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
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Friday, August 17, 2018
Friday, August 10, 2018
Infernal...
Infernal...
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
Thursday, July 26, 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
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
Tuesday, July 17, 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/
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/
Tuesday, July 10, 2018
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
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
Wednesday, July 04, 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
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 |
Tuesday, July 03, 2018
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.
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.
Easy on the eyes.
Not so hard on the heart,
Either.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 07/02/2018
Sunday, July 01, 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
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
Saturday, June 30, 2018
Recovery Images For Poetic Constellations
Poetic Constellations is an online poetry forum that was originally hosted on EZBoards.com. It was later taken over by Yuku.com, which a few years after was taken over by Tapatalk.com.
Through the EZBoard & Yuku years, the forum kept the same look. For myself and many other online poets, it was our cosmic poetic home.
When I was notified that the takeover by Tapatalk was coming, I hurriedly saved some of the forum graphics. I had seen another EZBoard-gone-Yuku forum get eaten by the Tapatalk monster, and the site was completely whitewashed, all graphic customizations lost as Tapatalk converted everything to their sterile fuschia-and-white nothingness.
Proboards.com is a competing online discussion board provider, and one of our poets is helping us all move to that platform. Years of posted poetic history will be left in the bland white vault of Tapatalk, but at least the place will look something like out little poetic cosmos again.
These images are posted here for Queen Foxy, who has been working hard on this project. It's my way of relaying the graphics to her for use at our new online home.
Background:
New Post:
New Reply:
New Topic Create/'Reply Moon:
Sticky Post:
Constellations Gateway Logo:
Miscellaneous:
These are all I was able to save before the place was eaten by the Tapatalk beast.
Show Notes:
Happenings in the web poetry universe: I have a long history with web poetry, and there have been many changes over the years. A big change in my poetic universe is happening now. Also, a reading of my latest piece, "Squeezing Time Out Of A Clockwork Lemon..."
Dan
Through the EZBoard & Yuku years, the forum kept the same look. For myself and many other online poets, it was our cosmic poetic home.
When I was notified that the takeover by Tapatalk was coming, I hurriedly saved some of the forum graphics. I had seen another EZBoard-gone-Yuku forum get eaten by the Tapatalk monster, and the site was completely whitewashed, all graphic customizations lost as Tapatalk converted everything to their sterile fuschia-and-white nothingness.
Proboards.com is a competing online discussion board provider, and one of our poets is helping us all move to that platform. Years of posted poetic history will be left in the bland white vault of Tapatalk, but at least the place will look something like out little poetic cosmos again.
These images are posted here for Queen Foxy, who has been working hard on this project. It's my way of relaying the graphics to her for use at our new online home.
Background:
New Post:
New Reply:
New Topic Create/'Reply Moon:
Sticky Post:
Constellations Gateway Logo:
Miscellaneous:
 |
| Locked post |
 | ||
| Poll |
These are all I was able to save before the place was eaten by the Tapatalk beast.
Show Notes:
Happenings in the web poetry universe: I have a long history with web poetry, and there have been many changes over the years. A big change in my poetic universe is happening now. Also, a reading of my latest piece, "Squeezing Time Out Of A Clockwork Lemon..."
Dan
Squeezing Time Out Of A Clockwork Lemon...
Squeezing Time Out Of A Clockwork Lemon...
I live in a tight little universe of words,
My grip on moments of writing impelled,
Compressed by the numerolgy,
Soulless beeping numbers of the no-longer ticking,
Clocks that wind up being an anachronism.
I own one or five of those,
By choice.
If time were an orange,
Ray Bradbury could rejoice,
Cut it in ever-smaller wedges,
Knowing it was sweet.
Instead,
Time is a lemon my friends,
Fertilized in the bowels of corporate crapitalism,
Sour and tart enough to wash windows,
An acid-etched thimble of life-juice.
Still I write,
Of seeds and sun and ancient things,
There in the juice and pulp of a quick-drying moment.
Perhaps this is why an alarm does what it does,
Makes me pucker and squint.
AquarianM
By Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 06/29/2018
I live in a tight little universe of words,
My grip on moments of writing impelled,
Compressed by the numerolgy,
Soulless beeping numbers of the no-longer ticking,
Clocks that wind up being an anachronism.
