Sunrise, Surprise, Sundown, Go Round

 

Author Date Entered/Modified Views Daniel A. Stafford 5/6/2000 10:19:39 PM 10/19/2020 1:22:09 AM 954 Sunrise, Surprise, Sundown, Go Round It lights up......my world. It lights up......our world. It lights up......in orange. It lights up......in gold. It lights up......wake up. It lights up......make up. It lights up......we give. It lights up......we live. It lights up......we love. It goes down....we frown. It goes down....it's dark. It goes down....the stars. It goes down....see Mars. It goes down....lights on. It goes down....another day gone. It goes around....and comes around. Twinkle in the twilight.....start, finish, return. Our world changes in a flash.....forever. AquarianM By: Daniel A. Stafford (C) 05/06/2000 Author's Comments Sunrise and sunset are two times a day that fascinate me. We are between moments then. Our world changes in a flash.....forever. Noted 06/14/2001: This poem is pending publication over the winter in the International Library of Poetry's next anthology. ISBN number will be added here later. Author Date Entered/Modified Views Daniel A. Stafford 5/6/2000 10:19:39 PM 10/19/2020 1:22:09 AM 954 Author Email Web Daniel A. Stafford aqmstaffo@mailbag.com www.mailbag.com/users/aqmstaffo/index.html Total Comments: 3 Comments Larry O. Stafford lostaffo@inwave.com 5/8/2000 7:04:07 PM I like it. Both times are good times of the day. Myself I think that sunset is the best time of the day. It's like the lord is painting a beautiful picture each and every day to lighten our lives. Janine Daniel spinnys@hotmail.com www.spinnys.com 10/1/2000 4:41:34 AM A very artisiticly written poem Dan. Well done. Sue Allie bttfly9@yahoo.com www.geocities.com/bttfly9/ 12/8/2000 2:18:31 PM I notice the beauty of the sunrise on my way to the bus stop. Filled with reds, purples, oranges, etc. On the way home I notice the the clouds catching the rays of the last sun. Beautiful poem to remind me of these images!

The Word Tornado:

 

Author Date Entered/Modified Views Daniel A. Stafford 1/30/2002 2:11:38 PM 10/6/2020 10:22:42 AM 534 The Word Tornado: I spun a poem, You spun a poem, They spun a poem, That spun a new poem outta me, That spun a new poem outta you, That they spun a new poem from, And the ideas all bunch up, Waiting to drop into the funnel, That the Muses hold over, Each poets head, Laughing, At the pretty word tornado, As it whirls through the idea garden, Throwing up all those leaves and branches. AquarianM By: Daniel A. Stafford (C) 01/30/2002 Author's Comments Inspired by my friend Art's poem, That was inspired by mine, That was inspired by another poet's.... Author Date Entered/Modified Views Daniel A. Stafford 1/30/2002 2:11:38 PM 10/6/2020 10:22:42 AM 534 Author Email Web Daniel A. Stafford aqmstaffo@mailbag.com www.mailbag.com/users/aqmstaffo/index.html Total Comments: 2 Comments Debbie Hunt hu6nt@yahoo.com.au 1/30/2002 11:08:46 PM Oh WOW, Dan! Just fantastic!! Ahhhh, the Word Tornado...kinda' like an inspirational merry-go-round!!! *smile* As it whirls through the idea garden, Throwing up all those leaves and branches. Well put, Dan!!! Debbie ART PAUL SCHLOSSER artpaul@mailcity.com http://www.geocities.com/artpaulhomepage/1 1/31/2002 7:55:20 PM I just had to comment on this that not only this is kind of funny but I suppose your right that everything is coming from everything else

Sanctuary...

Sanctuary... 

The old poetry boards,

Deep in the Old Country of the web,

Small cybertowns I have known for decades,

A few residents still left,

The ghost towns of the mind,

These places where only we web poets go,

Smell the flowers,

Coffee with the neighbors,

Share soul and heart,

Leave the dogged citadels of social media,

I can breathe here.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 10/18/2020

The Daydream Deficit..

The Daydream Deficit..

We were told,

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 deficit,

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?

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

(C) 08/29/2010

Poetry In The Dark...

Poetry In The Dark...

I may never win a Nobel prize,

Yet I write.

In the moments just before sleep,

The clock being shaved,

The morning with it's green paper chains,

Art is a "quaint notion","

Here is this goal-oriented gilded cage,

Yet I write.

Torn between technology and artistry,

One fuels my intellect and wallet,

Yet poetry keeps the soul alive,

Like rice and ramen in a famine,

Perhaps some days red beans and rice,

I write.

The Ferenghi would fear our engines of profit,

The warp in our drive,

This haven of capital,

Bastion of corporate motivation,

The place that craves every click,

Yet I write.

