A Poets' Moon...

A Poets' Moon...

...can withstand a more varied light,

Or forlorn weather,

The coldest of winds and baleful gusts.

A lovers' Moon needs fullness,

Soft Summer night breezes,

Twinkling stars and music,

Candlelight or a gently-flickering fire.

A poets' Moon can withstand the flight of a raven across its gaze,

Or a dragon or witch or bat,

The first flurries of an encroaching blizzard,

Even the distant thunder and lightning,

Echoes of storms passed,

Anything in the Universe might appear.

A poets' moonlight will bare it naked,

Expose its core for all the night to see.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 10-28-2018

The High Priestess Of Sound...

The High Priestess Of Sound...

This world we live in is all out of tune,
Changed to fix a mathematical error,
Sometime back in the sixteen hundreds,
A convenience for the composer's sake.

Don't worry the wineglass,
Darling,
It may shatter explosively,
Yet only if it is the finest crystal of purity.

Pure notes devoid of linguistic meaning,
Therein lies the magic,
The root form of creation and cohesion.

A community of pure sound.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 10-26-2018

Autumn In California...

Autumn In California...

A subtle change of hue,

Delicate tilt of Solar angle,

Tinges of color lend a subdued glow to specific plants and trees,

Especially in late afternoon or evening.

Nothing so overt as the blazing colors and tawny grasses,

The visible breath and frosted mornings of my native Wisconsin.

Here in Summer's Winter home,

Jack Frost is a rare guest in court,

Though mist and fog blanket the tops of mountains,

Ceiling over canyons in hushed morning reverence.

Verdancy is only limmed by Autumn fire,

Yet Orion rises.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

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Brain-Shaking The Universe...

Brain-Shaking The Universe...

A quantum field is the waving grass of endless possibility,

Waving this way and that,

Depending on the winds of thought,

Tickling the feet of minds all about the Multiverse.

If an ordinary human has the wing-breeze of a monarch butterfly,

Then poets are as an albatross,

Where a shaman or yogi may be a Thunderbird or Dragon,

Shaking fluid reality,

Or soaring on the shared winds of monarch migrations.

We all dream of being hurricanes.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 10/18/2018

I Want To Dream...

I Want To Dream...

...Of a sound,

Maybe a droning hum,

Or possibly a drumming drum,

One sound that lets me see,

Drowns out all the wicked noise.

I will dream it so clearly,

So tight to the sound,

That I will see a new universe,

One full of trees,

With clean air and crystal-clear skies,

I'll see for miles.

There will be no clocks,

No tick-tocks,

Everyone will wake when they do,

 And fall to sleep then too,

Work at things that they love,

Where art and crafting are of value...

They and I will write there,

in beautiful flowing cursive,

A beloved finger print.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

In The Moment...

In The Moment...

Joy flows from the smallest of things,

Sunrise to open eyes,

The scent of a grandmother's kitchen,

A warm coffee mug on a frosted morning.

Gold may bring ease,

Possibly,

But it is cold in your hands,

Will break your teeth,

Make you look over your shoulder,

Always glancing side to side.

As long as there is food,

Friendship,

A beloved face to see and touch,

A voice intoned in warmth,

A fire and a candle,

Somewhere soft to lay your head,

Wealth is all about you,

Simply awaiting definition.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafgord

© 10/13/2018

Inspired by Anil's poem above.

Public-Domain E-Book: "The Great Book Of Blizzard..."

Preface to "The Great Book Of Blizzard":

The Poetry that is contained in these pages is the result of a lifetime spent mostly in places with real Winter; The Great Lakes for the most part, yet also the Great Plains, the Rockies of Colorado, and even mid-North Texas and Northern New Mexico.

In the face of Climate Change, I wanted to save and preserve what it was like to live in these places in the era of actual Winters.

Many of these poems are what I like to call “Poetic Memoir,” and are based on real events in my life. Some are simply fantasy based on a lifetime of experience with snow and Winter...real Winters.

Although I have lived in Southern California for four years as of the completion of this compilation in 2018, never forget that I am a native of Wisconsin who spent fifty years in the Midle West of these United States of America. My family still lives there, and lives with snow.

For those of you who find snowy Winters a novelty, or know it not at all, I hope this book can give you a deeper understanding of what it was like.

What so many forget is that almost everything in nature needs a period of rest and renewal before the busy regrowth of Springtime. Even humanity needs – and mostly neglects – quiet time to turn inward, reflect, and recharge.

Thank you for reading.

With love and light,

Daniel A. Stafford

10/07/2018

This book donated to Public Domain

Download .PDF e-book for free HERE.

The Whirling Dervish Of The Middle Country...

The Whirling Dervish Of The Middle Country...

