The Ghost Bird Of Plainfield

It was something graceful,
The way the tree leaves streamed with the afternoon breeze,
The sharp slant of early afternoon sunshine,
Easy old music on the baby blue cream white and chrome radio,
Retro with dials and red hands and yellow numbers,
A wasp flew by and two butterflies,
Three flies and a swift flock of pigeons raced over the rooftops,
Grey and speckled white and seeming swift,
I looked to neighbor Ron's swaying red flowers and purple tall grasses,
It was then that I saw it unrecognized at first,
Hovering at first one red bloom then another then gone,
It took a moment to register,
Just three tiny inches with invisible wings,
In that flash of fleet beauty,
I had witnessed the appearance of the hummingbird.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 09/02/2004

Author's Comments:
Instant replay via poetry.

Under The Vision Tree:

In the soft fog of morning,
Rays of sunlight just peeking through,
A silence of the birds is reverent,
Under the vision tree.

The grass is green in the field yet,
Just beyond the branches drooping,
Eerie white clouds hug the ground,
Back-lit leaves appear black.

The old barn and farm house sit,
Silent and empty of all but shadows,
With the encroaching suburbs at my back,
I feel the ghosts of children who once laughed.

The park has become prairie again,
The boarded windows look over a barren silo,
Bare stone foundations like headstones,
Presiding over the reminiscence of past glory days.

How many children climbed those branches,
Full of imaginings in Summer heat,
Dreaming of grown up lives far and wide,
Or of the school year's end in Spring?

In the spine-tingling shadows,
I see hints of sunlight just breaking through,
The bees will awaken as morning warms,
Blooms will open to hummingbirds and rabbits.

Like the husk of last year's monarch,
Faded orange and dead black,
The laughter of children long faded to empty silence,
Perhaps echoed betwixt nursing home walls.

Still I can almost see horses,
An old grey tractor and fresh brown Earth,
Clothes pinned on a line and puppy tails wagging crazily,
Long lost music staring me down,

As I stare afar under the vision tree.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 09/03/2004

Author's Comments;
The park where I practice saxophone in the Summer was a farm once. Most of
it is still there, but not the people, nor the life. It is a haunting place.

Under The Turning Light Of The Moon:

The evening was fallen between clouds and stars,
Billowing black traipsed across the face of amber,
It was as familiar as bats flying on All Hallows Eve,
As the wind whispers departing secrets,
Soft syllables upon the just-turning leaves and grasses,
Milkweed pods full almost to bursting yet still green,
Brown tinge at the edge of Queen Anne's Lace,
Black birds are gathering upon the wires as the calendar comes to nine,
The breeze is warm in evening and cool after the witching hour,
Prairie flowers fading away to golden seeds,
The stars are changing and Summer is growing weary,
Yet for a time yet she will warm us still,
Watching as the corn leaves edge with yellow,
As the fruits begin to bear,
Squirrels hoarding and rabbits burrowing,
Sweaters and jackets checked for repair,
The passing of another season looms,
Beautifully bittersweet,
The only way left to greet it is like a child,
With wonder and wide open eyes,
And the feel of ghosts rising into foggy nights.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 09/03/2004

Author's Comments:
It seems we've hardly had Summer this year. There have been so many cool
days, rain and fifty degree days in August. Another year gone, another year
farther from Spring. I'm going to ride my bike for all I'm worth and just
try to remember.

American Stones Face East:

Stones Face East...

...In the new museum of Native Americans in Washington,
This is true that there is reverence for the sunrise,
Yet another sun may be rising.

In the cool morning of golden rays Red and White touch the Earth together.

In Tibet the ancient religion of Bon,
Belief that there was undying spirit in all things,
Animals and winds and the very stones of the Earth.

In the Time of Ice men crossed the world hunting.

Somehow the Manitou walked across water while changing names,
And where is the surprise in this,
For Spirit is beyond our limits and small understanding.

Man can not create so much as a leaf without a living seed.

