses. Gained a couple of grandchildren. Started karate, and stopped because of breaking an ankle on Illinois ice shoveling snow. Started up again just a month ago.
At any rate, I'm still around, and so is my old blog. Now it looks better than ever. Life is good.
Thank you for reading,
AquarianM
Saturday, October 02, 2010
Path Of Jubilation...
It was a year-and-a-half ago I was broken,
Wounded bird unable to fly,
Passing the seasons in injury's chains,
Wondering what the sight of recovery would mean.
The Tinker Man fixed me with bolts and braces,
As if I were a thing of tin and oil,
Yet it worked in its fashion,
In its sweet time.
I wondered then if I would walk again,
Then I wondered if I would dance,
Would I ever know the grace of the Katas,
Let alone run forward in life?
I walked and walked and walked,
Doing everything the healers bade me,
Bent and pulled and pushed,
Eventually gently danced - muted with caution.
Today the Tinker Man declared me free,
To kick and jump and run,
Race to the Moon if I dare it,
Stand in for Bruce Lee if I feel silly.
Kato I'm not,
But I'll be back in class soon,
And I'll keep walking,
Even run a little.
I am healed, and I feel fine.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C)
Back story:
Many of you know I suffered a severely broken ankle in February of 2009. It was put back together surgically, the bolts and braces are still in it. I slowly went through healing, physical therapy, walked further and further a little at a time. I even got to dancing again a little. Still, there's always a little twinge now and then, a slight reminder that it happened. I've used care and caution and stayed out of karate, never ran one single stride since, not jumped an inch. I went to the surgeon's office yesterday afternoon to see if they were going to have to take the hardware out. The surgeon was amazed at how well I've healed, and the strength and flexibility I've gotten back. I'm within a degree or two of my original range of motion in two directions, and the other two directions are as good as before the fall. Not only did he tell me that I don't have to get any hardware removed, but I'm fully cleared for any physical activity I wish to pursue within normal human limits. I plan on being back in karate by January at the latest, and to try running a bit very soon. Needless to say, this is a huge relief, and I celebrate it.
Dan
Shadow Throne...
Shadow Throne... **Awarded**
| Author | Comment | ||
|---|---|---|---|
| | Shadow Throne... **Awarded** | Lead | [-] |
| Tags [Edit]: None Shadow Throne... I sit in the silence of the Spruce cathedral, Hearing and seeing, Patches of sunlight drift down through the canopy above, A needle carpet at my feet, This place where time is shattered, And I search the quiet for the scent of soul, Something missing in that other world outside. Every rustle and every breeze carries a scent, Sweet pollen or musty old leaves, Seasons turn me back to the beginning of time, Leaving me to think that only this stone is real, This hard thing that bears my weight in a place of surreal beauty, Where my feet rest and my heart dances. AquarianM Awarded by Rick 10/01/2010 By: Daniel A. Stafford (C) 10/01/2010 Photo in the Spruce grove, Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL 09/28/2010. Words are the mind's bridge - it's connection to all the universe. Love is the heart's bridge - it's connection to all other souls. Loving words can work miracles. All of my currently available poetry Chapbooks are for sale at: www.lulu.com/Daniel-Stafford In the silent reflection of things gone by, we remember and gild the best, pray for the redemption of the worst, learn our lessons and move forward, hoping and dreaming of the betterments to come. Wishing us All the world-over a blessed, peaceful, and prosperous New Year and Decade... William Stafford's (No relation I know of) poem, "When I Met My Muse." ( http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/when-i-met-my-muse/ ) Last Edited By: LostInEternity99 10/01/10 10:26 AM. Edited 1 time. | |||
Sunday, August 29, 2010
The Daydream Deficit..
Children,
To focus on the here-and-now,
Sit up! Pay attention!
It was punished and ridiculed into us,
Practicality enforced with a social baseball bat,
We got it so well,
Dreamless to our bones.
Is it any wonder then,
We drug the daydreams out of our children,
Run a chronic national sleep defecit,
Rule our exhausted world with an iron fist?
Was the human need to dream and imagine so dangerous,
That we abhor it to the point of our own collapse?
It's known by psychologists,
Humans laugh at things that cause them social tension.
Is this why it's so hysterical,
When I dream of a world built on love?
AqarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 08/29/2010
Friday, December 25, 2009
Fw: Merry Christmas To All, With Love...
Words are the mind's bridge - its connection to all the universe.
Love is the heart's bridge - its connection to all other souls.
Loving words can work miracles.
Merry Christmas To All, With Love...
The lights are strung,
The presents all tucked under the tree,
Sleepy smiles on cherub faces,
Abed even for you and for me.
If ever there were a moment,
When love could be found most anywhere,
This is it.
If there's a magic to Christmas,
It's the love we all share,
That's our greatest gift.
Tonight, we do as our Teacher said - and love thy neighbor as thyself.
Merry Christmas to All,
With love.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 12/25/2009 - donated to public domain.


Merry Christmas To All, With Love...
Merry Christmas To All, With Love...
The lights are strung,
The presents all tucked under the tree,
Sleepy smiles on cherub faces,
Abed even for you and for me.
If ever there were a moment,
When love could be found most anywhere,
This is it.
If there's a magic to Christmas,
It's the love we all share,
That's our greatest gift.
Tonight, we do as our Teacher said - and love thy neighbor as thyself.
Merry Christmas to All,
With love.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 12/25/2009 - donated to public domain.


Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Welsh Hills...
The evening is raw and fallen,
The chill bone-deep upon the wind.
The stones by the solemn blue seaside are wary and drab,
Laid in a place where hearts rage in wounded silence.
There is a cold and ancient magic there,
Amid the barrows and monoliths in the Welsh hills.
It makes people sing.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 07/18/2009
Monday, June 08, 2009
The Perfect Bowl Of Soup...
If I could take what's in your eyes,
Boil it down in a huge steaming pot,
Stir in what's in your heart,
Maybe a fresh onion,
Carrots and tears and smiles,
Celery and pain,
The scent of helpless joy,
And the taste of home,
Just a hint of future possibilities,
Ancient ways and traditions,
Youthful exuberance and chopped carrots,
Five drops of a dream come true...
The scent roiling up from the pot would leave me speechless,
The perfect bowl of soup.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 06/08/2009
Author's note:
I watched Ramen Girl tonight. Poets will get it easily.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Isla De Los Suenos Malos... (Island Of Bad dreams)
Life on an island,
Late afternoon sun,
Dinner at a sidewalk cafe,
Latin dancing in the streets,
Mission architecture everywhere,
Colorful and beautiful,
A movie crew filming down the street.
High-wire dancing ladies,
Cameras up high on booms,
Rooflines only pictured,
"Psst - why only the roofs?"
"A movie on Global warming, they'll blue-screen the water."
"Won't that be a thousand years from now, that deep?"
"No, a hundred at most, if it keeps going like this."
Wandering home darkness falls,
A six-story apartment house with balconies,
Wide open walls at the ground level,
Looking West waves are coming chest high,
No winds only light warm breezes,
Waves right into the house and rising,
Soaked and shivering climbing stairs,
Fourth floor finally high enough,
Fitful sleep All manage.
Morning comes,
Waves lowered down to first floor now,
Far above the beach now sunken,
No storm - rising water,
Wading to where the beach should be,
Community trying to pile sand to block waves,
Struggling as water washes all away.
Back to the house,
Movie dancers in the air in crystal skirts in the distance,
Giant squid reaching into the house searching prey,
Dodge and walk upland to the air strip.
Small plane very high,
The Earth's curve below,
The land on the map shrunken and sinking in reality below,
Everywhere.
Alarm clock rings.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 05/27/2009
Author's note: My dream last night.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Dream Life...
A course set in stardust,
Moonbeams and silver screens,
Paper wizards dying gasps,
Mental insulation encapsulated in desire,
Lust for status really is lust for better flesh,
An orchestration of psycho-science's black magic,
Played against instincts like Bach's piano,
Until no one knows reality from cotton clouds,
Sold dreams and living ignorant of nightmares.
It's so easy to lie on that sofa,
Exhausted from chronic lack of real life dreams.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 04/27/2009
Author's note:
The average working adult in the USA gets six hours per night of sleep, two of television, and very little non-corporate news. It's only with the advent of the internet that this is beginning to change.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Black Ice...
In the frozen chill that is the world right now,
In the dark of silent Winter night,
Smooth riding down the highway of life,
Suddenly you’re fish-tailing wildly,
Heart beating frantic,
Trying to simply recover without getting ditched.
The temperature has dropped precipitously,
The world buried in glistening white,
Tiny flakes swirl about the air like flying diamonds,
A fairy-tale view to a seeming static world,
Hush-muffled and quiet and waiting,
It looks like damp pavement,
The only clue you’ll get.
Watch the road carefully,
Watch and be ready at an instant’s notice,
Black ice changes everything,
Faster than an eye-blink.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 01/15/2009
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Winter is calling my name...
Back in January of 2002, I started a fantasy novel entitled "AquarianM and the Heart of Winter." I had only barely begun when a Forgotten realms title which was nearly identical came out. Harry Potter was also quite fresh at the time.
I then decided to shelve the project until the other book with the very similar title had run its course.
The Harry Potter series is now also a wonderful, comfortable old shoe in literature. A classic to be treasured. However, it's been on the scene long enough that I can come back to my story, which has some similar elements and would target a similar audience/demographic.
If I can break ground with this, I have another very special concept waiting to follow.
The best fun is, I have a possible co-writer for the rest of AquarianM and The Heart of Winter. I love doing collaborative works online, especially with a talented female writer. It lends an authentic feminine perspective on the story that makes it more detailed and believable.
Keep this note in the back of your minds, because I'm hoping to drive this one home in the next year or so.
Dan
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Palmer 3 Ovals Pizzelle Maker
http://www.fantes.com/pizzelle.html
Palmer 3 Ovals Pizzelle Maker
$49.99
#3362
Temporarily unavailable; being re-tooled
Top of Form
Bottom of Form
Makes three oval pizzelles,
4-5/8" x 2-3/4",
C. 3/16" thick with 1/8" wide grooves,
10" x 5" oval plates,
UL Listed 120v, 60hz, 800 watts,
10 year limited warranty
(Palmer stipulates that you contact them directly for warranty repairs.)
USA
Model 3600
Thursday, November 20, 2008
My new sax blog...
... is called "66 Sax" after my 1966 Selmer Bundy tenor sax, "Bello." (Serial number 411559 - and the name is a play on the English word for making a loud noise or yell, and the the Italian word for "handsome.")
You can check it out here: http://66sax.blogspot.com/ - including my healing Earth song, "Pacha Mama Prayer."
Regards and have fun,
Dan
Friday, February 15, 2008
Learning "The Empty Hand."
Regards,
Dan
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Totality...
I reached for my cherry staff and walked,
In the whispering subconscious of pre-dawn,
Intent on seeing the Blood Moon,
Totality - the Earth's shadow eating Luna.
Sadly the fractal clouds hid her demise,
She would be reborn on the other side of Earth,
Child of our mother-world that she is.
I had to satisfy myself with another rare view,
Earth's brother Mercury tucked between two rosy dawn clouds,
I whispered to the Messenger,
Playing notes softly at the Crossroads,
Just a few whispers of harmonica.
The un-finished cherry staff stands as tall as me,
Filled with the un-seen energies of the Blood Moon,
And the visible energies of the Messenger,
Still wearing its rough bark and un-capped,
A sphere of Brazilian Amethyst awaits to crown it,
Once I find the runes true,
I will focus the sun-glass on the bare wood,
And burn its true name in Rongrongo.
Then and only then will I finish it,
Give it its foot,
And walk with its totality.
AquarianM
By Daniel A. Stafford
© 08/28/2007
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Grymwyre of Atlantean Spells gets its own blog
MP3 version of The Blood Rose of Atlantis, Part One.
Dan
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Grymwyre Of Atlantean Spells - Blood Rose of Atlantis
Grymwyre Of Atlantean Spells
Mejik is a fascinating thing. It feeds on belief. Anyone's belief. If something inside a person can twist in just the right way, reach a certain angle of viewpoint, and see the universe in a certain way, the universe can find it easier to follow the viewpoint than all the viewpoints in the past.
When it comes to conflicting beliefs, that's when things can get interesting. Sometimes, they get academically interesting, like a text book question. At other times, they're more like the ancient Chinese curse - "may you live in interesting times." Something like the times the Earth is passing through now, but I digress.
There are earlier times in human history, forgotten times. Times with scattered clues all about us, yet so distant as to be like fragments caught in the amber of a hillside that only seems natural, or where a customary gesture comes from. We don't know why we have certain little rituals about us, they've just always been. Or so it would seem.
Wouldn't it be interesting indeed if we could look back into those distant ages and vanished cultures, possibly even civilizations? If we had a mejik mirror that saw the distant past and let it fill our vision now, today. What secrets might we learn?
Perhaps, we might just look inside, and the mirror is right there, when our eyes are closed, piecing the clues we have into sections of a subconscious puzzle - illuminating areas no one else has seen.
Soon, it will be time to begin those explorations, and I will bring them to the pages of this grymwyre like candles from the darkest corners of the night.
First, though, I must walk the land of djriems. Only in that place might I find the matches to light such candles to glowing.
I shall soon return.
AquarianM
The Blood Rose Of Atlantis
Many people today believe that vampires originated in a land called Transylvania. Certainly vampires today welcome that belief. In fact, like many spells and curses, the curse of vampirism originates in ancient Atlantis. Modern vampires prefer this to remain unknown because such ignorance allows them to use their raw power without the vulnerability of conscience or feeling.
Modern vampirism is a bastardization of a powerful spell used in lost Atlantis to create its most feared and respected soldiers to enforce the rule of the Atlantean Council and the Grym Whizzyrd, leader of the Council. Vampirism is a bastardization by omission, caused by its Transylvanian originator only finding half the spell. It is a result of ignorance, and because of that ignorance, it serves the purposes of the archetypal Satanic Entity rather than its intended higher purpose of creating Keepers of Order.
The Blood Rose of Atlantis is the second half of the transformation process necessary to create a true Vampiric Court, or Court Crimson, as this order's name would translate in modern languages.
Here, I will reveal the Blood Rose of Atlantis, and give an historical example of its use, as devised and employed by the first Grym Whizzyrd of Atlantis.
The Blood Rose of Atlantis is employed once a vampire is created. Its effect is to cause vampires to regain their human emotion and feeling, and conscience. It returns to a vampire its connection to its soul, and therefore its connection to all souls and the laws of spirituality, such as Karma, Dharma, and suchlike. A vampire to whom this spell is gifted also regains its ability to sustain life through eating and drinking ordinary foods and renders a spiritual alternative to the energies of human blood available through the Universal Source. This means that the vampire no longer requires human blood to survive, nor is it vulnerable to sunlight any longer.
Vampires under the laws of the Blood Rose of Atlantis are still subject to death by a wooden stake through the heart, decapitation, or fire. No longer, however, need said vampire fear the sun nor holy water, nor the burning touch of the universal symbol of the Christ archetypal entity. (The cross and the Universal Spirit that it represents are as old as time and more.) They are rendered in service of the Light rather than the Dark by this spell.
For this reason, I must return this spell to current knowledge rather than leave it lost in the mists of forgotten history. It is my duty as a Whizzyrd of Light.
Required Materials:
A single flawless ruby of one carat or larger. (Used to focus Universal Light and shine it eternally into the heart of the undead.)
Five one carat or larger rose quartz crystals. (Used to gather Universal Light and feed it into the ruby focus.)
One pint of the Blood of the Christ Spirit. (Used to replace the blood a rose-less vampire requires to live. I believe it may be possible to use wine converted to Eucharist in Christian worship ceremonies, but were I wrong, the results could be deadly for whomever attempts to place the Blood Rose of Atlantis upon the vampire.)
Pure silver of sufficient quantity to set the Blood Rose of Atlantis and allow its permanent placement upon the body of the vampire to be treated.
Five drops of cord-blood from a virgin birth. (This gives residual merikal energy to the spell.)
Seven drops of the juices of desire from seven virgins, collected while they were in the unfulfilled throes of desire for their heart's true love. (To replace the passion the vampire lost in becoming undead.)
Procedure:
On a night when the Seven Sisters are surrounding Jupiter, then the flower may be grown. By starlight and moonlight the ruby and quartz already cut are laid in silver in the shape of a flower.
Behind the ruby in the setting, place the love throes of seven virgins mixed with the blood of innocent birth. These must be sealed within the center of the flower, its nectar, the tone of the energies it shall play upon the undead.
The flower is then inscribed upon its setting with the symbol of life and the symbol of the Peacemaker, and also the symbol of the Mother of All. This is done with concentrated moon and starlight, heating the silver just enough to lay in these runes.
