It's Not About Me...

It's Not About Me... 

At least not this time,

Though poetry can be,

Verses of memoir,

Lost love,

Love found,

Joy,

Despair,

Yet really...

Once I am gone,

How can it be,

For there will be no more of me?

What then it comes to,

A common thread,

You see we are not alone,

For when we are read,

It's about the reader.

Humanity is universal,

Hopes,

Dreams,

Desires,

Causes,

Loves,

Fears,

All the lesser children of these...

You,

Reader,

You are not alone in your,

Hopes,

Dreams,

Desires,

Causes,

Loves,

Fears,

All the lesser children of these...

This is what Muses see,

Ages of poets,

Languages alive and dead,

Commonality writ long and large,

More similar than different,

As we cried,

Smiled,

Laughed,

Bled.

In love or blues,

Any millennium,

Any day,

We are one.

It's not about me,

At least not this time.

It's about us.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 08/13/2020

Morning Chalice...

Morning Chalice...

The aroma is legendary,

Such a part of life,

Impossible to say goodbye,

All I can say is good morning,

Over the tender wavering shimmer,

Steam rising,

The true alertness of half the world,

I can never imagine my percolator idled,

My antique hand-grinder stilled,

The can of beans empty,

As the world goes to sleep,

Never to awaken.

From the misted moutain sides of Columbia,

To the lowlands of Africa,

The hills of the Inland Empire,

Not a bean?

Surely the world can agree,

It would be a mourning tagedy,

For us all.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 08/12/2020

https://www.vox.com/videos/2020/8/10/21361950/coffee-crisis-climate-colombia

Wordfish...

Wordfish... 

So you want to swim with poets,

Let me tell you a tale,

You'd best have a wordfish,

Thiiiiiiisssss biiiiggg!

Some thoughts are like barracuda,

Fast and dangerous in the briny deep,

Others like minnows swimming in rosewater bowls,

Love sprinkled down from above,

Yet others crawl like crabs,

Sideways on the murky bottom,

Dancing perilously with lobsters,

And jellyfish bubbles of nothing,

That sting you if you read.

Still all these characters,

Have no bearing,

The true monsters of the deep rarely come out,

Their reading bites like megalodon,

Sharks with a pen.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 08/12/2020

In The Space Between Sleep...

In The Space Between Sleep... 

Stars have always called my name,

I could hear their twinkle whisper,

Way above the bright blue sky,

Where I always thought I belonged,

Soaring and dreaming up,

Always up.

I dreamed of a Blue Angel,

Even before kindergarten,

Carrying prayers into the sky,

Jealous of birds,

Even butterflies.

Some nights I swim the skies,

Silver pool so fast,

I am a dolphin of the night,

Playing with bubbles of light,

Always searching,

Seeking,

Full of wonder and hope,

Something even this year,

Can't pull to the ground,

I remain aloft always in my heart.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 08/12/2020

Farcebook Junkie...

Farcebook Junkie... 

Do I have another like?

Time for school,

Read a book,

Dinner date,

Darling mine,

Do I have another like?

Doctor,

Doctor,

Give me the news,

Do I have another like?

Oldest friend's in town,

Off to the beach,

Stoplight red,

Annoying,

Do I have another like?

Birthday bash,

Waiting for the cake,

Trying to earn cash,

Boss turns their back,

Do I have another like?

You know where everybody reads,

Totally appropriate it seems,

Just dropped your jeans,

If only we could flush,

"Do I have another like?"

AquarianM

By: Daniel A, Stafford

© 08/10/2020

Tales Of The Pandemonium...

Tales Of The Pandemonium... 

Don't get me wrong,

I love a day at the beach,

But these waves crashing,

They're no warm salty water,

Nor cold surf on a Great Lake,

Not even a pond.

There is no placid,

And complacency,

That will maybe get you eaten,

Not in a good way.

The national parks are trashed,

Or sold off to a salt mine,

Or gutted for frack sand,

Merrily tossed away.

The stars are streaking,

Oceans peaking,

Maybe we'll someday,

Boil plastic soup from the seas,

Fishing from the crown of Lady Liberty.

Today it's the fad,

Outlaws are unmasked riders,

Hawgs enmeshed in Sturgis,

A sea of meat for the bugs.

It's all sold from the top,

A Barker's carnivale,

Full of more baffle than a used car seller,

Cliche flim-flam in a suit.

The carpets are all filthy on the bottom,

Our only hope,

The relentless tick of the clock,

Perhaps served up with a cup of karma,

We are the clown posse now,

And our emperor,

Well,

We've even seen a pumpkin,

Wearing imaginary clothes.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 08/10/2020

#Political #Poetic Memoir

Fast Forward...

Fast Forward...

Heard calls for redux,

Not for me just fast forward,

Twenty twenty gone.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 08/09/2020

Poetry Was Never About The Money...

Poetry Was Never About The Money... 

So now that you're done laughing,

Wait,

You are,

Aren't you?

Word play is a mission,

So secret only readers know,

We play at being secret agents,

An agency of the subconscious,

Muses our handlers.

Words might build pyramids,

But not those of poets,

We whisper to Father Time,

Who laughs at our ego,

If we're lucky our jokes.

I play with these words in twilight,

Somewhere between insomnia & pillow,

A sparkling word vampire,

I'll bite you for ink,

My only progeny pretty word baubles,

But it suits me to fill the time,

And I am in good company.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 08/08/2020

In The Church Of No Time...

In The Church Of No Time... 

The bully pulpit ticks,

Sacramental sand flowing,

Down a narrow waist,

Water filling a balance,

Wick burning,

Mark-by-mark through tallow,

Too dark for a sun dial,

Evil red numbers change in cadence,

A lock on perception,

An artificial rush,

Even rhe Sun and Moon,

Leading stars and planets,

Dancing to an endless river,

Of these ticks and tocks,

We're born into bondage,

No mercy and no respite,

The closest freedom is sand and surf,

A seemingly endless cadence its own,

In the end it must run out,

We all run screaming out,

The fire of our agony is even finite,

Here in the Church of No Time.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 08/08/2020

#Poetic Philosophy #Political

Blogger Finally Getting Development Work From Google!

I have been using Blogger-dot-com blogs since around 2002. Google bought it circa 2004, if I recall correctly.

I have been doing several updates on the style of my *Spell Book* poetry blog ( http://www.Whizzyrds.com ) on Blogger.

I don't think Google had put any development effort into Blogger in a decade or more. All of a sudden in the past couple of weeks, I am noticing some definite modernization of the layout and post editing interfaces. This is good news, because it makes it more likely that Blogger will be maintained.

Now if they just upgrade the mobile version design...

Dan

What Is Poetry?

What Is Poetry?

Can I even begin to answer?

Let me try...

It's the subconscious spilling out through a conscious filter,

With a touch of beauty and heart,

A deep connection at the unconscious level,

Between all of us who are built this way, 

Looking through a word kaleidoscope,

At the fractal undermind. 

Maybe.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 08/07/2020

#Poetic Philosophy #Poets Poems

Immersion...

Immersion... 

It's a grind,

Far older than I,

I'm the spinning wheel,

The engine that could,

The rumble,

I crave the scent,

For the murk of morning,

My cup I will fill,

Yet at the moment I breathe deep,

Best-scented garage in town,

I savor the immersion.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 08/06/2020

The Quiet Dark...

The Quiet Dark... 

Cool night air lies still,

Crickets the only ear-fall,

Mystery above.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 08/05/2020

#Lifestyle

Standing...

Standing...

My feet planted,

Close my eyes,

Pull light of white from the Everywhere,

Mind dancing I do not move,

Winds of news sway nothing,

My duty is to stand,

Monolith,

Aware of the flow,

Wind and water,

Roll off my back and brow,

The sky might be gray,

Perhaps blue,

Even starlit,

The calm of Eternity comforts me,

Water in the river flows by,

Just as dust blows,

Always renewed,

I am standing,

This too will pass.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 08/04/2020

#Lifestyle #Poetic Philosophy #Political

Silent Space...

Silent Space...

Fly me to the Moon,

At least somewhere full of stars.

Maybe the dusty red fields of Mars,

The silent night of galaxies,

Too distant to believe,

Too big for the Human race,

The utter quiet,

Pretty lights of outer space.

Maybe this could heal a soul,

The noiseless depths of total cold,

Far away from the battlefield,

These perceived wounds that should've healed.

Sad to see the children we've become,

Maybe growing up is never done,

No end in ragged sight,

Forever twisted between dark and light,

So they say lest we assume,

That in the end might Heaven bloom,

Sprung from constant dreams of doom and gloom.

They say it's fated in our stars,

Even driving Mars in electric cars,

To endlessly battle for control,

No respite in depths of the soul,

Dreams of rapture seal the wait,

Held in hope at Heaven's gate.

Maybe this could heal a soul,

The noiseless depths of total cold,

Far away from the battlefield,

These perceived wounds that should've healed.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 07/05/2020

#Sci-Fi #Political #Poetic Philosophy

Everybody's Down...

Everybody's Down... 

Put me in hole,

Way down deep,

Lay down your darkness,

At my feet,

And there I'll meet,

All those secrets,

That you keep.

Everybody's down,

Everybody's down.

I see them walking downtown,

Strutting all around,

Hey,

Look at me!

Everybody's down,

Everybody's down.

All these illusions,

Sad delusions,

Must be at least,

Six deep,

Scent of fear,

Cries I hear,

Begging for release.

Everybody's down,

Everybody's down.

We don't know yet,

The depth of the darkness,

The sad darkness,

Of true defeat,

Or have the patience,

For a bended knee.

Everybody's down,

Everybody's down.

It's not over,

No walking toes in clover,

No dancing in the street,

No lost lovers meet,

No sunny end yet,

For this dark disease.

Everybody's down,

Everybody's down,

No one's waiting around.

Put you in hole,

Way down deep,

Lay down our darkness,

At your feet,

And there you'll meet,

All those secrets,

That they keep.

Everybody's down,

Everybody's down.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 04/18/2020

#Poetic Philosophy #Political

The Bandana King...

The Bandana King... 

That small square of cotton,

Ancient symbol of freedom,

Comfort and protection,

A place to hide,

A way to be seen,

Hot pad at the campfire,

Outlaw,

Biker,

Hippie,

Rocker,

A classic,

As American as apple pie,

But more like hot dog,

I can mask them with the best of 'em,

Have a stout collection,

Maybe someday I'll start a bandana museum,

Classes on folding,

Janice singing Bobby McGee,

Long hair a uniform requirement,

Straight or ponytail,

Like prayer flags for an American heart,

Maybe the bandana will survive the corona,

Move from my face to my head,

But one things for sure,

No one's laughing at me for collecting them,

But I don't mind if they do,

Just wear yours,

Red or blue,

Green grey or yellow,

Black or purple,

If you want to be cool.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 04/13/2020

#Poetic Philosphy #Poetic Memoir #Lifestyle

Pandemerica...

Pandemerica... 

Solidarity,

Fissures,

Facts,

Fakes,

In the end it's what it takes.

Survival with a smile,

Breaking down into tears and laughing,

Manic by mandate,

Some get high on love,

Some get high on hate.

Fear,

Hope,

Dread and take-out,

The whole world gone virtual,

Like the scientists theorize,

Our lives happen in a hologram.

Washing,

Washing,

Raw-hand washing,

The wrinkled fingers of karmic fate,

Singing songs of masked heroes.

We're all the lone ranger now.

Anti-social distancing games,

Love from a distance,

So strange now,

A month ago,

It was hands you'd shake.

If you can sew,

Don't sow paranoia,

Be a good citizen before it kills you to,

This isn't forever,

But it'll be awhile.

Essentials work like dogs,

The rest bored and restless,

This pandemic dichotomy,

Might be the biggest killer of all,

So says the masked distancer,

Sword high over a TP roll.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 04/13/2020

#Political #Lifestyle #Poetic Philosophy

The Legend Of Lone-Hand Dan...

The Legend Of Lone-Hand Dan...



Euchre - the only team sport that uses playing cards.

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

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

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

In Euchre the deal always passes to the left.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



AquarianM

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

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

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

---

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

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

#Poetic Memoir

A Well-Watered Grave...

A Well-Watered Grave...

 Sometimes forgotten old things bubble to the surface of your particular pool of time,

Most especially in this era of recorded everything.

An old TV show from over a decade ago,

From my zombie workaholic era,

I missed it working the graveyard shift.

The ghost of its two-season run haunted us this past month,

A glimpse into a time capsule from 2003,

One that died a premature death,

Despite its utter brilliance and highly poetic sitcom patina.

Georgia Lass may have been obliterated by a flying toilet from the cosmos at 18,

But was a badass soul-reaper and heart-stealer,

A stand-in for those we've lost in every decade of the last century.

I watered her grave when she smiled back at her headstone,

All dark humor and love that outlasts everything.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 01/29/2020

Author's Note:

A binge-watch of the 2003 sitcom "Dead Like Me" will stick with me for a very, very long time. 

#Lifestyle #Poetic Memoir

Love Zone...

Love Zone... 

You're in my love zone,

This ain't a friend zone,

I believe in you,

Know this is true,

Baby you never have to be alone,

You're in my love zone,

More than just this song,

No matter how long.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 11/28/2019

#Love

Sonicque...

Sonicque... 

All this sound locked in my head,

A bottled-up devotion,

Right brain in chains,

Clock-constrained,

A slave to the wallet,

Living in a capitalist dream.

My sax hasn't been out of the case,

Must be five years now,

I still remember the tast of a new fresh reed,

All starch and music,

Thank the universe for poetry,

My only right-brain escape from locked- in syndrome.

Left logic is always out on the town,

But the right side barely gets words.

AquarianM

By : Daniel A. Stafford

 © 11/20/2019

#Saxophone

Binary...

Binary... 

...Is a natural force in my life,

Like air or fire,

Water or earth,

I could not live without it,

On and off,

Electricity making pieces of reality,

I married the love of my life,

01/01/01 at 1:01,

I've made two careers out of it,

I live technology,

My poetry travels on technology,

Making my words literally electric.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 11/17/2019

#Poetic Philosophy #Tech

Hello Darkness My Old Friend...

Hello Darkness My Old Friend... 

It seems you're here to dance with us again,

Daylight savings had to end,

Early to work and leaving late,

Toil in hours of night seem my fate.

Fuzzy-headed is just how I roll,

A world of shadow with coffee in tow,

Though stars and Moon seem often bright,

Can't outshine the pollution of city lights.

Hours of silence and my friends have given up,

Darkness over leisure fills my cup,

Awake all night as others sleep,

My night of thoughts roam darknes deep.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 10/01/2017

I'm The Divider!

I'm The Divider! 

Act One: Shopping

I bought a new label,

Shiny on my table,

From a reporter,

Blogger,

Caster,

Vlogger,

Pundit,

Or other Bloviationary.

Gazing at my navel,

It makes me feel superior,

To someone in my own mind inferior,

So I go with my fears,

Aim it right between their ears.

Act Two: Division

It's not equal to Multiplication,

More akin to Subtraction,

No relation to Addition,

Distant cousin to Dissolution,

Evolved evil yet capable,

From some casual label.

Act Three: Helicopters

Millennials this,

Millennials that wonder,

Whose parenting act?

Act Four: OK, Boomer

OK Boomer Arrives,

In my ears like "Whatever,"

Useful to no one.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 11/08/2019

OK Boomer...

The Human Hours...

The Human Hours... 

Don't get me wrong,

Workaholic stoicism has its place,

Most particularly in the hearts of those who count beans,

Yet even they have a heartbeat,

Draw breath,

And reach for the flush handle.

The toughest talk still stifles a yawn,

Has to lay down their head,

Stumble sleepy and vulnerable,

Deep in the Human hours.

All business All day,

All child in PJ' all night.

AquarianM

By:  Daniel A. Stafford

© 12/01/2019

The Howling...

The Howling... 

In November the winds remain,

Diminished in force,

Yet colder and sullen,

A foreboding season,

Still the cornucopia of harvest is celebrated,

A gathering in,

Comfort and rest with kin and kind,

A season's labor behind.

The cold comes,

Guard you well the embers of fires,

We must stand strong Winter's bane and icy bluster,

So that in Spring,

The colored leaves of Autumn will feed the blossoms soon to green the long hot Summer.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 11/05/2019

Crescendo...

Crescendo... 

Rains fall like Niagara in the soaked and shivering East,

Snow builds mountains in the Rockies and Northern Plains,

Devil winds and fire tornadoes paint ashes in the West.

The winds of anger blow everywhere,

A common commotion at the center of it all,

Loud-mouth louts online and on stage,
Screaming the energy that feeds it all,
Building and howling.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 10-28-2019

Flying Home...

Flying Home... 

Cool grey skies overcast blanket,

Corn-stubble muted tawny gold,

Canada geese blend into either,

As the grasses join in to wave goodbye,

Summer's fireflies long gone.

I watch my breath drift off to Heaven,

Draw my jacket a bit tighter,

Daydream of places that I used to be.

As simple as a burst milkweed pod sends seeds on October breezes,

As easy as Autumn leaves fall to Earth,

As natural as a flock of geese in formation.

I am flying home,

Just in those moments.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 10/27/2019

The Old Stories...

The Old Stories... 

i cant tell now if the old stories were wilder,

Less inhibited,

More macabre,

Or just less tainted by "correctness."

All the lessons buried,

All the warnings of powers larger than ourselves,

Was it just because the forest and jungle laws were closer,

Or is it because we hid in concrete and dead wood?

Tooth and fang are going extinct,

A mistake,

Because personal extinction may be more remote,

Yet we are animals too.

True,

Fairness is a virtue,

Yet so is resilience,

Even more so nature.

Watch the seasons dance,

Tell me what is truth,

What is myth,

What is a lie?

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 10/26/2019

The Grand Opening...

The Grand Opening... 

At this time,

On this night,

Through the thinnest of veils,

Spirits may rise and shine,

As we all turn to the inside,

Contemplate the passage of time,

Watching grass and flower and leaf,

The colors of myriad endings,

Countless signs of the long cold rest to come.

Drumbeats and howling winds,

Twinkling stars dance in and out of dark gray cloud curtains,

Swirl 'round the bright and lovely Moon.

The otherworlds beneath my feet and above my head,

I wander in the heart of the night.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 10/24/2019

Only Over The Moon...

The Originals...

The Originals... 

The people you grew up with,

Scattered like Autumn leaves from the same tree,

Some from the very same branch,

Other from across the tree.

No matter how far the wind blows you away from the tree,

In a quantum universe,

You are still entangled.

The memory of the branches that bound you,

Of Springtime and budding,

Washed in same rains,

Of the rustling winds of Summer nights,

The shared glow of fireflies and stars,

And Autumn's cool frost and bluster.

No matter how we crumble and mulch and scatter,

You are the originals,

And I remember.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 10/22/2019

The Ghost Of A House...

The Ghost Of A House... 

Autumn leaves dance on old branches,

Large and stout arms to hold the falling rain of color,

A luxurious russet blanket covering the still-green grass,

A palette yet to be painted in the crystalline tones of Jack Frost,

That wandering vagabond of cold and breath-hushed nights,

A trillion mirrors on Earth of the billion twinkling stars in Heaven's night.

I saw its bones once,

Boarded up with faded and chipping paint,

Not long before the bulldozer struck.

It haunts me on Autumn nights,

The old farmhouse at Eaton,

Where love must have been made,

Children raised and played,

Where the old oaks shade only the ghost of a house.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 10/17/2019

They Call Him Vampire...

They Call Him Vampire... 

Like many things that move through the night,

The tales are taller than long shadows,

The truth is the iceberg below the surface,

And the mystery is a sought-after whisper of fantasy and dreams,

Never to be truly known.

Its said he is ancient,

This I believe.

By some freak of nature,

Some deeply-twisted whim of fate,

He never ages,

Not even a speck of grey or the smallest wrinkle.

Can you fathom what that must mean,

The cold curse it must be?

You and I lament about "never going home,"

That refuge of childhood and youth,

Yet imagine seeing it by daylight a thousand years from now,

Every sign of its existence crumbled,

Dust and built or grown over.

Could you bear to walk in the sun?

Perhaps his talk of blood flows from a time when that was all most had to give,

A time when there were no zippers,

All was buttons and ties,

And sewing needles were made of stone or bone.

To hail from an era where clocks did not exist is t be timeless,

Ruled all by Sun and Moon.

There was a time long ago when a lack of manners was cause for blood to spill,

Is it any wonder his are impeccable?