They bide their time all the long Winter,

Finally dry enough to fly as Spring renews the Earth.

At some point,

The dry and dead stem snaps and releases,

And the mother tree is left,

Towering immobile above the soil.

If the only moment a plant knows in its long life is as a seed,

These must be among the most graceful.

Spinning,

Whirling,

Twirling.

They settle softly to their bed of chance.

Maple seeds are a wonder of nature.

A single-bladed helicopter, 

They have been toys for children as long as children could see them flying.

I wonder if Igor Sikhorsky was a maple-seed child?

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 07/06/2018

Ever So Much More So...

Ever So Much More So...

Not a moment goes by in quiet,

Clock hands whirl in a furious rush,

Every second wrapped in a harried agenda.

We are infinitely more connected to the wider world,

Lost in the demands of the little rectangular devils in our pockets.

I have not read a complete novel in two years,

And there are people besides me who would consider that evidence of a collapsing universe.

Carry on,

Wayward souls,

But quickly.

Tick-tock.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 09/30/2018

Nostalgic...

Nostalgic...

There is something about this poetry board,

A feeling,

A look,

An essence.

As close as I can come to holding paper and turning pages,

When there is really glass and plastic in my hand,

Glowing.

It almost seems the older posts might yellow with age.

This is a good thing,

In its way a glorious achievment.

I only hope the place keeps its soul.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 09/30/2018

Elvis In The Temple...

Elvis In The Temple...

It was a strange dream,

Odd and disjointed,

Nothing new for the painters of night graffiti.

I was walking down an old street in the deep South,

Walking up to a seemingly abandoned ruin.

Oddly, it was a place I knew by deja vu.

An enormous concrete pyramid,

Overgrown with vines and ivy,

Shaded dark at night,

Imposing and immensely heavy.

The entrance was under the light pool of a lonely old street lamp,

The kind that resembles a gaslight.

Just as I was about to walk up to the door,

A long black limosine pulled up,

Disgorging three very unexpected spectres in the flesh.

Elvis was in the middle,

An old man in a suit first with a key,

A beautiful woman followed.

All of them were dressed in fine black clothes, looking sharp and purposeful.

Elvis glanced and me, said "Hello, Dan" in a kind but lofty and dismissive voice,

Leaving me acknowledged,

Yet neither declined nor encouraged.

I followed the trio into the temple of night,

A place oddly mixed with finely-appointed rooms and crumbling bare-concrete empty spaces.

In the empty rooms were crumbling statues,

Cheap concrete replicas from the look of it,

Chipped and barely standing in places.

There were high ledges about the perimeter of these empty places,

A black cat seemingly trapped on one high ledge,

Mewling.

I climbed a statue that threatened to topple at every move,

Rescued the ungrateful beast,

Which promptly dashed away into unseen corners.

Finally I made my way into a softly lit room,

And the three spirits in flesh were there lounging,

About some unearthly business I never learned of.

The place was carpeted finely,

Rich tapestries all about,

Clearly that had not been seen by human eyes in at least a decade,

Perhaps more.

Elvis glanced at me briefly,

A glimmer of momentary observance with no depth,

As if I were a distant acquaintance,

And I sat in a chair nearby,

Watching.

Whatever they were conversing,

It was not audible to me,

Hidden,

Not for my ears clearly.

Elvis stood up as they were leaving,

Stepped over and silently handed me a lamp that no longer worked,

Having its form but robbed of its function.

I briefly elated,

Thinking the King had given me some odd gift,

Foolishly,

For attached to the bottom was a tag,

A note with a hand-scrawled name,

Not mine.

"Servant, a service to the King,"

I thought.

I took it in stride,

A deliveryman for a musical nightshade,

And opened my eyes to yawn.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 09/29/2018

Memoir: A Cigar With The Lost Sugar Queens Of Old Havana...

The night is one of quiet celebration. Appropriately, it is the evening of the Autumnal equinox.

The air is cool in the high desert of Temecula; A light jacket perfect. The stars shine above me as aircraft slowly blink their way across the sky. The palm trees are still sentinels in pooled light of amber streetlamps. It is quiet except for crickets and car tires in the distance.

I just achieved the two certifications that have saved my new job and launched my second career. I had only nine days left to spare.

I have tokens for marking the months of hard work it took me to achieve this.

I just finished a very fine cigar, the best I have had in a year. It was bought from Bob - at least that is the name gives.

Bob is the fellow who sounds and looks as if he is from India, and runs the strip-mall smoke shop down the hill. His shop is small, but he built an excellent walk-in humidor for his shop. He is rightfully proud of that humidor. He assured me that this cigar from one of his top humidor shelves is truly excellent. He was quite truthful, and I will tell him so when I see him next.