I own one or five of those,
By choice.
If time were an orange,
Ray Bradbury could rejoice,
Cut it in ever-smaller wedges,
Knowing it was sweet.
Instead,
Time is a lemon my friends,
Fertilized in the bowels of corporate crapitalism,
Sour and tart enough to wash windows,
An acid-etched thimble of life-juice.
Still I write,
Of seeds and sun and ancient things,
There in the juice and pulp of a quick-drying moment.
Perhaps this is why an alarm does what it does,
Makes me pucker and squint.
AquarianM
By Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 06/29/2018
Tuesday, June 26, 2018
Luminous...
Luminous...
Perhaps I love anachronisms so much,
Because they glow with the light,
That glamor of "better" than now,
That magic of what was or might be,
A lamplight free of dross and tedium,
Adventure and romance,
Unhindered by the day-to-day grind,
The sawdust steps of keeping up mere existence.
Princesses and pirates,
Of ancient kingdoms,
Or on the dying Mars of a forgotten future,
Long stories and fading candles.
The zip and zing of the medium of the day is exhausting,
Propagandized in extremity,
Sucking the life out of a vampire world that feeds on itself blindly.
Give me a journal and quill,
Stars I can see,
A woman of love and wit,
A ship on the sea or cosmos,
A destination luminous,
Along with the friends to accompany.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 06/25/2018
Perhaps I love anachronisms so much,
Because they glow with the light,
That glamor of "better" than now,
That magic of what was or might be,
A lamplight free of dross and tedium,
Adventure and romance,
Unhindered by the day-to-day grind,
The sawdust steps of keeping up mere existence.
Princesses and pirates,
Of ancient kingdoms,
Or on the dying Mars of a forgotten future,
Long stories and fading candles.
The zip and zing of the medium of the day is exhausting,
Propagandized in extremity,
Sucking the life out of a vampire world that feeds on itself blindly.
Give me a journal and quill,
Stars I can see,
A woman of love and wit,
A ship on the sea or cosmos,
A destination luminous,
Along with the friends to accompany.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 06/25/2018
Wednesday, June 06, 2018
The Singing Fairy...
The Singing Fairy...
She could bend the world with her voice,
Hearts with a glance,
With pencil and pen and ink the universe was hers in a flash.
Swimming in dew pools or through the air,
With a quill in hand and song to lips,
All hearts,
All hearts,
Melting out your ears.
The world is all strung together with a laugh,
Didn't you know?
We'll never know what got her in the end,
But her song Forever,
It still echoes on the wind...
Just listen.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 06/20/2017
Author's Note:
For my dear departed friend Janine "Spinny" Daniel.
The background art on this blog was hers, and titled "Singing Fairy." Janine herself was a wonderful karaoke singer, poet, and as you can see, graphic artist. She will always be missed. Janine loved the wee folk, and drew them often and wonderfully.
I've scheduled this to post on the first anniversary of when I found out Janine had passed away. Perhaps I'll write another of her then, to keep the memory of my friend alive. - Dan
She could bend the world with her voice,
Hearts with a glance,
With pencil and pen and ink the universe was hers in a flash.
Swimming in dew pools or through the air,
With a quill in hand and song to lips,
All hearts,
All hearts,
Melting out your ears.
The world is all strung together with a laugh,
Didn't you know?
We'll never know what got her in the end,
But her song Forever,
It still echoes on the wind...
Just listen.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 06/20/2017
Author's Note:
For my dear departed friend Janine "Spinny" Daniel.
The background art on this blog was hers, and titled "Singing Fairy." Janine herself was a wonderful karaoke singer, poet, and as you can see, graphic artist. She will always be missed. Janine loved the wee folk, and drew them often and wonderfully.
I've scheduled this to post on the first anniversary of when I found out Janine had passed away. Perhaps I'll write another of her then, to keep the memory of my friend alive. - Dan
Sunday, June 03, 2018
Twisting Bits...
Twisting Bits...
I've spun electrons since I was two,
Smoked a finger almost like Franklin,
I could easily imagine a key on a kite string,
And flying kites is a joyful bit of wistful magic.
I've flown phone calls,
Spotted airplanes,
And kept the internet humming,
Now I'm learning all about twisting bits,
Logic pretzels if you will,
As twisted as this ol' brain.
It's funny,
But to keep a career in what I've always done,
I have to become certied to nine levels,
Though most of the world thinks it's black magic,
See all the pretty blinky lights?
My head is so wrapped in this world,
Though life is warping by outside my bubble,
It's like a black hole,
Or maybe Hotel California.
Maybe the poetry Gods can sneak me out for a minute,
But the event horizon is pulling,
Pulling hard.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 06/03/2018
I've spun electrons since I was two,
Smoked a finger almost like Franklin,
I could easily imagine a key on a kite string,
And flying kites is a joyful bit of wistful magic.
I've flown phone calls,
Spotted airplanes,
And kept the internet humming,
Now I'm learning all about twisting bits,
Logic pretzels if you will,
As twisted as this ol' brain.
It's funny,
But to keep a career in what I've always done,
I have to become certied to nine levels,
Though most of the world thinks it's black magic,
See all the pretty blinky lights?
My head is so wrapped in this world,
Though life is warping by outside my bubble,
It's like a black hole,
Or maybe Hotel California.
Maybe the poetry Gods can sneak me out for a minute,
But the event horizon is pulling,
Pulling hard.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 06/03/2018
Thursday, February 08, 2018
5,000 Year Dandelion Puff:
5,000 Year Dandelion Puff:
Glass ball smooth in hand,
Tennis ball size and pretty,
Stuffed with dandelion puff,
Over Navy Blue base,
The yellow center sphere,
Hidden away but seen,
Under a sphere of seeds,
White silken fibers,
Ultimate softness contained,
Within ultimate smoothness,
Forever waiting to blow,
Away on the wind,
But the Zephyrs can't reach,
Inside a clear glass ball,
Just the light that shows all,
For how many eyes after mine,
Will see that one summer's wish ball,
Never quite ever blow away,
Forever just one day away,
From flight?
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 01/31/2002
Tennis ball size and pretty,
Stuffed with dandelion puff,
Over Navy Blue base,
The yellow center sphere,
Hidden away but seen,
Under a sphere of seeds,
White silken fibers,
Ultimate softness contained,
Within ultimate smoothness,
Forever waiting to blow,
Away on the wind,
But the Zephyrs can't reach,
Inside a clear glass ball,
Just the light that shows all,
For how many eyes after mine,
Will see that one summer's wish ball,
Never quite ever blow away,
Forever just one day away,
From flight?
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 01/31/2002
Author's Comments
My favorite paperweight,
A full size dandelion puff,
I find it so pleasing to the eye,
Like a moment forever frozen.
Think I'll do the other one
Tomorrow.
A full size dandelion puff,
I find it so pleasing to the eye,
Like a moment forever frozen.
Think I'll do the other one
Tomorrow.
| Library Home | ||
| Author | Date Entered/Modified | Views |
| Daniel A. Stafford | 1/31/2002 5:03:12 AM 7/19/2010 9:44:43 AM | 166 |
Wednesday, February 07, 2018
1950's Leather:
1950's Leather:
Red satin shirt and slicked black hair,
White leather embroidered vest,
Buddy Holly glasses to wear,
Little sweetheart's got a red satin blouse,
And blue jeans so tight,
They got it goin' on as they dance away the night,
Rockin' to the tunes that we still love from yesteryear,
She's tight up on the boy,
With wriggles to the beat to spare,
A New Year's Eve rocket romp,
They looked so very alive,
As the lights flash on the guitar pickups,
The blues harp comes alive,
She's got the feather tiara in her sweet brown hair,
And he's got his arms around her under the lights,
The drummer's thumpin' time for them,
And they're getting that red satin white leather stare.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 01/03/2002
By: Daniel A. Stafford
White leather embroidered vest,
Buddy Holly glasses to wear,
Little sweetheart's got a red satin blouse,
And blue jeans so tight,
They got it goin' on as they dance away the night,
Rockin' to the tunes that we still love from yesteryear,
She's tight up on the boy,
With wriggles to the beat to spare,
A New Year's Eve rocket romp,
They looked so very alive,
As the lights flash on the guitar pickups,
The blues harp comes alive,
She's got the feather tiara in her sweet brown hair,
And he's got his arms around her under the lights,
The drummer's thumpin' time for them,
And they're getting that red satin white leather stare.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 01/03/2002
By: Daniel A. Stafford
Author's Comments
A young couple you couldn't help but
notice and cheer on at Elvis's Memphis
restaurant party New Year's Eve.
notice and cheer on at Elvis's Memphis
restaurant party New Year's Eve.