With love,

I bid we automatons,

Good night.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 10/16/2020

A Sky When Ash Meets Snow...

A Sky When Ash Meets Snow... 

If clouds are portents,

The sky is quite full...

It wasn't so long ago,

Chicago,

When snownados roamed the skies,

The cold falling hard,

Downdrafting blizzard,

A thousand cars,

Trapped on Lakshore drive,

It took three days to find them all.

I was there.

Now I live in the land of the firenados,

Updrafting smoke and ash,

The billows circle the globe,

Nowhere you can go to breathe,

Living in the world's largest camp fire,

As always,

An army of pawns on the move.

Lower lows,

Higher highs,

Harder and harder,

The wind truly blows,

It's more and more energy,

That's all you need to know.

I dream of the holidays,

Lady Winter as host,

Yet her palace now floats,

A thin raft of ice,

Melting under Aurora's pretty light,

A great chess game,

Stars circle overhead,

Dancing in the disco,

Borealis color changing shimmer,

Lady Summer has a devilish game,

Her new pawn taking them all,

Queen and Rook,

Bishop and Knight,

This pawn has a name;

Humanity.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 10/14/2020

Calling General Quarters...

Calling General Quarters... 

North,

East,

South,

West,

A prayer,

A request,

To be blessed.

The time is here,

The call,

The test,

The burning winds,

The howling,

The frost of breath,

Prelude.

Foothills to a mountain,

Only Spirit knows,

Will we climb,

Will we stand,

A matter of heart.

The smallest Autumn leaf,

The tawny brown grasses,

The colors of hunting,

Lions and coyotes,

The hawk soaring above.

Moon is full,

Mars baleful backwards red,

Mercury in reverse,

Stars spin silent,

Watching,

Observing.

An era,

A season,

The harvest of the past.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 10/11/2020

My Take On Strongroom Blagazine

 https://www.strongroom.com.ng/

Strongroom is a mix of eclectic voices from multiple nations, primarily African, but they include a few like me from around the world. 

A lot of the content is poetry, which I of course love. Poetry is the open font of Humanity's heart, and is classless, raceless, and nationless. Under the surface we all have deep wells of emotion that flow from the same river of soul.

Additional content includes short stories, quotes, and occasionally informative pieces.

The nations of Africa often are seen here in the Western world as dangerous or naive or both. I would say of late, perhaps we should look in the mirror - and then maybe listen with an open heart and mind.

It's refreshing to me to hear voices from a part of the world so far away, and see the common thread of humanity we all share. I think maybe this is the point of the site.

Maybe go see and read for yourself.

Dan

Don't Waste Autumn Leaves...

Don't Waste Autumn Leaves... 

A leaf wafts down spinning,

Slowly winding about,

Twisting color ,

Weaving through,

Waltzing the breath-misted Autumn air,

One among many,

Myriad,

No one can see them all,

In all appearance endless,

Timeless,

Paintbrush stroke in a masterpiece of infinity.

The leaf's time may be done,

Yet you are the one,

Knower of the nature of clocks.

Leaves fell before you,

They dance wind-swept past your feet,

A fractal bit of inconsequence,

As will more long after Winter has let you go.

I would whisper this to homeless kings,

But they already know.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 10/10/2020

Remnants Of Gold...

Remnants Of Gold...

 

Late afternoon in low sun like a dying year,

Gone to bursting milkweed and dead amber everywhere,

Flaming leaves dueling in ageless dance with still-yet green,

Walking round the trail the river is slowly flowing reflection,

Hand in hand we wonder at stalks and leaves and tufted seed,

Flight is a marvel as the vee circles again and again,

Hovering over golden corn stubble low and slow,

Like this sky without a cloud,

And they mate for life just as they gather in the harvested corn,

Hundreds and hundreds and voices of forever,

The sun is falling and we're walking past the barn,

Boarded up with it's children long gone away,

The sky will be all stars tonight and sheets over the mums,

A hard freeze will come they say,

It never ends but it ends every year,

We'll turn to sweaters and coats as tawny returns,

Tawny in every corner of the world and gold in the sky,

The turn of sunlight angle speaks to your soul of time,

In the manner of stone-shouldered hills and book-pressed flowers,

The world bears fruit despite harsh masters,

Yet the amber prairie bones fill our eyes,

Calling for a healing long overdue.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

(C) 10/05/2004

Autumn Quill...

Autumn Quill...

This season is my inkwell,

I dance in the delight of color,

A festival of falling,

Wafting beauty that rustles,

Endlessly wending on road and path. 

I know peace in the tawny waving blades of Midwestern grasses,

Their seed like a billion faeries on the wind,

For I know they will green again in Spring,

Up from the root buried in leaf-nourished ground.