Perhaps his love died one night in a kitchen,

Red-rose blood flowing in among bits and cloves of half-minced garlic,

Solver necklace hewn from her lifeless body,

A stake driven through her heart by a jilted Von Helsing,

In an era where romance was the only true coin of life.

There are many reasons to hide in the mists of the night,

And he has lived them all.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 10/15/2019

The Shallow Pumpkin...

The Shallow Pumpkin... 

The shallow pumpkin has shallow roots,

An empty gourd of poor seed,

Thin of skin and rotting from the inside out.

It is a false jack-o'-lantern,

Decaying and caving in 'fore All Hallows can even begin,

Raising a horrendous stench,

Leaking a mess upon the world at the earliest frost,

Amounting to a waste of time and effort.

Pin your hopes upon the pumpkin of deep roots,

Look for that to glow true upon the night of thin-veiled spectacle,

The light of the past illuminates a magical future.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

©10/13/2019

I'm A Dreamer...

I'm A Dreamer... 

...And I'm not the only one.

That line was so good it deserved a welcome reprise,

Thank you John in the sky.

In the seventies and eighties sense of the term,

I believe that if we dream big enough,

Miracles can be baked out of even small potatoes.

If we let the "pragmatists" have it their way,

We would live in dark and cold caves,

Nary a wheel or spark in sight.

Dream,

All I have to do is dream...

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

©10/08/2019

Mental Twinkies For Nerds...

Mental Twinkies For Nerds... 

Magazines on glorious glossiuss paper,

In hand at a bookstore coffee shop,

Triple-shot latte and oatmeal-raisin cookie,

Slightly warmed.

Atlantis Rising with everything from alternative energy to ancient Egyptians in the Grand Canyon,

Races of ancient giants and lost pyramids in Eastern Europe.

Nexus with much of the same plus aliens and quantum physics,

Don't forget the occasional dinosaur.

Ancient American with copper mining in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan four thousand years ago,

Hebrew fortresses in down-State Indiana in 50 BC.

Be it biblical mysteries or libraries under the paw of the Sphinx,

Electrical power plants inside the Great Pyramid at Giza,

Or even hints at finding Atlantis,

I am in geeks' Heaven.

The hours are mere minutes,

And I am an arm-chair Indiana Jones in the temple of Caffeine,

The Eterniverse laid bare at my feet.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 10/10/2019 

The Poets' Ache Redux...

The Poets' Ache Redux... 

Of what use is poetry?

Where does this drive to record the stream of words from the subconscious come from?

Is it seeping into our souls from the shared intelligence of the Universe?

The mystic whispers of Muses and Angels?

Transmissions across time and space from other dimensions?

I know beyond any doubt that we poets are connected by and in it,

This adoring of the written word,

The unstoppable drive to produce them.

A clue is how it screams to me in Autumn.

An ephemeral yet undeniable force,

A drumbeat of psychic power

It manifests in an acute sense of the passage of time,

An urgency to salvage traces of moments soon to be gone forever,

Otherwise lost and forgotten.

I know in my bones that every beautiful and unique Autumn leaf will end its dance,

Become dull and moldy,

Crumble into the Earth and feed insects and worms,

Forever gone and faded from eye and mind.

Every snowflake and frost crystal will melt away,

Blades of grass mowed and mulched.

We are all leaves and snow.

Once in a great while an Autumn leaf lands in amber.

I am writing this with a pen from the late 1990's,

Shocked that it still writes,

Caught in amber like a tiny miracle.

Perhaps we all hope to be so lucky as the leaf in amber,

Or as pyramids and sphinxes,

With enough mystery to be worthy of memory or at least investigation.

How many notebooks full of art and poetry lie in musty boxes,

Lost to attics and basements and old garages,

Or buried in landfills,

Perhaps sitting on a shelf in an abandoned gold mine,

In a dusty nightstand in a bedroom of a ghost town saloon,

And worse,

In abandoned poetry boards scattered in forgotten dark attics of the internet?

It would need an army of love to save them all.

I ache for our words to be blessed with Amber.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 10/08/2019

No Spectators In The Pumpkin Wars...

No Spectators In The Pumpkin Wars... 

I tend to fall...well,

Autumn,

In with the traditionalists,

Tories of pumpkin as it were.

Pumpkin pie and coffee is sacred,

Nearly as hallowed as jack-o'-lanterns,

Though not so far as to need a turnip harvest,

I find Linus quite modern,

Searching for some "Great- Pumpkin".

Spice this and spice that,

Ceareal and ice cream,

Probably shampoo and soap,

Destroying perfectly good bacon,

Will asparagus be next,

Or is it caviar and champagne?

I'll go as far as pancakes,

Just leave my devilled eggs in a natural state,

Zucchini too.

There is only one way I'll consort with the enemy...

...Venti,

Triple-shot,

No whip,

Don't skip the nutmeg and allspice,

There in the land of magazines and good books,

Or perhaps poetry.

Look!

Look at the pretty leaves!

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 10-6-2015

A Leaf Dancing In Dreamland...

A Leaf Dancing In Dreamland... 

Blowing down the street in the heart of the night,

I whirl in the air and skitter over pavement,

Tickling obstacles before rolling over and around,

Spinning color changes in the show-light pools of street lamps.