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| Daniel A. Stafford | aqmstaffo@mailbag.com | www.mailbag.com/users/aqmstaffo/index.html |
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Comments
| |||
| Leigh | leigh@leighscorner.com | http://leighscorner.com/ | 1/3/2002 9:45:36 PM |
| Dan, Thanks for sharing it with us -- you made it come alive! What fun! :) Leigh | |||
| Debbie Hunt | hu6nt@yahoo.com.au | 1/4/2002 4:26:15 PM | |
| Dan, Oh! WOW! Makes me wanna get up and dance! I wish I was there to see this couple in the flesh! Thanks for sharing the magic of that night! Debbie | |||
Tuesday, February 06, 2018
50,000 Years From Home...
50,000 Years From Home....
I recently discovered the Keo project. An orbiting sattelite is set to be launched to orbit
the Earth for 50,000 years before deorbiting and carrying 6 billion messages from
people alive on Earth now, today to those in the far distant future.
This is what I had to say:
My name is Daniel Allan Stafford. I am a resident of the United States of America,
which may or may not mean anything to whomever may read this. Given such a
distant future time, I have no idea if my language nor any remnant of the world
as I know it will exist in your time.
I would like to tell you a little bit about who we are now. We're people who try to
live through our intellect but still get caught up in our feelings. We're people who
love and hurt and laugh and cry and try to ponder out the knowledge of what our
existence actually consists of and is for.
We make mistakes, and there are those among us who care not a tiny bit for others
or the future, that just try to gather as much glory and comfort as they can to themselves
while they are alive.
We also have people who work very hard to make this world a better place both while
they are here and after they leave it behind through the great unknown of physical
death.
We have those who just try to survive as best they can without doing much else.
I can tell you this: The times we live in now are fair in the sense of beautiful in many ways.
So many things are new. We're discovering what makes our bodies be what they are,
what space is and how to live there, how to coexist without fighting as much as we can.
We have yet to see people living beyond the skies of Earth, but I expect this soon.
My greatest hope is that we can learn to live in harmony and take that beyond Humanities'
cradle, the earth. That we can make life blossom througout the universe and allow that
life to be happy for all those who follow us through our efforts.
If we succeeed, then you will remember us because of what we left to you through our
efforts and hard work.
I'm in the middle of an average life span in these times, thirty eight years old.
In your time, that may still be someone fairly young. I know one thing, the times
I have lived in, I have loved dearly, as well as those around me.
If you are lucky, you will have a chance to know us far better than we know our forebears,
news of which we must dig out from the Earth's bones and decipher in educated
guesses and art that has no translations ready to hand to explain it's meaning.
There is much beauty in the arts and songs we have with us now, as well as great sadnesses.
We live in a world rich with dreams and memories, and most of all, hopes for what we
can leave to you. I can't imagine what your world must be like, surely things that
technology does by then must be like magic to someone like me, a ghost from your
distant past. How I wish I could see what you, our distant children, have become.
For myself, I wish you love, joy, and happiness. I hope you can consider yourselves
to live in times of beauty and happiness, achievement and success. Carry on for us.
You are the hopes of our tomorrows, as we are the ghosts of your yesterdays.
I write poetry in my time, and this is my poem about what is truly timeless:
Timeless:
Do you feel the warmth of the sun shining on your face?
Do you hear the gentle wash of the ocean wave?
Do you see the adoration in a new mother's face?
Do you see the flowers begin to bloom in spring?
Do you envision the soaring hawk?
Do you see memories of your own youth?
Do you see the stars that glitter at night?
Do you see the old man's wistful eyes longing for old times?
Do you remember a friend that moved away?
Do you read a poem of well-written words?
Do you hear the melody of a favorite song?
Do you feel the love I hold for you?
Regardless of whether or not I should turn to dust,
There is a graceful thing that I trust.
Forever and a day,
I shall remember a bright shining ray,
Hope that you give to me,
Continuity with eternity,
Because of memories and love I share with you,
When your time comes you'll know what to do.