God is a complexity we can scarcely understand,
The strange mirror of East and West yields reflections to careful patience,
Tibetan ancestors would know the soul of Native America.

In the distant mists of time we all have a Source.

In the march of time,
Buddhists walked East,
Christians walked West.

Bloody footprints must be washed from this Earth.

Many spirits flew beyond Mother Earth,
In these tangles of early Spirit and complex God,
Borne of misinterpreting intolerant followers.

Only love can heal ancient pain.

In the ages to come there is another mirror,
Perhaps West and East can see each other,
For in Tibet and Washington mergers play out.

It is long past due we learned to become one again.

It is long past time for reconciliation,
For the long painful birth,
For the best of ancient and modern to merge.

We must no longer be children as we step out of the cradle.

In both lands those of ancient wisdom still stand,
While hordes of younger ideas swarm,
Youth and wisdom both lose in separation.

The stars are twinkling above and the sky is all one vast lonely place.

There is much for Youth to learn,
Yet Age is not all there is to wisdom,
Where do the generations finally meet?

The seasons go on and we have much to lose as leaves bury the path behind
us.

How can we ever heal and become one?
How long will there be two sides to the mirror?
The best of each place and time is there in the dichotomy of silvered glass.

In the Autumn the Earth is bearing fruit yet we must plant seeds for a new
Spring.

The evil Manitou Spirit Devil laughs as he melts more sand -

How long will we be grains within his intolerant fires?

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 09/01/2004

Author's Comments:
There are interesting similarities between China's relationship to Tibet and
the United States relationship with Native American Nations. In both cases
both the younger and older cultures would stand to gain much if they could
find a way to take the best of both cultures and blend them into a new world
that was good for both. In the larger picture, the same is true of East and
West. In the microcosm or macrocosm each is diminished without co-existence
with the other. Native Americans and native Tibetans in their own ways bring
a spritual value to reverence of and stewardship of the Earth and nature. I
feel that impact in the environmental movement in the Western hemisphere,
and I wonder if it is not present in the East. This is but one example - if
we took the time, I would imagine there are many more subtleties that could
be of great value to the world as a whole, yet the fear of change tinges
everything. A question: if God created everything, is it wrong to think that
everything is imbued with a bit of His undying Spirit? Another: Could not
His name have been heard differently in the aftermath of Babel around the
world? It's always been we humans who misunderstand Him. I wonder if there
aren't fractions of truth and misunderstanding all about this world. Two web
links help to illustrate:
http://www.tibet.cn/english/zt/culture/..%5Cculture/200402004512103207.htm
and http://www.enn.com/news/2004-08-31/s_26782.asp .

Remember Your Ghosts:

When someone we love dies,
It is appropriate to miss them -
For a time.

It is the natural thing,
We think of all we will miss,
The loss - we - bear.

When we are finished with - our - loss,
We face a great choice how,
They will live on in us.

Make no mistake,
They live now partly through us,
Partly through God.

The part through us is small yet,
It is their connection here,
To the Earth.

We can show the Earth their angry bad,
Face or remember their love,
Faces leaving war masks,
To the silent invisible dust.

That choice only slightly defines their existence yet,
It greatly defines our own.

How do you call upon your ghosts how,
Do they appear when you call?

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 08/31/2004

Author's Comments;
I picture like in legends where we call upon our ancestors to save us in dire times of need, yet we live in the shadow of the way we choose the memories of them to hold every moment we breathe.

All of my currently available poetry books can be purchased at:
http://www.lulu.com/Daniel-Stafford

Why Must I Cry?

I could write a thousand pages,
Of woe and tears and gloom,
Like every child I suffered wounds that can not be seen.

Where does the pursuit of these tales bring me?

I comb through my life looking for gold,
Because the dross isn't worth immortalization,
Let it lie buried in the past.

If I fill my eyes with jewels from the past life sparkles.

If my poetry is golden,
If it is like a ray of sunshine in Summer,
Why should I shed light on the rotted leaves that fell out of season?

The balm of a rich life is not found in a bucket of pain.

