Welcom To

Welcom To
By AquarianM

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?


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

Library Home
AuthorDate Entered/ModifiedViews
Daniel A. Stafford1/31/2002 5:03:12 AM
7/19/2010 9:44:43 AM

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.


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.

Library Home
AuthorDate Entered/ModifiedViews
Daniel A. Stafford1/3/2002 2:12:06 PM
7/30/2010 11:22:24 PM
Daniel A. Staffordaqmstaffo@mailbag.comwww.mailbag.com/users/aqmstaffo/index.html
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To post a comment, you must first be logged in.
You can create an account or log in using the links at the bottom of this page.Total Comments: 3
Leighleigh@leighscorner.comhttp://leighscorner.com/1/3/2002 9:45:36 PM
Thanks for sharing it with us -- you made it come alive! What fun! :)

Debbie Hunthu6nt@yahoo.com.au
1/4/2002 4:26:15 PM

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!


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

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:


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.


By: Daniel A. Stafford

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
<- a="" prev="">Library HomeNext ->
AuthorDate Entered/ModifiedViews
Daniel A. Stafford8/1/2000 3:43:04 AM
7/31/2010 3:21:08 PM
Daniel A. Staffordaqmstaffo@mailbag.comwww.mailbag.com/aqmstaffo/index.html
Daniel A. Staffordaqmstaffo@mailbag.com
8/1/2000 3:58:46 AM
Anyone interested in participating should contact: http://www.keo.org
4/19/2004 9:34:14 AM
BalalaikaBalalaika@hotmail.comhttp://www.san-pietroburgo.info/12/29/2004 10:55:40 AM
Tankyou all people from Russia with love! http://www.san-pietroburgo.info/
Janine Danieljanine@spinnys.comwww.spinnys.com8/3/2005 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

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,


By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 05/14/2002

Author's Comments


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.


By” Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 08/13/2012

Dan Stafford

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.


By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 08/21/2013

Wednesday, January 03, 2018

The Joke...

Post by AquarianM on May 23, 2012 at 8:50pm

The Joke...

The joke is this crazy ephemeral life,
So incredibly poignant,
Rich beyond belief with every emotion,
Only to end in dust,
Fade on the wind as moments tick by,
Every legend,
Every sound and sight and dream,
Some circle of time leads us willy-nilly,
Laughing at our vulnerable hearts,
Letting the flow of air dry our tears,
All we can do is try to pass down to the young,
Whatever water hasn't flowed through our fingers,
And love with all of our might,
A way of praying for meaning,
As I wonder of the tide of fifty thousand years,
A pittance to the Universe,
So beyond any hope of ours,
Should an iota of our memory still even an atom,
Let alone a single breath,
But we go on,
With a smile we dance the stage of our season,
Trying not to reason why,
Nor to show a wistful teardrop.


By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 05/23/2012
Words are the mind's bridge - it's connection to the universe.
Love is the heart's bridge - it's connection to all other souls.
Loving words can work miracles.
All of my published poetry is at: