Apple Pie Moon Bright Over Lovers At Night By The Sea...
Even A Peanut Knows ...
I've never seen the Great Pumpkin,
But I've seen great pumpkins,
Whether or not the Doctor is in,
The football gets pulled,
Leaving you nothing to punt,
So haul your blanket to the piano,
Get ready to sing while you freeze,
'Cause even a child knows,
What happens after the coloring of the trees.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 10/17/2014
| Author | Date Entered/Modified | Views |
| Daniel A. Stafford | 9/7/2000 3:25:11 AM 10/7/2022 7:31:55 PM | 894 |
One of those golden days of summer, far from work and worry,
Relaxed fun in sand strewn waters, no reason or rhyme for hurry.
Young mother watching in the sixties sun,
Three children playing, in the slow river's run.
The Platte river is a languid sandy beast today.
The green grass on the bright banks,
The goldenrod waving a soft wind's hello.
A blue sky above, perfect azure bowl,
Cloudless dreaming, nothing to control.
Silver gray blue water sparkles run around the sand bars.
Two young boys running, from sand to water,
An old inner tube glistening black rubber,
Straight white blond hair and tiny gold red curls,
Darkened by waters in rivulets and whirls.
The mother's brown eyes gaze to her daughter's form.
Small child at play, dark brown and bared to the sun,
Coal black hair so long and straight, black eyes full of fun.
Wading like a vision in the Nebraska summer's hand,
Three deer behind drinking the Platte, fearless where they stand.
A moment framed forever, in a young mother's mind.
I can't begin to tell you, but there was magic in those times.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C)2000
A memory, favorite of my mother of our youth, one of those perfect days in a time before time, my memories of it are warm, this is hers. Mom (Judy Oberbruner, nee Nofri) Myself, Jeff, Lori. Summer, 1970. I remember this day so blissfully.
| Author | Date Entered/Modified | Views |
| Daniel A. Stafford | 9/7/2000 3:25:11 AM 10/7/2022 7:31:55 PM | 894 |
Total Comments: 1
Comments | |||
| Leigh | marin@kci.net | 3/2/2001 5:42:04 PM | |
| This brings many of my own memories to mind .... the South Platte meanders it's way on the east side of town, and we have spent a lot of wonderful days there .... fishing ... walking ... exploring ... enjoyig the warm sunshine. Your childhood sounds so wonderful -- every story you tell overflows with the love of your family. *s* Leigh | |||
| Author | Date Entered/Modified | Views |
| Daniel A. Stafford | 9/6/2000 6:36:58 PM 10/13/2022 8:51:27 PM | 900 |
Darkness your ally, as your boot crunches on broken glass.
A black Fedora hides your eyes in shadows akin to the alley's rulers.
Long black coat, shoes the color of the night.
Walking past the wino's barrel fire, a crinkled wrapper fluttering at your step.
Mystery is the only name you carry on your tall frame.
The case in your hand has a weight beyond the physical residing within.
You step out, into the world of street lights and storefronts,
Twinkling reflections on plate glass windows and neon colored.
The girls at the corner laugh, flaunting sweet looking flesh too well.
The coffee in your hand isn't shaking just from the caffeine,
And the sweat trickling down your neck under your collar,
Well, that's not just from the hot and humid foggy night.
You see your goal in red metal and glass, under the streetlight's pooled gift.
Looking five directions or starters, you enter, bringing out your tools.
The mouthpiece dangling from the chrome coiled line,
Never meant for this, never conceived of.
Your laptop screen's glow just covered in trench coat shadows,
You send your secret racing out over the wires,
Net bound produce of hard work and intellect.
The poet Anonymous has published again.
The wind whips paper past the working girls' ankles as you vanish into the night.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 09/06/2000
A bit of dark fantasy humor, thanks to a muse riding Andy's Note down the lines...
| Author | Date Entered/Modified | Views |
| Daniel A. Stafford | 9/6/2000 6:36:58 PM 10/13/2022 8:51:27 PM | 900 |
| Author | Date Entered/Modified | Views |
| Daniel A. Stafford | 9/6/2000 4:11:05 AM 10/12/2022 10:27:31 PM | 922 |
Grayness, left over memories served cold and unknown,
Times passed by, ashes of fires now cold as stone,
Faded torn pictures, yellowed in cracked glass,
Stories of the ages, forgotten, they must pass.
Sorrows un-mourned of long ago,
Who was loved, who did they know?
Never a pen fast enough to catch faded moments,
The slowness, lack of time fills with regrets.
Lost arts in the distance to stay,
I write to forgive them, just pieces of a day.
No words are ever enough.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C)2000
Another reason I write, less of the pictures I don't have will become torn up and unviewable as I slowly pass on from these given once times, soon to be tomorrow's legends of the fall, faint fragrances of a long ago springtime hanging out near yellowed pages.
| Author | Date Entered/Modified | Views |
| Daniel A. Stafford | 9/6/2000 4:11:05 AM 10/12/2022 10:27:31 PM | 922 |
| Author | Date Entered/Modified | Views |
| Daniel A. Stafford | 9/6/2000 3:00:26 AM 10/7/2022 6:12:08 PM | 832 |
It's dark, standing along the rails,
And a small crowd of work bound strangers assails,
My need for quiet reflection alone,
Sitting reading on the train, introspection like a stone,
The dark green glass with vague reflections of the world,
Dim yellow train lights in the night unfurled.
The Hispanic family across the aisle speaks a jovial tangle,
Rapid fire Spanish, a few words understood from my angle.
The silent strangers, masked in their indifferent expressions.
Three young adults, two women barely women, glaringly women,
Cool young Dude along for the ride.
The talkative one in brown leather pants laughs and jokes,
Teasing Dude with verbal lightning strokes.
Their slick clothes, perfect make up screaming too loud,
A message sent unmeant, or so the game must appear.
Then the question arrives upon my ears,
Fruit of youthful giggled fears,
"Do you think we'll be forty and feel like we're young?"
Answer screams to the tip of my tongue,
And screeching, stops, teetering on the brink.
I've another year & a half yet, before I've earned saying what I think.
I settle into the worn brown leather, pretending indifference.
It's not a matter of riding the fence.
I'm just a big kid, stuck in thirty eight year old clothes.
The train squeals down the rails into the subterranean station,
Shards of broken concrete and dirty urban discards, elation.
I'm too young to answer that.
Yet.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C)2000
Just one of those moments that makes you sit up and take notice, like a scene from some dark urban
movie...fading away.
| Author | Date Entered/Modified | Views |
| Daniel A. Stafford | 9/6/2000 3:00:26 AM 10/7/2022 6:12:08 PM | 832 |
