The Pearl Of Sorrow...

The Pearl Of Sorrow...

…is a wound that never fully heals, 

 For even if Odin's Raven were to tear it from your beating heart like a bug and fly away with it, 

There is still the empty gap in your breast that fills in with the scar tissue of a love gone missing from your life. 

 The Universe is filled with galaxies of love and light fleeing a void. 

 Dark energy, indeed. 

 AquarianM 

 By: Daniel A. Stafford 

 (C) 01/12/2014

Motorcycle Journey to Coffee Collective

Motorcycle Journey to Coffee Collective

collab by John and Dan

Going There by John:

The windblown scent of agave
reminds me of the half-drunk tequila bottle.
As the stars gather in the New Mexican sky, I say,
"Dan, Pegasus is high in the bowl of night.
This bodes well for a fortunate venture.
What do you say we skip town
and head south of the border?"
Our Harleys have gathered dust
for many a moon
but with some tuning are ready
for our bat out of hell ride
under the black hat night.
Mexico turns into a golden cloud
from desert to jungle
where pyramid power emanates
from Palenque ruins in the epicenters
of a dream within a dream.
But Dan points south
where Costa Rican cloud forests
are mystic mists.
There, monkeys howl in boughs born of legend.
And our wheels roll under the Panamanian moon
to cross the Puente Centenario.
We are bound for the Incan holy land
where a Puma Punku ley line
deepens harmonic convergence
to my cry, "This is it!"

Coffee Harvest Dance by John:

We gather native wisdom like lucky beans.
We put our hands to the harvest
just like our workers
whose pay is equal to ours.
And the aroma of the bean sacks
marks the end of the day
when we collect ourselves
to find romance with earthen maidens.
With a new footstep stomp
we honor the women
of the Peruvian revolution
while giving our old hearts a workout.
The senorita magic is as black
as the ace of spades
but as inviting as love in the Andes.
When time stands as still as midnight
we partake of the crop
whose organic fusion
is sun-ripened Arabica
brewed into a love potion
for ladies and gents.
We float in the spirit of the Urubamba River
that lies in the sacred valley,
in the Andean highlands
whose celestial counterpart
is known in Quechua as the Willka Mayu
or heavenly river
that gives life in the lean season.

The Ride Home by Dan:

We are always riding with the stars,
The scent of coffee fills our nostrils by morning,
The sounds of senoritas dancing by night,
Even as trail dust covers our bandanas by day.

The rumble of the engines has carried us on,
Past the Coffee Triangle and white arabica flowers of Clumbia,
Around the pyramids of the ancients,
High into the Andes and on to Puma Punkhu,
Ruins older than the fall of Atlantis greet us,
And there are so many stars out that I believe we can see old poets,
Dancing in the sky and whispering lost verses,
I could not have made this ride alone.

Now is the time for a campfire,
Because in the cold light of dawn,
We must both begin the long journey home.

The Amazon makes the Rubicon look tiny,
And we must treasure each friend found along the way,
To places we once knew,
Yet never remain the same.

I have old episodes of Art Bell replaying in my mind,
For out here we could find any mystery in the universe,
This place is wild and untamed.

If anything strange were to cross this night sky so dark,
We would never miss it,
I've seen at least three falling stars and four floating satellites,
Up where the Milky Way is bright.

Tomorrow we'll rattle the old percolator,
Right before the engines rumble,
Coffee made from the waters of the highest lake of the South.

Goldenmyst and AquarianM

By: John Hindle and Daniel A. Stafford

© 10/03/2020

The Journey...

The Journey... 

Lay your journal by your side,

Let us take a walk outside.

Down a twilit path of earth and stone,

Know you do not walk alone.

Through a field as you stride,

A guide appears pacing at your side.

An old bridge crossing creek,

Throw your troubles in before you seek.

Water burbling down below,

Away your worries now do flow.

Blessings,

Blessings,

Say you now,

Free of fear you are guided how.