Give your love freely,
Because that's what timeless is, really.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C)2000
Author's Comments: This, to me, is wisdom. There are some moments that hold a beauty that
will never fade. The moment we give our love to another is one of them. I don't think this
ever will change, regardless of how briefly or long they remain near us in person, they
expand our hearts and souls.
By: Daniel A. Stafford
the Earth for 50,000 years before deorbiting and carrying 6 billion messages from
people alive on Earth now, today to those in the far distant future.
This is what I had to say:
My name is Daniel Allan Stafford. I am a resident of the United States of America,
which may or may not mean anything to whomever may read this. Given such a
distant future time, I have no idea if my language nor any remnant of the world
as I know it will exist in your time.
I would like to tell you a little bit about who we are now. We're people who try to
live through our intellect but still get caught up in our feelings. We're people who
love and hurt and laugh and cry and try to ponder out the knowledge of what our
existence actually consists of and is for.
We make mistakes, and there are those among us who care not a tiny bit for others
or the future, that just try to gather as much glory and comfort as they can to themselves
while they are alive.
We also have people who work very hard to make this world a better place both while
they are here and after they leave it behind through the great unknown of physical
death.
We have those who just try to survive as best they can without doing much else.
I can tell you this: The times we live in now are fair in the sense of beautiful in many ways.
So many things are new. We're discovering what makes our bodies be what they are,
what space is and how to live there, how to coexist without fighting as much as we can.
We have yet to see people living beyond the skies of Earth, but I expect this soon.
My greatest hope is that we can learn to live in harmony and take that beyond Humanities'
cradle, the earth. That we can make life blossom througout the universe and allow that
life to be happy for all those who follow us through our efforts.
If we succeeed, then you will remember us because of what we left to you through our
efforts and hard work.
I'm in the middle of an average life span in these times, thirty eight years old.
In your time, that may still be someone fairly young. I know one thing, the times
I have lived in, I have loved dearly, as well as those around me.
If you are lucky, you will have a chance to know us far better than we know our forebears,
news of which we must dig out from the Earth's bones and decipher in educated
guesses and art that has no translations ready to hand to explain it's meaning.
There is much beauty in the arts and songs we have with us now, as well as great sadnesses.
We live in a world rich with dreams and memories, and most of all, hopes for what we
can leave to you. I can't imagine what your world must be like, surely things that
technology does by then must be like magic to someone like me, a ghost from your
distant past. How I wish I could see what you, our distant children, have become.
For myself, I wish you love, joy, and happiness. I hope you can consider yourselves
to live in times of beauty and happiness, achievement and success. Carry on for us.
You are the hopes of our tomorrows, as we are the ghosts of your yesterdays.
I write poetry in my time, and this is my poem about what is truly timeless:
Timeless:
Do you feel the warmth of the sun shining on your face?
Do you hear the gentle wash of the ocean wave?
Do you see the adoration in a new mother's face?
Do you see the flowers begin to bloom in spring?
Do you envision the soaring hawk?
Do you see memories of your own youth?
Do you see the stars that glitter at night?
Do you see the old man's wistful eyes longing for old times?
Do you remember a friend that moved away?
Do you read a poem of well-written words?
Do you hear the melody of a favorite song?
Do you feel the love I hold for you?
Regardless of whether or not I should turn to dust,
There is a graceful thing that I trust.
Forever and a day,
I shall remember a bright shining ray,
Hope that you give to me,
Continuity with eternity,
Because of memories and love I share with you,
When your time comes you'll know what to do.
Give your love freely,
Because that's what timeless is, really.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C)2000
Author's Comments: This, to me, is wisdom. There are some moments that hold a beauty that
will never fade. The moment we give our love to another is one of them. I don't think this
ever will change, regardless of how briefly or long they remain near us in person, they
expand our hearts and souls.
