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 |
| Author | Date Entered/Modified | Views |
| Daniel A. Stafford | 9/5/2000 4:26:48 AM 10/9/2022 10:37:25 AM | 989 |
There is a cup, golden, mystical, magical, bejeweled.
There is a place, secret, timeless, where creativity is fueled.
Living life, experiencing living, fills this cup.
It can only be drained in a loving act, one of creation and sharing.
Each time it is emptied, life returns it's full measure.
At times, it's weight may be more than we can bear,
Filling in agonizingly slow droplets, or so it seems.
In the end, our only sunlight comes from draining it.
Sharing the sweet nectar of the Writers' Chalice.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C)2000
A visionary metaphor for the act of writing,
and how creation ebbs and flows.
| Author | Date Entered/Modified | Views |
| Daniel A. Stafford | 9/5/2000 4:26:48 AM 10/9/2022 10:37:25 AM | 989 |
Total Comments: 2
Comments | |||
| Claud | klugecc@jps.net | 9/5/2000 10:32:22 PM | |
| It's a bit esoteric, but I'll buy that! Sometimes we have to put the cookies where the kiddies can reach them. | |||
| Hope | pgsmith@iinet.net.au | 9/6/2000 3:35:41 AM | |
Here in the heart the vessel is created What we love and what we hated The heart replenishes and fills Then tips out unwanted spills | |||
| Author | Date Entered/Modified | Views |
| Daniel A. Stafford | 9/5/2000 3:33:53 AM 10/8/2022 3:56:14 PM | 750 |
Metal, old, painted brown, rusting.
Vinyl, flaking and stained, I'm trusting.
$400.00 car bought used, sporting 100,000 miles.
Mom's temporary ride, thinking of it brings smiles.
Mom bought a new red sports car, my brother is running Beastie.
I'm living in Dallas, broke, walking far.
I told my Mom that I desperately needed a car.
My ex-brother in law came to Wisconsin to get the girls.
I rode with to pick up the Beast, how the wheel whirls.
140,000 miles on the clock, ticking.
"If anything happens, pull the plates, leave her along the side."
I left Beloit on a thousand mile trip, taking that advice in stride.
The Beast entered Texas with a V8 rumble,
Running mile after mile with not a single stumble.
Add forty thousand miles around the metroplex.
Hours under the hood well spent,
A slight bender the bumper got bent.
Carrying sheet rock and plywood on the roof,
Others turned up their noses, aloof.
Painted silver eagles with red eyes on the sides.
Air shocks and eight gallons of water on long hot rides.
My best friend Luis off to a masters program in Phoenix,
His eyes bugged out when he saw her, but I knew all her tricks.
Arizona saw the Beast for the first time.
I spent a few days helping to settle him in,
Then I headed the Beast back towards Dallas with a grin.
Moving day came, and we were Florida bound.
Onward we kept riding, miles of rumbling sound.
Five hours under the hood in Jackson Mississippi.
Pulled half the motor apart in a parts store parking lot,
I cussed and swore but I replaced the timing cover shot.
Driving over the two mile bridge into the Pan Handle Coast.
The Beast sure fooled everyone, they'd all thought she'd be toast.
Fort Walton Beach, and the Beast saw white sand and emerald waves.
Off down to Tampa, heater core bypassed,
It had leaked like a sieve, it's time was past.
An early morning, up with the sun,
It was time to head for home, my Florida time was done.
85 degrees in February, Florida sun, windows down rolling.
Hit the Tennessee line in a snow storm.
No heat in the car, frozen toes needing warm.
Six pairs of socks stopping every hundred miles to thaw,
Made it past the overturned semi, by the red light flashes I saw.
A foot of snow in a state that never gets an inch, at night.
I never dropped anything out the holes in the bottom of the trunk,
And despite the everywhere rust spots, the old girl still had spunk.
Pulled her in the Janesville drive, found a place to park.
Later, living in the big farmhouse, under the tree her mark.
Two years hiding in the shade, started every now and again.
Shocked everyone every time, but I'd just pat the dash and grin.