Into the dappled light of wooded trail,

Your heart is light as you travail.

A hill with mighty tree atop,

Below a cave into which you drop.

Creep,

Creep,

Caverns deep.

Soon you walk ancient stony halls,

Mysterious carved symbols on its walls.

Opens up a world below,

Filled with all whom you once did know.

As with ancestors you converse,

Secrets once covered now reverse.

....

Across this land you now pace,

No hurry nor worry 'tis no race.

To the other side you now go,

Climbing up from the world below.

Out into open you now walk,

A glowing world where everything can talk.

To trees and stones you can relate,

Creatures and even waters tell it straight.

Take your time and hear them well,

For awhile we here will dwell.

--------

Soon enough you become a raven,

Hawk, or dove,

Into the air which whispers you fly above.

High straight North there is no cold,

You remember each secret you were told.

Far above the ice and snow,

To what seems a great mountain you now go.

As you near you see,

It is no mountain,

But the greatest Tree.

Atop the pinnacle perched your eyes look up,

Your wings again hands which you cup.

The world spins 'round a mighty star,

Auroras light the night both near and far.

Milky way and stars wind slowly around and around,

You hear their voices without a single sound.

Now a Spirit you soar above,

To hear the Universe's song of eternal love.

To the Moon or Mars you might go,

Even to the center's great Black hole.

-------

Back to Earth you become a bird,

Remember deeply every word.

Flying South or East or West,

You return to home and human to now rest.

Waking,

Waking,

To your town,

You pick up your journal and write it down.

Finally,

Finally,

Lay down down your pen,

Give thanks to each whose wisdom you now ken.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 10/03/2020

https://archive.org/download/the-journey../The_Journey...mp3

Audio & poem free to use with accreditation. - Dan Stafford.

The Bones Of October...

The Bones Of October...

The hollow hills of the Old Folk,

How they whisper the cries of a chill wind,

The craggy place of stones and bones,

All shadows and spiders,

Grey with mist where only lichen grow,

No twig nor vine,

Nor leaf and naught blade of grass,

Cold bones ground upon the stones,

Secret ways lit with torches of the dead,

The place where the old souls of Celts grieve,

Rusted with the ancient blood,

Prey to the sins of Rome, 

The ghosts of Lugh's children weep,

Tears of frost and shards of ice,

As the North Star pivots the World,

Seeing what their progeny have become,

Constellations bear baleful witness,

For we are drunk on the altar wine of Rome,

It is blood and dust,

It is a dark harvest,

Upon which October's barrows feed,

So spider crawl,

Spider bite,

With your web of silken night,

Winter comes to your cocoon,

A thousand years before your June,

Be silent,

And close your black eyes.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 09/30/2020

A Step Into Dreamland...

A Step Into Dreamland... 

Midnight tick,

Midnight tock,

One more tick,

Then it's not,

Into the morning,

We will go,

Into Dreamland,

We will flow...

The center of all dreams is a great tree,

Grandmother and grandfather intertwined,

Above the stars shine and spin,

Angel lights dancing on a pin.

Midnight tick,

Midnight tock,

One more tick,

Then it's not,

Into the morning,

We will go,

Into Dreamland,

We will flow...

I am a composite being,

Wound from the folk of Thor and Lugh,

Hammers and thunder,

Spears and lightning,

The look and feel of trees and electricity,

All dance within me,

The modern blending of hidden history.

Midnight tick,

Midnight tock,

One more tick,

Then it's not,

Into the morning,

We will go,

Into Dreamland,

We will flow...

In the wee hours,

I will dream,

And hear the whispers of trees.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 09/30/2020

Cyberpoetry Archaeologist...

 Cyberpoetry Arcaeologist...

There once upon a time was a golden age of internet poetry,

Somewhere between paper and flat screens,

Farcebook was a baby,

Twitter was a text Geek's dream,

And typewriters were mostly starting to gather dust.

Sites were full of graphics,

Pretty backgrounds,

Dreamy art,

Very few ads,

Not sleek and stark.

You could even compare it to architecture in the 1940's,

Before all the glass and steel,

When brick and terra cotta still existed,

And Art Deco was new and beautiful,

A visual feast.

These poets were mocked and forgotten,

Those in ivy-covered halls full of arrogance,

Above it all in dusty books,

All the while poetry was living under their noses,

Breathing and evolving,

New and wild.

After a time everyone moved,

The glass and steel sameness of social media,

And I now search the wilds of classic Cyberspace,

Word-Mining the ghost towns of the Cyberpoets,

Searching for treasure long after the gold rush,

Words in all their glory,

Echoes of Cyperpoets long gone or dead,

Yet their spirits linger in lost verses,

Perhaps to become treasures again some day.

It's a race against time...

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

(C) 09/26/2020

**N OTE: This work is pending possible collaborative additions by a long-time Cyberpoet and friend. You'll see it here if that comes about. Meanwhile publication to other sites is on hold pending possible revision updates. - Dan

Punching Clock...

Punching Clock...

I swear morning people are passive-agressive bullies,

That or oblivious.

Sleep deprivation is defined as torture,

Just check the Geneva Conventions.

After 275 years I finally have had enough coffee,

To come up with a retort to Ben Franklin,

The early bird may get the worm,

Ben,

But those who can stay up late,

They get the date,

So enjoy your worm,

Benny boy.

I imagine a sweet fliptopia,

A world where people all leave for work at noon,

Head home at ten,

Did you forget the commute?

I'll be rockin' just fine until one,

You early birds have fun,

Be the ones too zombied out,

To give your wives alert attention,

You'll be the ones hungry every two hours,

Night owls will get slim,

Pass the cancer and dementia.

One thing's for certain,

You'll finally understand Coffee like we do,

Know in your bones,

If it goes extinct because of climate,

We Zombies will eat your early brains,

Out of sheer impossible frustration.

All I know is my alarm is now a gentle om,

Unlike the clock radio in 1980,

Evil red digits and full volume,

My morning was blown off the pillow,

DJ screaming JOHN LENNON HAS BEEN SHOT!!

Needless to say it was a miserable day,

But I was too tired to care.

Think again about your brain,

The next time you cheerfully say,

"Rise and shine!"

First bite's mine!

Catch a clue,

We haven't been a majority farm country,

Not since the early sixties,

Damn near sixty years,

So up yours with the Sun,

Let me sleep.

Whatever you do,

Make damn sure there's good coffee,

Munch,

Munch.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 09/24/2020

Love Amidst The White Flowers Of Coffee... (Amor en medio de las flores blancas del café...)

Love Amidst The White Flowers Of Coffee... (Amor en medio de las flores blancas del café...)

A young vaquero rides near the coffee fields,

A dirt track,

Not even cobbles.

The coffee blossoms are everywhere,

White and delicate,

Filled with the promise of delicious mornings.

The valley fields of Risaralda bear a light misted fog this morning,

Lending a most spiritual softness,

Blessing the rural fields of Colombia.

As his burro slowly plods the track of quiet dawnlight,

A beautiful sound reaches the young man's ear,

A feminine voice in early morning song,

Singing softly,

And his eye sees her framed in the slanting early light of the Sun,

A beautiful young woman in colorful garb,

Scenting the coffee flowers.

His morning cup of coffee will never be the same again.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 09/18/2020

-----------------------------

Amor en medio de las flores blancas del café...

Un joven vaquero cabalga cerca de los cafetales,

Una pista de tierra

Ni siquiera adoquines.

Las flores del café están por todas partes

Blanco y delicado

Lleno de la promesa de deliciosas mañanas.

Los campos del valle de Risaralda llevan esta mañana una ligera neblina,

Prestando una dulzura sumamente espiritual,

Bendición de los campos rurales de Colombia.

Mientras su burro avanza lentamente por el sendero de la tranquila luz del amanecer,

Un hermoso sonido llega al oído del joven,

Una voz femenina en la canción de la madrugada

Cantando suavemente

Y su ojo la ve enmarcada en la oblicua luz temprana del sol,

Una hermosa joven con atuendo colorido,

Perfumando las flores del café.

Su taza de café matutina nunca volverá a ser la misma.

AcuarioM

Por: Daniel A. Stafford

© 18/09/2020

A Knack For Clickety-Clack...

A Knack For Clickety-Clack...

It all goes on in our heads,
If anywhere at all,
You don't need a crystal anything,
Not a ball,
Not a skull,
To know that the mystery of future and history,
Is anything but dull,
But it's easy to forget to track,
We're the ones making it right now,
So keep the gears all meshed and spinning,
It's not a matter of losing or winning,
Put your ink-pen back on track,
Like a freight train,
You need to keep a knack,
For making it roll on clickety-clack.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 11/07/2014 - Poetry & art work.

A Plea For Depth And Beauty...

A Plea For Depth And Beauty... 

There are contrasts in this world,

Perhaps they lend a sense of duality,

Yet this is illusion.

The ocean doesn't have water,

Only at the top,

Only at the bottom,

Only cold,

Or only warm.

There is a gradient,

Depth,

Pressure,

Temperature,

Current,

How many living things reside,

And where.

In writing there is computer font,

Thousands of forms,

And then hand-printed letters,

Cursive,

Calligraphy

Movies have Mad Max,

Contagion,

Close Encounters of the Third Kind,

Casablanca,

Myriad more.

In song,

Hip-Hop,

House,

EDM,

Lucy In The Sky,

Norwegian Wood and Eleanor Rigby,

Beethoven's 5th.

There are bongos,

Electric guitars,

Stradivarius violins.

Graphic novels,

Posters,

Grand murals,

Outsider art,

Graffiti,

Van Gogh and Matisse.

Twinkies,

Home-baked cookies,

Burgers,

Steaks,

Caviar.

Life is better in gradient,

Not confined,

Limited to the cheap or the priceless.

A life without art and grace is an apocalyptic Hell,

Yet so is a world where nothing is smple,

Pretty and functional,

Yet quick and affordable.

We need the full range.

When it comes to the variants in life,

The range if you will,

We must have beauty and depth,

Quick flashes,

Long reads,

And in-depth enduring focus.

Life in only two dimensions isn't living.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 09/12/2020

Four By Three Resolution...

Four By Three Resolution... 

There's something amazing,

1990's Sci-Fi,

On TV,

Maybe it the pacing,

Perhaps continuity,

Possibly Character depth,

Lack of distractivity,

A ton less in whiz-bang.

That little square screen,

So full of hope,

Chivalry even.

Binge me,

I must be dreaming.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 09-03-2020

When Twenty Twenty Has Gone...

When Twenty Twenty Has Gone... 

I look back through this year,

This psycho cocoon of a year,

And I wonder.

The damn thing literally saved my life,

Locked down the traffic,

Just as the rain spun me,

No COVID,

No poetry,

No me,

For real.

We've been each given one or t' other,

This year,

This clear as glass year,

Essential and working like maniacs,

Or home staring at the walls,

In either case,

Our souls are reflecting back,

No mirror the wiser.

Do you know what is real yet?

I look back at this rollercoaster of a year,

All the flash and crazy carnival,

Disaster theater on steroids,

Carnival barker buffoons in all directions,

Pissed-off Mother Nature,

Us little crybabies sitting time-out.

I look back,

I wonder,

Cam we really do it?

Go back to the snake oil,

Bullshit and rah-rah cotton candy,

All the used car sales of a life?

Do you know what is real yet,

Who actually must go on?

Will we pull the veil clear of our illusions,

Free of our self-delusions,

After Twenty Twenty is gone?

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 09/01/2020

The Bean...

The Bean...

Some say it's a shiny thing in Chicago,

I know better.

These words come pouring into my head,

From some steaming pot of universal wisdom.

In the hours past midnight,

I have sought out Midnight Mud in the hospital cafeteria,

In the savage morning,

Challenge my coffee wu do not,

Until my morning cup have I had.

I have gone to the dark side,

I drink it black,

Percolated,

Strong.

I have my old friends,

Percolators,

Mugs,

A grinder or two,

And the scent of paradise fills my garage,

As soon as the beans are turned to dust.

Yet let me tell you of coffeemojis,

There is one to every mood or purpose under heaven!

The universe does not exist until there has been coffee,

The entire thing arises,

Fresh-brewed daily out of a steaming pot,

This is the reason my friends,

Stellar plasma is hot.

Piping,

In fact.

The biggest planet in our solar system,

It looks freshly stirred,

Does it not?

With a hint of cinnamon,

I just you all by the strength of your brew,

Never,

Never ever,

Be a drip.

Weak coffee is a cause for woe.

Good morning,

Wake up and smell the coffee,

Let all of creation commence.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 08/30/2020

Indiana Rose And The Temple Of Thorns...

Indiana Rose And The Temple Of Thorns...

She wanders the desert tough as nails,

Her petals of faded glory,

Wearing canvas garden gloves,

Bearing snips and a trowel.

Perhaps she'll find it in the next ghost town,

Thinking as she pores over old paper maps,

Sipping reposado tequila,

Dreaming of treasures forgotten.

Maybe a dried out shack will be the place,

Somewhere tumble weeds and ghosts pile up,

Somewhere a young bride once lived,

Her and her husband both seeking gold.

It might be a diary left tucked in a night-stand drawer,

Written in old Spanish cursive,

Spectral whispers of long-lost dreams and hopes.

Somewhere,

In some once front yard,

A place that hears only wind,

Sees only searing sun by day,

Billions of stars by night,

That's where it will be.

The oldest rose,

A variety so forgotten,

You'd have to read a dark-ages Spanish gardener's journal,

Just to know its lost name.

It will be the most famous ghost-town rose in history,

Only long-dead spirits will know its scent.

Somewhere,

Hidden in the forgotten desert towns of California,

She will find the Temple of Thorns.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 08/28/2020

https://www.sfgate.com/homeandgarden/article/Old-roses-101-For-those-who-don-t-know-Empress-2619457.php

California In Heat...

California In Heat...

It is twilight and the temperature is high,

Palm fronds and star jasmine rustle,

The San Diego breeze is in off the Pacific,

Up the Valley up to wine country,

It ends just past our street,

The first stars jewels above,

Fading sunset falling behind the Santa Ana mountains.

I am lost in the sky,

Hearing stories of smoke and embers,

Fire tornadoes and running feel,

Hercules flies an airplane,

Praying for rain.

I could go a thousand places or none,

But this is my night,

My place,

Final stand perhaps,

This is now home.

For all the exaggerating,

There is nothing quite like it,

California In heat.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 08/27/2020

Beach Glass...

Beach Glass...

Softened bauble tossed by waves,
There in the tumble of my favorite lake,
You dance with pretty stones and driftwood,
Washed up and old but elegant.

It's something gentler the waves bring,
Walking down the sand with the gulls,
They float and they dance,
The waves break and break and break.

A soft roar and a driftwood stick,
Footprints and foam and green and blue,
Sunshine and yellow-tan with glints all about,
Looking for shells and other treasures,

We drift along in timeless reverie,
Until it's time to just lie still,
Sun-baked and wind-washed,
Filled with the beach-scent of the lake.

We take one shell,
Soft violet tinge inside,
And four colors of beach glass,
Green and amber and white and faded blue.