By: Daniel A. Stafford
Author's Comments
I think this is very self-explanatory
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You can add your comments to the list below for this documentTotal Comments: 4
You can add your comments to the list below for this documentTotal Comments: 4
Comments
| |||
| Daniel A. Stafford | aqmstaffo@mailbag.com | 8/1/2000 3:58:46 AM | |
| Anyone interested in participating should contact: http://www.keo.org | |||
| test | test@test.com | 4/19/2004 9:34:14 AM | |
| test | |||
| Balalaika | Balalaika@hotmail.com | http://www.san-pietroburgo.info/ | 12/29/2004 10:55:40 AM |
| Tankyou all people from Russia with love! http://www.san-pietroburgo.info/ | |||
| Janine Daniel | janine@spinnys.com | www.spinnys.com | 8/3/2005 5:24:43 AM |
| Hi Dan, I was surprised when I found I haven't commented on this before although I wasn't surprised it's your most viewed one. This reminded me of when I put my name down for the Mars mission. I think this's awesome and I really truely hope that it gets read 50,000 years from now. | |||
Monday, February 05, 2018
Lucky Break...
I just found a large archive of my poetry stored on a portable hard drive. I have been looking for this particular archive since 2015.
I finally found the folder it had been buried in.
I have backed these up to a couple of other locations where they can be easily found, and will be slowly publishing the poems to this blog if they haven't already been published here.
I am very grateful to have found this archive tonight. It has been a rough few months, and things have been feeling very precarious today in particular.
I will take this as a good sign.
Thank you for reading me.
Dan Stafford
I finally found the folder it had been buried in.
I have backed these up to a couple of other locations where they can be easily found, and will be slowly publishing the poems to this blog if they haven't already been published here.
I am very grateful to have found this archive tonight. It has been a rough few months, and things have been feeling very precarious today in particular.
I will take this as a good sign.
Thank you for reading me.
Dan Stafford
15 on 30:
15 on 30:
Got half an hour on the clock,
In to do poetry I make a quick stop,
But fifteen minutes maybe twenty of the ride,
Deleting junkmail and "collected addresses,"
That confuse my address book to make my brain fry,
Buzzer just rang,
Now I'm running late,
But if I ever catch those e-mail bandits,
I don't think I could possibly be,
Sedate.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 05/14/2002
In to do poetry I make a quick stop,
But fifteen minutes maybe twenty of the ride,
Deleting junkmail and "collected addresses,"
That confuse my address book to make my brain fry,
Buzzer just rang,
Now I'm running late,
But if I ever catch those e-mail bandits,
I don't think I could possibly be,
Sedate.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 05/14/2002
Author's Comments
Grrrrrrrr!!
Friday, January 05, 2018
Learning The Last Song Of Summer…
Learning The Last Song Of Summer…
*Note: I had this dream this morning that I had to get down, here’s the result.*
It was dusk on the last day of Summer as I meandered down Main Street, filling my eyes with neon and party lights and the last indigo rays over the horizon. The evening crowd was thinning for the dinner bells of sidewalk cafes and patio tables, dining under soft old street lamps after a day of carnival.
The Gypsy wagons were parked all along the streets with little strings of lanterns strung between, and I spotted a wayward last August firefly out of the corner of my eye, or so I supposed.
Suddenly from three wagons down the street, I heard what seemed a mournful tenor saxophone bellow. I love the instrument, so I walked a little faster toward the sound. To my amazement it was no saxophone at all.
Between the parked wagons were some small tables and chairs, where sat a band of Vaudeville hobos dressed for all the world like Red Skelton on a Friday night. Each was holding a stringed instrument made of painted tin like an antique toy full-grown. I had heard the cello player warming up his strings.
I looked around in wonder at the bassist and banjo player and a beautiful tin guitar in expert old hands, and they began to play in a slow and mournful fashion, something like wind and distant thunder.
They were making little jokes of the people walking the street, harmless really. “Look, Loquatius, that one’s so tall he could touch the sky when he writes.” “Jedidiah, do you see that gal there in the colors of a balloon on the clouds?”
I stood in the shadows a bit, looking and listening in wonder, as they got in tune and played, Like grass grown dry and amber swaying in a near-harvest breeze. “Call for Carmelina and Serenata, Cornelius.” I heard the leader say.
Suddenly a young lady as beautiful as the moon led a bejeweled elephant up to the center of the band, and the two began singing a duet, Carmelina the elephant, and Serenata, whose name is Italian for Night-Song.
They serenaded Summer off down the street without moving an inch, and you could feel Jack Frost and his minions breathing on the road to town, all the way from the North Pole they were coming, and you could feel their steps on the road, steadily marching to the beat of the tin drum by lantern light.
