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