Aquarianm

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 08/26/2004

Author's Comments:
I've heard from somewhere that my poetry is one sided when it comes to
childhood. My reply? "Thank God I have that choice."

Manna, Manna

In the heat and confusion,
Rest from wailing and tears shall come,
Look to the sky and see it rain.

Manna from Heaven is needed again.

Bless the children oh Lord,
Those that run from steel and lead and blood,
Rest their weary feet upon green grass in a garden.

The loaves from the sky fall with an end to tears.

Soothe the mothers' worried brows,
Fill with love distant hearts,
Let manna fall like rain.

Somewhere there is a place for them all.

Manna,
Manna from Heaven and love abounding,
We give thanks it shall be so.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 08/26/2004

Author's Comments:
For the souls lost in Darfur.

Outfly Your Wings:

Outfly Your Wings:

In the seconds before you disappeared,
I know your souls flew up,
Did you outfly your wings there below the pearlescent throne,
Like butterflies exiting chrysalis,
Irridescent and glittering,
The dew of many tears may follow you,
Though yours no longer flow,
I feel compelled to hold prayer for you,
May God grant those who love you solace,
To see you dancing with the stars,
Unlike poor Icarus,
You outflew your wings.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

Author's Comments:
In sympathy with the passengers of the two planes down in Russia and those who lost them.


On God's Doorstep - ISBN 1-4116-0710-4
The Beach Poems - ISBN 1-4116-0112-2
are available for sale at:
http://www.lulu.com/Daniel-Stafford

Blessings And Rain:

I have a friend who will be travelling,
I will be practicing the saxophone outside,
Under the wooden roof at the park.

Blessings and rain - bring the green grass and a safe flight.

I am thankful for the cocooning of a grey day,
The quiet place in the soul that reflects off fog and raindrops,
The flowers that rise when the sun returns.

Blessings and rain between brass notes and airplane wings.

I feel the sun shining on my saxophone looking golden,
Just as I'm thankful it will after she lands,
A flowering of life unfolding.

Blessings and rain from God's tender hands.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 08/25/2004

Author's Comments:
For our friend Hope.

Question Spiritual Aspects Of Poetry

Often when writing poetry, the writer feels a sense of "tapping into a
source." The sensation is as if something larger than you is actually giving
you the words to put down on the page or keyboard. The favored manner of
writing differs from author to author, and really is irrelevant for the
purpose of this discussion. Many times when writing under this "spell" or
"trance" state, for lack of better words, and author feels they have written
some of the most important and profound writing.

Another interesting phenomenon that I have noticed in such instances is that
usually two or three other poets at the boards I post to will write on very
similar themes when I feel this happen. Most often it is two other poets,
and it seems to happen with three of us at a time.

Another area of interest is the concept of prayers through poetry, or as
poetry. I would like to investigate this type of poetic expression in my own
writing, and to hear from others if they use the same technique. I have
written a few poems of my heartfelt wishes in the past with lines like
"releasing prayers to electronic winds." I wondered even back then if poetry
could be used as a request for spiritual energy, for the feelings and
desires of readers to resonate with the request inherent in a poem. In
effect, the reader is "speaking the word to God for the writer" by
sympathizing with the poem's emotional content. Readers of Florence Scovel
Shinn's work "Wisdom" will have a deeper understanding of the subject I am
raising.

Could wide-spread poetry be used to bring the energies of peace, love, and
prosperity to a wider group of people? Certainly writings in the Bible's
last books, as well as things such as Norse mythology's Ragnarok and others
have brought a view of a cataclysmic end to the world into the larger
consciousness of mankind. Writing of any nature can do this. Writing of a
spiritual nature may in some way alter the universe we inhabit by altering
our basic beliefs about the universe we inhabit at a very deep level. Modern
physics touches on the possibility, theorizing that the universe exists out
of unlimited probability streams because we observe it to exist. The Bible
says in one part that "He who believes enough can move a mountain." and that
we should give thanks to God as if what we ask is already granted. Some
modern preachers warn us that the words we speak to ourselves are also heard
by God, and we can speak ourselves into trouble or into joy.