The other token is the first novel I have read in two years. Most people who know the younger me would be slack-jawed in shock to read the sentence immediately preceding this one.

I just picked the novel out this evening, and it is different from my usual fare of science fiction and fantasy. It is a story of a woman of Cuban decent, and her sugar-industry heiress grandmother who fled Cuba as a teenager immediately after Batista fled the island.

It is written in a poetic and romantic style, and jumps smoothly from the late 1950's era of the young woman fleeing Cuba to the days of her Journalist granddaughter returning her ashes to the land she loved.

"Next Year In Havana" is the title, and I am in love with it after the first chapter.

The book is paper in my hands, a tactile joy I have missed. 

The cigar was so good that it was painful to have finished, and I was loath to put it out. It was completely synchronistic for the tone of the book I am reading, on several levels.

So is this writing poetry? What I am giving my reader in this moment?

I would argue that poetry is the art of putting heart into writing of the small poignant moments of life. It is the art of bringing those moments to life and magnifying them for the reader. 

A piece of the story is all I can give, but let it be a piece that you can look at in words with your heart's eye and maybe fall a little bit in love with.

Yes, I am living this, loving this moment, and laying it at your fingertips.

Perhaps the air here in California tonights smells faintly of the ocean after the afternoon breezes from San Diego have finished their journey up the Temecula valley.

Just as one of the characters in my book is scenting the warm salty air of Cuba upon her return to the land of her immediate ancestors. 

The rest of her journey awaits in the soft paper of the pages in my hands.

The rest of my journey awaits me on Monday morning.

For this weekend, however, I will have my feet in Temecula and my heart and mind in two very different times in Cuba.

All I have to do now is turn another page...

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 09/21/2018

Compassion is the greatest sign of humanity.

The Month Of Mars...

The Month Of Mars...

Red,
Bright,
Baleful,
Sailing over fires.

The fires are fading,
Yet will renew,
Ages of heat to follow,
Nothing like the cold and radiation of space.

I love this place in the desert,
There are a few stars to see,
Unlike the city with it's glow blinding,
Here the planets play loudest 'cepting the Moon.

There is always motion in this sky,
Aircraft and their unknown companions,
Satellites and foo fighters,
Meteors that burn across sky.

Mars is a cold red glowing bright,
Hard and harsh yet brilliant,
Nothing like the evil soft red glow in the distance,
No brush fire in the sky.

Impressive,
This month of Mars,
A bright stone above us all.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 08/16/2018

Infernal...

Infernal...

I sit with a fine cigar,

The Wind rustles Through the palm fronds,

Waving,

Hot,

Heat dwindling in the evening.

Tonight I will see the glow in the Hills,

And know the battle continues,

Started by crazy,

Fueled by hot world.

Cleansing the past,

Involuntary Ash,

Evil red glow,

Wicked and deadly,

Speeding fright.

Do not make light of the plight,

Infernal words,

Cruelty at the fingertips of monsters.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

(C) 08/10/2018

The Weight Of Ghosts...

The Weight Of Ghosts...

Life is like an egg timer,
Or maybe an egg shell,
Or some other fragile damn cliche.

I know the richness of memories,
Times and places only a very few will know,
Less and less every year,
But I remember.

We're like cloud shapes in the sky,
Just visible for a blink or two,
But I have seen some seriously good ones.

It's comical,
When I talk to someone half my age,
The backdrop they're missing,
Utter cool evaporating on the wind.

Faces,
Places,
Times and sayings,
Hair and clothes and music,
But people,
People most of all.

The thought of no one knowing who they were,
That's crushing,
And I wonder if that's what truly ages us,
The sheer weight of ghosts.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 07/25/2018

The Honor Among Clouds...

The Honor Among Clouds...

It's an old and faithful thing,
These flying volunteers.

It started with cloth and grit in World War Two,
The day after the war started,
In fact most people hardly know.

Civilian Airmen took their own planes to the skies,
Spotting submarines off our coastlines,
Sparrowhawks hunting tin sharks,
Piper Cubs and old Jennies alike,
They fiercly defended home.

They still volunteer among the clouds,
Or in old buildings on little airports,
Out among the dust and obscurity.

Still.

How many cadets went on to lead,
Officers and judges,
And every other working thing,
The stuff of civil duty,
A nearly-forgotten thing.

If your plane goes down,
They will find you.

If your house is flattened by a hurricane,
They will take the pictures that rebuild you.

If you want to learn of aviation,
They will teach you,
Or your sons and daughters.

The Silent Service,
Those barely heard of or known,
There when the chips are down,
Or when the skies are up.

Say hello to the Civil Air Patrol,
A golden thing under a blanket of dust,
A wonder that America barely remembers it has.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 07/17/2018

Author's Note:

https://www.gocivilairpatrol.com/

Summer's Winter Home...