I am the dry rustle that scares you at first,

The troupe of dancers in the company of foggy-breathed chill nights,

With a supporting cast of fleeting charcoal clouds and blinking twinkle stars.

I am the prophet spectre of a year's ending.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 10/05/2019

Midnight Oil...

Midnight Oil... 

...Or maybe a candle,

Well,

Ok,

A lamp,

After all,

We are in a post-Edison-and-Tesla era.

And yet,

The lights are soft,

My heart is open,

Pen in the hand gliding over paper,

A spiral notebook,

My favorite,

Filling with poetry,

At the cadence of my Muse.

I am thinking of our far-off Paladin,

With a vision of healing,

Heartful of hope,

Future still clothed in fine robes of possibility.

There is something powerful about these hours in the season of Autumn,

Indeed all the year,

Yet now the most.

The cool nights,

Low golden angle of afternoon sun,

Promise of Orion's return to the bejeweled Heavens.

The tinge of color is creeping upon both tree and bush,

Leaves not yet skittering down the streets,

Yet I find that I can't stop from turning them.

AquarianM

© 10/02/2019

By: Daniel A. Stafford

The Sunday Paper...

The Sunday Paper... 

We were watching the Sunday Morning show on CBS,

A Sunday tradition of ours,

Her passing comment took me back decades;

"Like in the Sunday Paper..."

I remember a time when you were lucky,

Maybe a single gas station in town was open,

Family and friends home together.

The expanded comics section was in color rather than black and white,

"The funny papers" some called them.

The arts and theater for the week listed in all their glory,

Reviews and previews.

The local community section with local accomplishments and festivals,

Who won the bake-off,

The local boy who my officer,

College and high school graduations and weddings,

Honorees,

Exotic vacations townspeople were taking.

Himtan interests were the best,

How to keep blacksmithy alive,

Or cutting ice on the river fifty years ago,

Maybe how a new museum was being planned.

Of course there was a gossip section too.

The best days of another era.

AquarianM

© 09/29/2019

By: Daniel A. Stafford

The Pits...

The Pits... 

As my Mother used to say,

"Sometimes in life you get cherries,

Other times it's just the pits."

What was never mentioned;

Sometimes those small hard things might just crack a tooth,

Yet with a little effort and a lot of luck...

Well,

Cherry trees are large,

Fruitful,

Beautiful in bloom.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 09/27/2019

The Scent Of The Grind...

The Scent Of The Grind... 

The beans spill into the hopper,

As I spin the handle in and antique tradition,

The scent washes over me,

Serenity and satisfaction falling,

Ground down and landing in a brown paper bag,

Old-school air freshener,

That rich brown,

Percolator-bound brown gold.

For a few days,

I have the best-smelling garage on the planet.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 09/25/2017

Tarash Sparau...

Tarash Sparau...

There is an ancient name,
They say it was sung by the last summer winds,
In chorus with the stormy gales of autumn,
Tarash Sparau,
The Song In The Breeze,
A magical creature of a season's moment,
The essence of the edge of summer and fall,
She wears a cloak of many colors,
It's vista is that of summer flowers,
Dancing with the turning leaves,
As the season turns all tawny and fire,
Last vestiges of soft pastel and brilliant riots,
Tarash Sparau's cool laughter in grey clouds,
Billowing pillows in the vast sky dimming,
There when mortals are not seeing the wood for the trees,
With their leaves of flaming crimson and yellow gold,
As the leaves broadcast the sunset of the season,
Tarash Sparau bears the horn of plenty,
Carrying it to now hale Autumn,
And Tarash Sparau's fine cloak of colors,
Whipping and flapping in changing breezes,
Resembles owls in the woods,
Or sometimes flocks of blackbirds upon the wing,
And this year Tarash Sparau cries crystal tears,
Raining from her pale sunset eyes,
For her sweet sister Summer is stained crimson,
And Angels with Soul Catchers surround her abed,
Dark eyed and solemn as they await a winter of the spirit,
Their halos of golden light offset by black feathered wings,
Their eyes all a mist for the duty they bear,
For again men's souls have taken the chill of Winter,
Haughty and cold and bringing endings with no remorse,
They have become minions of the Ice Queen,
Their souls puppets on strings in a frozen celestial lair,
And sweet Summer has wept herself to sleep,
Verde, Summer, buenos notches, y vaya con Dios,
Sleep in the arms of God,
Your sweet sister Primavera,
Oh angelic Spring and her gentle blue eyes,
Had no ill winds sweeping through her wild blown hair,
No, Tarash Sparau is bade by Autumn,
"Carry the prayers of men to the council of angels,
Let God's own ear hear the plight and wailing voices."
As an angel cups palms 'round every lit candle,
Tarash Sparau sings her tearful message,
Begging for kindness upon the ears of all,
Or at least all with a heart to hear.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A.Stafford
(C) 09/25/2001

Author's Comments:
I feel a sadness in the passing of summer, even more
than in so many years before, because this year,
winter took hearts and froze them still so long before
their time should ever have come, and those chill
hearts that have lost all mercy and caring wish to bring
more death into the world. I wish their eyes could see
visions of the summer's sweetness instead.

American Corn...

American Corn...