The ruby, the heart of the Blood Rose of Atlantis, is the last piece set. As it is laid in place, the Whizzyrd recites the Oath of Service over the budded flower, ending with the intonation of Anahkh.
Seven silver bells and five golden are pealed at once by twelve disciples of the Whizzyrd, exactly and perfectly at the moment Anahkh is uttered.
The budded flower is then allowed to bask in only moonlight and starlight each night for twelve years. Upon the exact night the twelve years are fulfilled, the flower-maker shall open its blossom to the red rays of the sun's birth at the exact moment of morning in the East. At this moment will be heard the echo of the twelve peals in one.
Immediately enclose the Blood Rose of Atlantis in darkened silk in a cedar box. Store it such until its placement upon the vampire.
At the moment of next dawn, open the cairn of the vampire to the first rays of morning, and immediately lay the Blood Rose of Atlantis over the burning vampire's heart. Leave the cairn open to the sunlight until nothing remains but the undead ash and the Blood Rose of Atlantis. Close the cairn immediately.
Take the cairn to the steps of the closest temple of the Peacemaker, arranging it to face the sun. There, all the priests of the Peacemaker must perform the rites of birth over the cairn, ending at dawn precisely. As the last note of the rite perishes in the first ray of dawnlight, open the cairn.
The reborn vampire will step forth into the morning sun, no longer pale nor pallid, but flush with the rosy hue of life. He or she will now break bread and share water and wine with the Sons of Man as a brother. By moonlight and by sunlight they shall live. They shall bathe in the Mother's waters and breathe the Father's air exactly as does Man, Whale, or Dolphin. They shall father or bear children, and love them as does any parent. They shall know every passion, pain, and hope of human life. They shall be known as vampires of the Court Crimson, and live among men as friends and allies.
Being vampires already, the Court Crimson are immune to the bite and other powers of undead vampires.
The vampires' trick of not appearing in mirrors does not fool them. They know to look just beyond the mirrors' field of view where the vampire's reflection has been shifted by mejik. They are themselves able to work such spells themselves, simply through an act of will.
Should an undead vampire turn to mist and try to flee in shadowed breezes, the Court Crimson can smell the faint scent of the undead and follow it in its own draft.
Were an undead vampire to become a bat and attempt to fly away, the Court Crimson can become a nighthawk and seize the undead in its powerful talons.
If the undead vampire attempts the guise of a wolf, the warrior of the Court Crimson becomes a lion and rends the undead wolf completely.
However, should one of the Court Crimson bite an undead vampire in the fashion vampires are wont to do, the undead vampire will immediately burst into eldritch blue flames, and turn to ash upon the spot. The next morning, the ashes will spring back to life, subject to the spell of the Blood Rose of Atlantis, and subservient to the Court Crimson agent that caused its painful rebirth.
Perhaps now you understand why modern vampires choose to let the world remain in ignorance of the Blood Rose of Atlantis, and the Court Crimson. You must also realize that I make no friends of the undead in revealing these ancient mysteries.
An Historical Example of the Use of the Blood Rose of Atlantis:
To be revealed soon...
Friday, November 10, 2006
Whisper Simple Secrets...
If you stare into the flickering brilliance of the candle flame,
Watch it until you can see the vanishingly small,
Somewhere in the back of your mind,
You might just understand.
A picture of the world rests behind your eyes,
That thought gleams as a fraction of the energy,
The same field that is everything's essence,
The web of white light it takes imaginary eyes to see.
Hold the world like a Christmas ornament,
Floating in a golden glow tinged with soft green,
There in the cupped palm of your hands,
Gift unto it a sweet gift.
Call the white light down from Heaven,
Do it with all your heart,
Let it flow through you,
Wash over this tiny blue globe of life - healing.
God gifts us each a spark of his everything,
Else we couldn't be here at all,
His children yet to mature,
Still in school.
If every thought you had was of something joyful,
Never would a hurtful day enter your life,
You have the keys to the Universe,
But Mother and Father say you must be a passenger first.
Think of pain and painful things come to you,
Drawn like flies to a rotting stench,
Think of joy and joyful things will come to you,
Drawn like light into the empty dark.
Call the white light down from Heaven,
Do it with all your heart,
Let it flow through you,
Wash over this tiny blue globe of life - healing.