This raises many questions about poetry, and how it might be put to use to
bring positive spiritual energy to a large group of people. If this is true,
and possible, then poets bear a heavy responsibility for the visions they
craft and display. Perhaps it is time we poets as a sub-culture examine this
aspect of our art in detail. Certainly the world could use all the positive
spiritual energy that can be found in these times. It seems that the world
is at a turning point and the focal point of this is here in the United
States, in the ideology and path we choose to follow going forward. There is
a great rift in this country in view point at this time. Could the gentler,
kinder side of poetry be utilized to help heal this to some extent? Could we
possibly write our way to a somewhat better world?

Please address any comments on this topic to the e-mail link at the top of
this blog. I would like to deepen this discussion if possible.

AquarianM

Spiritual Poetry:

Spiritual Poetry:

Is this a poem,
Perhaps the rambling of a creative mind?

Is this a path,
That passes through healing,
Into self-knowledge and light?

Do the fingers on the keyboard,
Become driven by some cosmic under-mind?

How do you explain,
Poets on similar topics,
Usually posting in threes?

Can a poem become a prayer,
If written in love and light?

If so then let's pray for peace and love,
Good  things,
All across the world to come...

Starting with tonight.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 08/24/2004

All of my currently available poetry titles are for sale at:
http://www.lulu.com/Daniel-Stafford

Poetry Is In The Moment:

In the mindless foolish transition,
I lost my words in searching too deep,
Looking for mountains of meaning to pour out,
Hoping for some grand place in the heavens,
Forgetting the simplest of things,
When my eyes are opened and I see a small space,
The dusty trails I walked between cornfields,
The footpath along the railroad tracks in early 1960's sunshine,
The insects and prairie flowers of Wisconsin Summers,
The goldenrod and oriole and wild child hair,
Deep in rural Nebraska,
The stark contrast of dark night skies in the desert,
The deep blue of a rare New Mexico lake,
The salt tang of a midnight beach in Galveston,
Poetry is in the moment,
In the small places you live and see and breathe,
Those slices of life too precious to forget,
And all the moral ground and beliefs,
Wishes for the future and hopes and dreams and fears,
Nothing is exempt,
No single piece is all there can be,
Because poetry is life,
In the words you can find to capture it.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 07/08/2004

Author's Comments:
Sometimes I forget and my voice falls silent in a false lack of words.

With The Voice Of Rain:

In no uncertain terms I described the sky,
Every hue and color and their meaning to me,
The mesmerizing dance of leaf and wind and raindrop,
The utter rhythm of raindrops upon roofs,
The chill I feel at the way ideas fall on Earth,
The frightening vistas of change and passage,
How it burns that those younger do not know the value,
How it burns that I fail to see the worth of new,
In these moments I chastise myself and find youth,
In others I find staunch deliverance in timelessness,
Still leaves whisper upon the branches of trees,
Fall is filled with beautiful contrast,
Love is the final air we all breathe.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 07/22/2004

Author's Comments:
I miss old times and love new times. Sometimes I wish I were more a part of them, others I realize I am.

Rainbow Of Hope:

The thin thread of light in the sky,
The painted wisp of God-word,
Contract of peace in one fashion,

When the triple rainbow of peace falls across a Northern sky,
I will rejoice in the futures now untouched,
In the rich silk of youth coming home,
In the fine glow of the stars that just exceeded black clouds.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 07/26/2004

Author's Comments:
I will rejoice when the last person standing has walked home.

Flowers In Dull Places:

A bloom in a window,
In a yellow brick wall,
In an alley seen only,
From the height of a parking ramp,
Hearts reach everywhere,
One piece of beauty that lights the definition of invisible,
Just look where you expect nothing wondrous to live.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 07/27/2004

Author's Comments:
Inspired by a real sight in the middle of nothing in real life.