Cheesey,

Embellished,

Kitschy,

Ticky-tacky knic-knac,

I love all these roadsides,

Waving brash history's hat,

It's all fascinating,

The stories of bygone days,

The glories of our bric-a-brac.

Polish up the bullhorn,

Paint up a new sign,

Print it in the paper,

Blogs and social media,

Everywhere you can think and find,

Radio and TV,

Podcast and YouTube,

It's all very well.

Bring out the children,

Animals and local celebrities,

Old coaches and whistling trains.

From the world's largest ketchup bottle,

To castles in death valley,

Mining caves and ghost towns,

Cotton candy and carnivals,

Snap crackle and pop,

I love American Corn.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 09/22/2019

Author's Note:

Inspired by adventures with my wife, remembered through Huell Howser.

https://www.kcet.org/shows/californias-gold-with-huell-howser/episodes/wedding-of-the-waters

The Great Spinning...

The Great Spinning... 

To cover our nakedness,

The first cloth was long-ago spun.

All of life is made up of vortices,

Perhaps everything in the Great All must spin.

Every galaxy in the universe has been spinning since the beginning of time,

Just as do the planets around the Sun,

Jupiter's great Red Spot,

Saturn's majestic rings.

Water down a drain mirrors currents in the seas,

Winds and waves swirling and twirling,

So too tornadoes and hurricanes.

Sound waves spin the air,

Like pressure sculptures invisible.

Love is a vortex always reaching for our center,

Epic whet a brief tornado,

Endless jet stream,

Or brief Summer zephyr,

Leaving us forever changed.

Lies must also be spun,

Like a spider's web,

They are sticky and difficult to maintain,

Anchoring their author in time and place,

Often destroyed by larger forces.

Just as maple seed and Autumn leaves spin to the ground,

So too I imagine the breath in our lungs,

The blood in our veins.

Even electrons and atomic particles spin,

Made up of spinning quarks and magnetic fields.

I imagine other universes spin in dimensions we cannot see,

Perhaps meeting at the center of black holes.

The seasons and our lives exist because things spin,

Even rays of light and snowflakes wind their ways to their destinations.

Perhaps that's why I wrote this in cursive,

My pen spinning to the Muse's lovely tune.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 09/22/2019

Did They Bury Candyo In A Car?

Did They Bury Candyo In A Car? 

So the music died again this week,

Another splinter universe created,

A place of fewer songs.

If all the Earth is salted,

Are there still places for a Muse to land,

Ears not too tired to hear a subtle whisper on the wind?

The guitars are dusty,

And I have to go back to work tomorrow.

My soul says "Let's go."

AquarianM

© 09/15/2019

By: Daniel A. Stafford

Author's Note:

I just got word of Ric from The Cars passing away this evening.

I Hear A River...

I Hear A River... 

It is easy to imagine sound as a river,

With all its twists,

Changes in pitch,

Gentle or fierce.

I hear silence as the river.

Bounded by banks of sound,

Silence flows deep or shallow,

Shaping and giving meaning to the landscape of sound.

It is the silence at the end of our course that returns to an ocean of void,

Carrying the dust of our ending into the depths of eternal quiet.

When the silence evaporates,

We are found back upon its river,

Recycled once again.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 02/10/2019

Dream Visions...

Dream Visions is an antique book of sheet music that I purchased many years ago. It's a series of waltzes. I love the cover art.

I scanned the cover many years ago:

I love the idea of using this with a poem at some point.

Dan

Antiquity Went Green...

Antiquity Went Green... 

In the verdant springtime of mankind,

The world was lush and rich with life,

Varied of color and shape,

Wealthy with the force of life.

Then the coins came,

Were swallowed by peasants and bankers,

The wee folk loved shiny objects,

Lusted for bread without labor,

A trick of magic.

Nobility was crafted out of gold cloth,

Inedible,

Inexorable.

A masterful game of death and darkness,

Playing charades of light and glitter,

A Mardi Gras masquerade,

Unleashing softly-covered breasts and treasures,

Of every description and nature,

A trick of light and sorcery,

Woven into the fabric of language.

What a dark psychic poison it is.

Sloth begets a lust for shiny baubles,

The most ancient of psyops,

Infowars from the infancy of Humanity.

Can you imagine life without the language of the bank?

How much of every tongue would require excision,

How much mental space would need vacation?

I can easily see a green new deal,

It existed before we did.

It's why we are,

Likely to be why we were,

Failing a recognition of the dream as the nightmare.

Rasputin was legend,

Mesmer fabled.

They pale under the gleam of gold and silver,

The ringing song of coin and register.

Wake up,

Make a bed of swaying boughs,

The singing rustle of leaves,

The swaying of flowers and buzzing of bees,

The rise and set of the Sun.

Go back to the green and bury the gold.

May Day, May Day, May Day!

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 05/01/2019

Battle Cry...

Battle Cry... 

It used to shriek and ding,

Now it softly groans om,

The drumbeat of sleepy feet,

Never truly rested,

Off again to be tested.

Pet the cats,

Slip on slippers,

Start the coffee,

Set out clean clothes,

Brush and shower,

Master the comb.

Dress and button,

Zip and tie,

Pour the pot,

Kiss on the fly,

Hop in the truck,

Turn the key.