Let's do it together.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 11/09/2006
Author's Comments
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
I was at first somewhat astonished,
Time stepped out of the picture and faded into the distance,
A bit player whose part was done in an epic timeless,
Where bare truths about the soul of a land are laid,
Flayed of all pomp and circumstance and artifices of finery.
The honest opinions of one in a land new and unknown,
Waiting in dusty tomes a century and more on the page,
Speaking of first impressions and speaking truth without mercy nor spite,
With the clarity of seeing everything hidden beneath,
Rivaled only by modern miracles like MRI's or x-rays,
Hits your preconceptions of culture between the eyes.
"We worship wealth here,
For we came without it and without its respect,
The downtrodden cast-offs of old lands all,
In waves and droves and sea-sick jubilation of landfall,
Only to emulate the visible qualities of our oppressors,
Seeking what we perceived as their strengths without true knowledge."
In a land where the clocks must be punched,
Where work rules every aspect of our worth and ability to exist,
How do we have a moment for the grace of souls malnourished,
Do we ever feed the worth of our souls when our mouths are our rulers,
Still slaves to our bellies which can translate only gold into food and shelter?
It is of small wonder that the sword that threatens our necks comes from "on high" -
A curved scimitar swinging with the weight of yellow metal,
Hiding at its core a hollow vacuum - a void where a graceful spirit should be,
If it were filled with what belongs there it would melt into a ploughshare,
Or perhaps into the bricks that could hide our heads from hurricanes and tornadoes,
Or the hearth that used to warm our bread.
The least among us are our true mirror,
The clearest glass we shall ever gaze into,
And if the bones of them are prodding their flesh,
Their frost bite of lack of shelter and bellies full of nothing but air,
Their pitiful rags wrapped 'round the vision of skulls that is the source of our fear,
It will pull that sword of gold upon us all to cleave our necks as surely as the clocks tick.
How many among us would give even the illusion of a five dollar bill to their pantry,
If it had to be given without the craven illusion of a tax deduction?
This world is not and never has been divided by arbitrary lines on a plastic globe,
Not one of marble nor glass nor clay nor wood nor paper,
No matter how well-drawn or sculpted its representation of Earth,
For what we put into the sky or the water or the land travels freely,
Not one law can arrest its progress or its consequence.
Our souls and our fates are as intertwined as is the atmosphere or the waterways,
Filled with underground rivers that carry every deed and action throughout the whole,
A permeated brew stirring by convection and gravity unseen yet ever-present.
What we do with the "least" among us we will drink and eat,
Regardless of whether we know it or acknowledge it or remain ignorant of it,
It will fuel poisonous growth or it will be clean and gentle with us,
As we reap we will sow is the pertinent verse.
Fires do not burn without fuel,
Fuel made of greedy intent or even plain ignorance,
And if violence and harm do not treat us as harshly as flames in the end,
It will be simply because we gave them no cause to burn.
In the end it all congeals into that basic truth -
Which crosses all those artificial and arbitrary lines on globes and maps.
We made a play for "freedom" here,
A crop which only thrives when shared and tended well.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 08/30/2006
Author's Notes:
This was inspired by reading the early newspaper articles written by Jose Martì when he first came to live in New York in the 1870's. He wrote for New York and multiple Latin American newspapers his observations on the emerging culture in the United States - which to this day values work and wealth but forgets the values of spiritual nourishment, charity, and the human need for self-worth not always gained through financial acumen. It shows in the way we drive ourselves nearly beyond our physical limits for work and career, the way we look down on vacations long enough to truly rest the soul and body, and the way we are driven to work at the expense of family and community. When one steps back and takes a fresh look, we are tragically out of balance. The fact that people in this country or any other go without food and shelter is a clear reflection of how such scales are tilted. What happens when things are unbalanced for too long and stretched too far away from the balance point?
Saturday, August 19, 2006
Teased with visions of a fragile world healed,
I sense a hunger of titanic proportions,
Hiding in the mists of the collective undermind,
Waiting to climb the ladders of belief and faith,
Pushing on the heavy lid of fear that covers the exit,
The one from fantasy into reality.
I hear it spoken of with a nervous laugh,
Like it might shine in reflections from a tinfoil hat,
Something cooked up by a lunatic fringe in a crazed moment,
This utterly surreal idea that peace and kindness could somehow win,
When what seems like preservation is to kill more of "them,"
Still it's a haunting vision that lives in a joke,
A world where everyone has a roof and clean water.