Treasures to set in a cigar box,
Children at play in endless time,
Tokens and omens and wishes of fishes,
An art of life that's sublime.

I turn it in my fingers and see all the beach glass colors,
Softly in my mind summer is ending,
Sharp edges gone and nights just beginning to cool,
Tumbled at the edge of Lake Time.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 09/01/2007

Spell-Bound Master...

Spell-Bound Master...

Poe,
Bound,
Bird of flightless intellect,
Downcast to the cage,
Twine-bound masterpiece,
Too low to sing,
Head-bowed,
The horror of silence,
Words lost.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 08/25/2020

A Gentleman Of Every Color...

A Gentleman Of Every Color...

In the distant space of a colorblind whirled,
Flags are anachronisms best kept furled,
Something of darkness missing and away,
All we need is sunshine to spend happy days.

I'm not sure where the words come from but I know truth when I feel it.

Slanting by decorations is so utterly silly,
Foolishness slapped about all willy-nilly,
If sunshine were blue,
Could you still be all-white and believe it true?

Forget it man, halos are in rainbows...

A dash a dot and an old mahogany fiddle,
Answer me quick one simple riddle,
Was it lack of soul,
That kept so many packed in the Bowl?

I'll call my friends from everywhere to watch the stage.

It's a simpleton idea whose time should end,
Open your hearts and find good friends,
Dance in the streets and jump for joy,
Life is a place where a kind word is more than a toy.

A dashing figure was split through a prism...

A gentleman of every color.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 05/18/2007

Poetic Archaeology...

Poetic Archaeology...

Trying to keep up with the Jones,

File formats die,

Websites go dark,

Others are abandoned,

Search boxes suck,

And Poets die,

But will anyone ever dig up a digital notebook?

I have to try,

It's painstaking work,

Remaining one step ahead of entropy.

What do young Muses and dinosaurs have in common?

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 08/25/2020

Maui's Moon Dancer...

Image version:

Fog Horn...

Fog Horn... 

I'm here to warn you all,

A deep booming rumble,

Rolling out upon the invisible waters,

Fog and mist obscure,

News yet to be discovered.

I danced with the three sisters,

For a solid week and more,

Squash was delightful and steady,

Satisfying,

Corn was delectable,

Sweet and charming,

Green Bean was snappy,

Full of energy,

But that tango with sweet Watermelon,

What an utter delight,

I was sated and more.

A chance encounter,

The first night it was Pasta,

Who tread on my toes,

But her wild sister Pizza,

Ah,

The glories,

The glamour!

Yet the next morning,

Oh the next morning,

You'd think I'd had a fifth all alone,

The fog was overwhelming,

Dizzying,

A hang over,

 Tired and head-mushed,

I crawled off the rack,

Dying for the wonderful sense,

My rescuer lovely Coffee,

Kept me alive through the day.

I think I've finally learned,

Those Gluten sisters are all Mickeys,

They'll leave you in the fog,

All the energy of a cold rock,

Praying for the day to end.

You've been warned,

And I've sailed past.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 08/22/2020

While The Finger Was Pointing...

While The Finger Was Pointing... 

I Boomer blamed Millenials,

For their human faults,

I Millennial blamed Boomers,

For their human faults,

Still the sea crept up.

I Liberal blamed Progressives,

For all of my anxieties,

I Progressive blamed the Liberals,

For all of my anxieties,

Still the COVID came.

I Democrat blamed Republicans,

For all that might be or become wrong,

I Republican blamed Democrats,

For all that might be or become wrong,

Still the hurricanes landed.

I Conservative blamed anyone with different ideas and origins,

For every loss I bore,

I Immigrant and Native blamed Conservatives and Whites,

For every loss I bore, 

Still the wildfires burn.

I the future blamed the past,

Still the temperatures creep up,

The seas slowly swell,

Fire tornadoes howl,

Glaciers vanish,

Forests die and deserts grow.

Nature never listens,

While the finger points.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 08/16/2020

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