Flip on the radio,

Start up Maps,

She reads me directions,

Where the traffic is at.

Tick-tock-tick,

I'm racing away,

I won't slow down,

Not 'til the end of the day.

Every which way,

My attention is split,

In fours and threes,

There's never enough of me,

Slap and dash,

Fire of the moment,

A job truly well-done,

That's way back in history.

Produce with the least,

That's the new American battle cry!

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 04/24/2019

Wistful Thinking - Columbia...

Wistful Thinking - Columbia... 

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Columbia_(name)

The people's goddess,

Part caricature,

Lady Liberty's elder sister,

Protector in spirit of the Underdog,

She is wrapped in an archaic and tattered flag,

Threadbare and mud-stained,

With blood at her feet.

What happens when goddesses are all but forgotten?

Rot, 

Decay,

Withered trunk,

Yellowed laurel leaves,

Yet with life under the soil,

Roots precariously alive.

She walks limping with a cane,

Sleeping under bridges,

A thousand purple hearts jangling her tattered pockets,

Thousands more littering ditches and landfills.

All for a lack of unity,

A missing depth of compassion,

The carnival barkers' auctioning of the great society.

Ghostly tears wash through tracks of concrete dust,

The bridges and railroads crumbling about her head,

A cloudy wreath for a dull halo.

The empty towns her feet have trudged,

Lifeless soil and vanished insects,

Frankencrops tended by robotic tractors,

Flaming faucets in delapidated farm houses,

The empty backyard swings rusting to nothing.

There used to be promise and honesty in a plow,

Eggs on tables and fish in creeks,

A land of an abundant future.

Columbia is humbled by the seashore,

Microplastic tatters falling from her dishevelled raiments,

Waiting for us all to look up from our screens,

Actually see our neighbors and our world.

Long ago it was said all that glitters is not gold,

But I think everyone has forgotten.

United we stand,

Out of many are one,

So it was said.

We were all once American,

And Columbia was our darling.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 04/14/2019

Melodic Nostalgia...

Melodic Nostalgia... 

Sometimes they come to me,

An ear-worm in a box frame of faded memory,

Playing over and over in my head,

Bringing me to the haunting days of youth,

An iridescent shimmer tinged with yellowed age,

Seen through misty rose-colored glasses.

I wonder who will sing these songs in ages to come,

As snippets slip from my lips in moments of early-morning reverie.

I thought many were forgotten,

Now I know there are hidden corners in my head,

Treasure boxes faded with time,

Priceless and ephemeral.

There are rose gardens tucked away in Southwestern ghost towns,

Rose rustlers occasionally visit for lost treasures,

Forgotten flowers from long ago.

Are we all the rose rustlers of musical history?

Break the burning silence of sunrise,

Perhaps you'll know,

Especially if the tune is light and easy to carry.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 04/12/2019

Old Songs And Karaoke...

Old Songs And Karaoke...

I was told as an early teenager that I sang like a frog,

Of course that crack made me jump back in the pond,

Not so much as a croak for decades,

Young egos are like silly putty,

Soft and pliable,

Unless I was alone in the car.

As a young child I loved Elvis movies,

So did my brother and sister,

Pretty melodies,

Pretty girls,

Pretty cars and boats,

Wide-eyed poet child with open ears.

My childhood hero faded,

We moved,

Other music was everywhere,

So were books,

Along with pre-teen angst,

That longing to fit in,

Somewhere,

Somehow.

Decades passed,

A chance vacation with my pretty wife,

An Elvis CD in a rack,

And the King sang to us all the way home.

It all flooded back,

That simple joy.

Soon the King rode with me to work,

And back,

My new voice coach,

My old childhood friend.

A wayward karaoke party,

Elvis in the list,

So the frog hopped back out,

Maybe not a prince,

Maybe more than a croak,

But I still love it,

An old secret passion,

Some right-brain splash on a left-brain world.

Those rusty old pipes still work a little,

Who knew?

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 04/08/2019

Boing-Boing-Bang!

Boing-Boing-Bang!

How I long for the internet of yesteryear,

The simplicity and easy read,

The uncomplicated pages and sweet graphics,

The possibility of depth,

Of unbroken concentration.

Today's American web,

It's like NASCAR on methamphetamine,

Fast,

Likely to crash into the crowd,

So highly unstable.

In the UK they remember the better age,

The worth of a long read,

A slow afternoon and a good story.

I think the Ferenghi have invaded Earth,

Flash boom bah,

Boing boing bang,

Click-bait poison,

And I have to ask now,

Do I still have your attention?

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

(C) 02/08/2019

Touch O' The Night...

Touch O' The Night...

The constellation Orion snapped with a Galaxy S10.

They say space is the final frontier,
I'd have to agree,
Whether it's an innie or an outie,
Thinking about it in the average Jane and Joe's context,
Well that's tantamount to navel-gazing,
But pleasant.

It's the wee hours again,
So here I am playing in the poetic garden,
Dancing with my old friends,
It's not often the gate's left open these days,
But I'll take a sip of dreams when I can get it.

I need that quiet,
That recharge,
The drop in stimuli,
All flight depends upon it.

At least I got to look up for a bit,
Before Monday's alarm sounds,
Cool as it is that I made it play Om.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 03/31/2019