I suppose it's all fine if the rich chase children in other countries,
Bullets bombs or underwear,
That sort of thing doesn't "belong" around here,
But can you tell me where it does so I never go there?
There are those of us like mirrors,
We shine mirror light on all the dark places,
You know - where a soul tries to hide when it's afraid,
Places like Denial and Ignorance and the like,
Because we see that world shining in the tinfoil hats,
Where everyone has the basics of life,
It's a vision of a possible truth,
All it takes is a lot of love and a little rainbow light.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 08/19/2006
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Reggae Heart...
Wash me down to de Carribean, she’s de bluest sea,We could all ‘ave cried her, from tears o’ joy.
A night song o’ sail cloth flapping under dese brilliant stars,
Bring de morning sun down upon de beach.
Palm trees, dey sway up over our smiling heads,
When de reggae plays de limes fall into de drink.
Wash me down to de Carribean, she’s de bluest sea,
We could all ‘ave cried her, from tears o’ joy.
Rum runners dancing south dere, down by de sweet blue sea,
Coconuts floating out past de Keys where we sing.
Oh Lord, take me away down dere in de sunshine,
Where she swims by de light be dawn now.
Wash me down to de Carribean, she’s de bluest sea,
We could all ‘ave cried her, from tears o’ joy.
We free now, Darlin’ mine you be de sunshine,
Fishin’ for your love gentle an’ slow now.
Put de peppers on de chicken an limes wit’ sweet plantains,
Love me slowly now, my miracle on de wing
Wash me down to de Carribean, she’s de bluest sea,
We could all ‘ave cried her, from tears o’ joy.
I wan’ be seeing de parrots so colored pretty,
De albatross, he fly slowly over you an’ me.
Fly wit’ me reggae heart an de Wailers play,
I’m gone up on Heaven while Bob Marley sings.
Wash me down to de Carribean, she’s de bluest sea,
We could all ‘ave cried her, from tears o’ joy.
Fly wit’ me reggae heart an de Wailers play,
I’m gone up on Heaven while Bob Marley sings.
Wash me down to de Carribean, she’s de bluest sea,
We could all ‘ave cried her, from tears o’ joy.
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 07/01/2006
*Spell Book* will resume publishing in the next couple of days. Thank you all so much for your patience!
Dan
Friday, June 02, 2006
He awoke to heat and thirst and pain,
Not sure where he was in the silence,
Lying torn on burning sands,
Seeing the cloudless blue sky waver and shimmer.
Rolling over with a groan,
He shakily got his feet under him,
Unsteady and drenched in sweat that steamed away instantly.
He raised a hand to shield his eyes,
All the world was sand unbearably bright,
A scorpion crawled by nearly at his feet,
He licked his cracked and bleeding lips and remembered what it was,
Just in time jumping away.
Dizzy with confusion he turned around and followed his own footprints,
They led to a smoldering building in ruins,
An arm lay outstretched from under a shattered block of stone,
A child's arm by the look of it.
He remembered being a child once,
Playing with toy cars as his sister cradled her Barbie doll,
"I'm going home in a week" he thought,
Suddenly terrified at something he couldn't remember,
Maybe couldn't bear to remember.
It might happen again back home,
He suddenly knew this even though "what" was only a burning haze,
He knew he couldn't let "it" happen back home,
The tears burst into his eyes along with white hot rage,
Out-burning the sun as he saw a smoldering teddy bear near the arm.
He reached for the gun at his hip,
Pointed it at his face as he thought "I can't let this go back home,"
Flipping off the safety he started to squeeze,
Just like they'd squeeze the truth out of him in horrible ways,
If he let "it" get back home.
Just as he heard the final click before his angels were due,
He woke up in sweat drenched sheets,
Screaming incoherently as his wife looked at him with THAT look in her eyes,
The sickening animal fear that he knew was on his childrens' faces in their room,
The look that made a lie out of their words of hope for "recovery."
There was only one way he would ever recover from something,
But God help him - he couldn't figure out what "it" was,
And as he reached for the pills in the drawer by the bed,
The thought burned his soul all the way to his core.
The teddy bear was familiar...
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 06/02/2006