The soft gold of low-angled sun is my wine,

Sweet and sour as it tastes wonderful,

Yet heralds the dark and cold to come soon.

I look to the Sun crawling slowly down the sky,

 Every color from gold and red to orange and purple,

I dream of heady days near the Lakes,

The myriad poets I once knew,

And like an acorn falling or a spinning maple seed,

I must write,

It's my nature,

And this is our time,

This season of poets.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 10/06/2020

James Brown Left Town...

James Brown Left Town...

Good gawd, Y'all,
It's the Fall,
Again,
Another year over the event horizon,
Haunting voices remind me of the past,
Shattered and broken glass,
The explosion-debris left just after the highest note,
Youth has come and gone,
All the young gods are creaking and gaining weight,
Aches and wrinkles and past glory caught on Youtube,
I thank the Universe for this new quantum entanglement with the past,
Something we can point to as the leaves fall,
As the wrinkled bark of our skin crawls,
While we stare at the cold hard headstones of forgotten idols,
Slow-dying white dwarfs cooling in faded space,
I listen to the ghosts across the electronic spectrum,
Thinking,
"See how glorious we were..."

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 10/14/2011

https://youtu.be/yW8qxUitG-Q

The Raven-Whisperer's Daughter...

 The Raven-Whisperer's Daughter...

In the dark ghost of twilight,

Silken fog with promise of frost,

She weeps shards of icicle tears,

For a father who speaks softly to harbingers of death,

Tall is he like a bare Winter Oak of five-hundred years,

With limbs like crooked branches and twisted twigs,

Her home is a stump-hollow pool,

Her bed a hummock of cobwebs' steel-silk,

And she dances under a moon-ring,

Full-moon bright shines on the empty longing of her heart.

In the innocence of her fragile mind

She remembers

Gentle whispers of shared moments

Wise advice spoken from her father’s soul

Only meant to protect her

Safe from the folly of man

"Listen my child

Carefully as I speak

Be careful of those who come

Professing great portents

For they speak of greed

Disguised as guidance

But that is not their way"

Serenata is her name,

"Night Song,"

Sweet she sings as Muse of Lullabyes,

Knowing the Ravens whisper secrets of the dead in her father's ear,

His word she believes,

She sees them perched on his shoulder,

"Kutcha, Kutcha, Kutcha!" they cry as they fly off,

Secrets delivered,

She shudders in the dim starlight,

Her lullaby turned sour and blue,

Yet still beautiful,

For she knows his dark words are true.

Caught unawares even within the walls of nature's protection

The love of a human reaches out to her,

Careful he is in his approach,

Time is on his side,

For what he desires is worth the effort,

But she remembers,

Torn between what she knows,

And the newness of desire,

She must decide.

A brace of ravens swoops down,

Circling above her head,

"Kutcha, Kutcha, Kutcha caw!" they cry,

She hears whispers but cannot understand,

Burning with a new ache,

She wends her way through wood and glen,

To the secret place she first saw him,

A lone raven following,

Branch to bramble,

She is wary of bear or lion or wolf,

Yet driven in a way she doesn't understand,

Her sweet song a burning whisper,

Pulling a shadow of night in her wake,

Her foot reaches a damp stone,

Burbling creek between her and the sheltered glen she seeks.

A final warning

From the raven who refused to leave her

“Remember, who you are

Your legacy

The future lies in you. . . .”

And then she saw him

With a bow and arrow in hand

Aimed at . . .

...Her father's heart,

And she froze,

A firestorm of raging emotions new,

His words then pierced her surely and deadly,

"Whisper me Ravener, did my dead wife love me true?"

Serenata broke then,

Hearing her father's simple answer - "Yes."

The hunter's bow dropped,

His tears echoed on her face,

She knew her love defeated by a ghost,

Raging and grieving was her lullabye,

As she sang it hunter climbed a tree and found a bough on which to sleep,

As Serenata reached the lines,

"If the bough breaks, the cradle will fall,"

Down came sleeping hunter to break on earth,

Raven flew to steal his dying breath,

"Kutcha! He loved you too..." first whisper she understood,

She turned and ran far to the cold North,

Ravens following,

And young mothers remember the song of her heartbreak,

Still gentle with horror today.

AquarianM ( aquarianm.u.yuku.com/ ) & Dracula's Woman ( draculaswoman.u.yuku.com/ )

(C) 10/09/2011 (Poetry only)

By Daniel A. Stafford and Alexis Williams

Footnotes:

(1) "Serenata" is Italian for "serenade," but the literal translation is "night song."

(2) "Kutcha" is the healing raven spirit of Siberian Koryak shamans.

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