I walked up and sat on a street bench rapt and listening to the melancholy pull of warm winds battling cool breezes. When the band stopped on the last soft notes of their song, everybody knew that Summer had surrendered, and Autumn was on her colorful way to town.
I walked up after and put a Finn in the leader’s tin cup, and offered cigars all around to the band, cracked open my bottle of dinner wine and poured the first glass for Serenata and then shared the rest with the band. I told them my name was Poet, and asked them to share their story.
“I can tell you a little.” said Loquatius, the leader of the Gypsy band. “We found Serenata and Carmelina in a pair of milkweed pods, many sweet Summers ago. Lady Summer told us to plant them by our campfire as Autumn walked the land that season, and gave us the music to learn.” “Play it for them as they rest in the Earth and grow through Winter’s long cold days,” she bade us, “and teach them to sing the verse as Spring warms you and they come forth and flower.” “Your song will hold the Storm Demons of Winter from your camp, and Jack Frost will never be able to do more than follow you.”
“So, you see,” said Loquatius, “We keep Winter and her cold-eyed demons from us as we roam from town to town, and the ladies here have learned to sing from the time they were wee seeds low to the ground.”
I looked at the warmth of my cigar cherry and the cheer of their never-frozen camaraderie, picked up a tin fiddle, and joined the End of Summer Tin Man Band, being sure to keep my pen and journal close to hand.
AquarianM
By” Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 08/13/2012
Thursday, January 04, 2018
In A Summer Chair Reading Poetry…
In A Summer Chair Reading Poetry…
Cigar smoke rises up on a hot breeze,
It’s dance in the sunlight lifts the corners of my mind,
Still snarled around the pages of Poetry magazine,
A thing of melancholy beauty,
Glorious wounds of the psyche travel the world on its back.
A day like this should paint beautiful prayers,
Make young lovers strip down to the sweat,
Push people into lakes and pools,
Rustle green leaves and cook them in bird call spice.
I close the page and release what I read,
Remainders dangle unripened until a rainy cold day.
Tobacco and coffee and hot sunshine,
Things made of the tufts of sunlight fallen from Heaven,
These belong,
Wet feet and sand belong.
Defiance of the ticking clock,
I am not fully Borg,
Will never truly be a crushed $pirit,
Though they frog-march me into the shadowland,
I escape a few moments or hours any given day,
Dreaming of freedom and longer telomeres,
I am the bottom of an aluminum can,
Never truly crushed and forever recycled.
There is another green in my world,
A place of yellow dandelions and frisbees,
Shady trees and cool pools,
Spinning bicycle wheels,
Freshwater waves and beach glass,
Music and moonlight,
Dancing and romance.
My numbers are still in play,
Hope for a break in the window of in$anity,
This artificial dinosaur crafted by twisted old men,
Only awaiting the right comet to crash into the gestalt of a world creaking,
Straining under its rotting weight,
Awaiting chrysalis.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 08/21/2013
It’s dance in the sunlight lifts the corners of my mind,
Still snarled around the pages of Poetry magazine,
A thing of melancholy beauty,
Glorious wounds of the psyche travel the world on its back.
A day like this should paint beautiful prayers,
Make young lovers strip down to the sweat,
Push people into lakes and pools,
Rustle green leaves and cook them in bird call spice.
I close the page and release what I read,
Remainders dangle unripened until a rainy cold day.
Tobacco and coffee and hot sunshine,
Things made of the tufts of sunlight fallen from Heaven,
These belong,
Wet feet and sand belong.
Defiance of the ticking clock,
I am not fully Borg,
Will never truly be a crushed $pirit,
Though they frog-march me into the shadowland,
I escape a few moments or hours any given day,
Dreaming of freedom and longer telomeres,
I am the bottom of an aluminum can,
Never truly crushed and forever recycled.
There is another green in my world,
A place of yellow dandelions and frisbees,
Shady trees and cool pools,
Spinning bicycle wheels,
Freshwater waves and beach glass,
Music and moonlight,
Dancing and romance.
My numbers are still in play,
Hope for a break in the window of in$anity,
This artificial dinosaur crafted by twisted old men,
Only awaiting the right comet to crash into the gestalt of a world creaking,
Straining under its rotting weight,
Awaiting chrysalis.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 08/21/2013
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