Invasion Of Bones:

The breeze blows softly,
Flowing through open truck windows,
Carrying the sounds of parking lot denizens to my ear,
Home Depot breathes in the heart of the Burbian Blob,
With the setting of the sun imminent,
I stare at the steel bones digging into concrete laid over the Earth,
Metal frame studs reaching two stories,
A see-through cut-away precursor of more blocked sky,
Where the crops once grew,
Gone - verdant fields and slow time daisies,
Creeping steel bones and parking lots.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 08/03/2004

Author's Comments:
Incessant sprawl was driven home by my surroundings.

Digging A Spark Out Of Exhaustion:

They said it'd never be done,
It was too cold a place,
All frozen ground and ice chips and whatnot,
Red-eyed like a demon with tears streaming,
Mouth yawning open every five minutes,
Yanked by the anchor to fall into the sleepy sea,
Still my fingers flew on keys like a tattered sail fluttering in a gale,
Struggling - reaching - clawing for a bit of tack,
In a humble moment of utter faith,
The sun struck down through the clouds,
The muse flew back in from Saturn or wherever,
And !WHAM! there it was on the page,
A bit of profundity and dazzlement,
Lighting up the decks and scaring off the sharks,
The oil lamp lit and my head hammered pillow down.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 08/06/2004

Author's Comments:
Weeeeee'reee Baaaaack!

Stars After Sunset:

The cool breeze of the evening whispered from the left,
Grasses waving and tree leaves danced,
Birds flew and gold lined every cloud,
The sun was fallen below the building across the street,
Cigar smoke was swirling slow and easy,
The fading blue and orange West called to me,
Haunted by the twinkling lights overhead,
The first stars winking knowing another day gone,
Further and further from roots and nostalgic longing,
Closer and closer to whatever knowledge or wisdom,
Well something like that I suppose,
The music on the new CD full of beautiful angst,
The red cherry of my cigar glows,
Still I wonder what we really know,
Thankful the only lights and sounds,
Only music and grass rustles and glowing stars and clouds,
Underneath all our worlds we know it,
The sadness is borne each day in bloody blackened sand,
Search for hope or meaning whatever you will,
Should we hurry or hold slow a major dilemma,
Another day’s light is going out,
And I want to crawl slowly through the beautiful night,
Up into the far haunted twinkling bejeweled sky.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 08/07/2004

Author's Comments:
The politics of the day seem unwilling to leave the back of my mind. I want to see right and humane choices made, want the country I grew up loving to touch once more it’s kinder and hopeful soul. I feel like we’re all searching for that somehow, like we’re all lost in a nightmare with morning glowing just out of reach.

Bannana Freeze:

Hot sunshine on endless cornfields,
The sky free of haze and open blue,
The fearsome high dive,
First time swimming under without holding your nose,
Ripples of golden light on blue-painted concrete,
In the ear-ache deep end,
Sounds magnified clicking rocks on bottom,
Flying like Superman with mask and fins,
Holding your breath until desperate tingling,
Driving up with all you can muster,
Splash fights and cannon balls,
Hating the sounds of distant thunder,
Lifeguard whistles and numbered pin in your suit,
Lying on a damp towel and hot grey concrete,
Everything from Elvis to Beatles playing,
Tinny grey bullhorn speakers,
Finally-over fifteen minutes trying not to run,
No eating they say you'll cramp up,
Fifty cents for a day in Heaven,
Hop on your bike at hot evening,
Last ten cents gets you a cherry-dipped,
Frozen luscious bannana at the Tasty Freeze,
Just a tiny-town Nebraska swimming pool.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 08/07/2004

Author's Comments:
1970 Genoa, NE, population 1050.

King Of The Orange Track:

Fifty cars strong,
Two Slingshots,
Rubber band powered zoomers,
Two loop the loops,
A California Eight set,
Juice Machine and ten Sizzlers,
Twin side-by-side thirty foot runs of orange track,
The best Hot Wheel set in town,
The pinnacle of it all,
A purple 1968 Didge Charger RT,
Would run the whole circuit every time,
Never flew off,
Eight year old King of the Orange Track.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 08/07/2004

Author's Comments:
1970 Genoa, NE