Summer's Winter Home...

We moved here about three and one-half years ago,
A series of lucky circumstances led us,
Also seems to have followed us,
As we followed the childhood of our grandchildren.

Who could've known in those cold Chicago Winters,
That we would land at the heart of an unknown paradise?

First,
Let me wake you with a morning,
Cool and sometimes misty,
Early balloons fly off the wineries,
Their baskets small and high and glorious,
Floating above the palm trees.

I walk the hills,
Steep hills at that,
Past a golf course I love to look at,
But never will use.

Roses and California poppies are littered alongside the walk,
Dots of color lead to beds of flame,
Ducks and loons and even herons and egrets grace the ponds,
As the temperature soars thirty degrees in two hours.

The citrus trees in our sideyard have fortified me,
And the blazing Sun emboldens the now dry air,
All the world is abustle and busy,
Until the breeze swoops up the valley at three PM.

By eight it will have fallen from ninety-five to seventy-seven,
Overnight look to the fifties or sixties,
Until the mist drifts up the valley from a San Diego harbor morning,
Forty-five minutes' drive South.

The mountains that surround us look just like ones I've seen,
Where Juan Valdez carted Folgers beans in sacks on his burro,
Yet these are quite beautifully real,
A far cry from the flat prairies of Illinois eaten by corn and soy.

Still,
It's January and February that tie me here,
Rainy forties and the tangerines are ripe,
Tomatoes  survived the Winter,
Lemons were for Thanksgiving and Christmas,
Oranges and grapefruits wait for June and July,
As the strawberry carts do for April.

How could one lose,
Here at our little green house,
On a street named for my grandparents,
Here in Summer's Winter home?

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 07/09/2018

A Softened Place..

A Softened Place..

The sky is steel-grey with low-angle light,
Waves roll onto the beach from the endless line of surf,
Clouds saunter slowly past above Lake Michigan.

The beach grass is turning that golden color of the Northern Midwest,
Tawny.

Leaves are green,
Yet edged with yellow or orange-red,
Hints of splendors to come.

You may walk here today with the chill breeze that never stops,
Knowing that Winter will freeze you out in a month or two,
You pull your jacket tighter,
Reflective and visually immersed at the edge of a freshwater sea,
A timeless place where the seasons roll you,
And never the other way around.

The throngs of Summer are long-gone,
A few hardy souls wend the art of a cool lake,
Watching their breath waft up into the enchanted air,
Clutching a warm mug of coffee for dear life.

This place is bigger than you,
It's bigger than me,
Yet it's vulnerable to the endless raft of human ants,
Who are too small to see the impacts of their combined works.

You can feel that immense body of water,
From miles away you know where it is,
Just like it grinds broken bottles into soft beach glass,
Baubles for next Summer's children.

The seagulls sing their forever song,
Counterpoint to the bass of continuous waves,
Rolling, rolling, rolling,
The snare of grasses and branches rustling in time,
The slight notes of wind-whistle a finishing touch.

In the distance,
Far, far, far in the distance,
A train horn sings along,
Yet here is the domain of Nature,
Of seasons and time far older than us,
What was with us in our youth,
Hopefully will see children long after we're gone,
Poetry that is beyond writing.

In a place like this,
A softened giant timeless place,
You can find yourself an atom drifting with infinity's dream.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 07/03/2018

Miller Beach, Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore, 2010 - Photo by Daniel A. Stafford

Optics...

Optics...

How lovely it is,

To decorate the walls,

To feel a touch of nostalgia in every visit to a place.

Easy,

Easy on the eyes.

Like a spiral notebook,

One you've written and drawn in,

On-and-off for years,

Soft in the hand.

Easy,
Easy on the eyes.

I look up and see stars,

A smiling Moon beaming down,

A raft of familiar faces.

Easy,
Easy on the eyes.

Not so hard on the heart,

Either.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

(C) 07/02/2018

Lonely Old Things...

Lonely Old Things...

Perhaps a candalabra,
Filled with glowing wax,
Hovers over blank parchment,
A dusty plume quill lying silent,
Next to the dried-up inkwell,
There on the desk in Mary Shelley's room.

Percy will never come home again,
As Frankenstein's monster shall have no siblings,
And the headstone on Mary's mother's grave,
That grows weathered and smooth,
Cracked and tilted,
The flowers there wildly entwined with the weeds.

Even long-hand cursive writing seems doomed,
All despite its lustrous flowing curves,
Sweeping grace into the ephemera of the past.

It was ever the creatures if fortune,
Who could call such things as normal.

It wounds the world to see them as lonely old things...

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 07/01/2018