The lock was falling out the driver's door, she was ugly as sin.
The big hole in the driver's seat, stuffed with pillows full,
And the stereo on the floor, I'd done the wire pull.
Truck broke down, she saved my butt, off to work again.
I took to work two weeks, an hour down, another back again,
She dropped her exhaust along the way, but a wire hanger did win.
The gas gauge never worked from before we were friends,
I kept the mileage on three by five's, that's how I knew the end.
I think it near broke my heart when she threw the rod in the spring.
I'll always remember Beastie running, 220,000 miles on her 318.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C)2000
I put 80,000+ miles on that rusty, brown, ugly ol' 1973 Dodge Polara. But for what Mom paid, That car gave it everything, carried the whole family and lots of friends at one time or another. I spent hours cussing under the hood, or fixing this or that, and it was the family joke, but I think this car was the original going & going example. A raggledy ride sure beats a dressed up walk, and I will always remember the Brown Beast running.
| Author | Date Entered/Modified | Views |
| Daniel A. Stafford | 9/5/2000 3:33:53 AM 10/8/2022 3:56:14 PM | 750 |
Total Comments: 1
Comments | |||
| Daniel A. Stafford | aqmstaffo@mailbag.com | 9/5/2000 3:44:23 AM | |
| Beastie, 1973-1994 | |||
| Author | Date Entered/Modified | Views |
| Daniel A. Stafford | 9/4/2000 9:44:47 AM 10/10/2022 12:42:14 AM | 1054 |
The dock is a distant memory, rendered insignificant.
Brightness and an incredible blueness have swallowed it.
The thin line, sweeping up into the mountain's grandeur,
Some remnant of fetters not needed in this juncture.
Looking outwards, the blueness rules, laced with high white.
Closing eyes, the wood below my body heaves,
Falling and rising with each trough, buoyant delight.
The sound of canvas flapping in the breeze that cools my face,
Interspersed with water slapping and droplets, mist upon my cheeks.
This tiny world of wood, cloth, and rope races into the vast blueness,
And I ride it's back in horizontal flight over the wet.
The unbearable brightness of the Sun battles with the wet spray,
Trying both of them to rule the temperature of my face.
Opening my eyes, a mystical gift, a moment captured.
A dolphin, this boat, a sea gull, all racing the Sun,
Fighting all to be the first to reach the thin line of blue,
That mystical, unreachable place where one might fall,
Endlessly fall away from the world into vastness unknown.
Already, there is a magic that fills the air here,
One it seems we must abide with, great unknown not allowed.
For today, however, it is magic enough.
It is the relaxed magic of peace and harmony.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C)2000
A vision that fills my mind, never experienced in quite this way, but haunting my imagination, calling to be lived. Someday.
| Author | Date Entered/Modified | Views |
| Daniel A. Stafford | 9/4/2000 9:44:47 AM 10/10/2022 12:42:14 AM | 1054 |
| Author | Date Entered/Modified | Views |
| Daniel A. Stafford | 9/3/2000 9:08:48 PM 10/13/2022 9:00:28 AM | 862 |
I started off life in a different way than many.
I was rich, but not of money, I didn't have any.
What I had were dreams.
I dreamt of being a pilot, but ended up in glasses.
I dreamt of being a marine biologist, studying sea grasses.
I dreamt of flying space ships to other stars.
I dreamt of inventing rockets that would take us to Mars.
People laughed, scoffed, and I surrendered these dreams.
None of them were impossible, just impossible for me.
To everyone that knows me, I'm part of the ordinary.
Those I love can't fathom that I might do the spectacular,
Because I'm just Dan, in their every day vernacular.
Each dream given over to this, another withdrawal.
Those we love often feel a need to keep us in check,
Because they fear we might leave them behind, a speck?
Never quite believing in the accomplishments of those we love,
It's just John or Jane, no angel from above!
What happens when our dream bank is empty?
The less I have to look forward to, the older it makes me feel.
When you're a younger soul, the whole world's a new deal.
It's easy to imagine doing anything, so much time awaits you yet,
But when you're at middle age, you'll take what time you can get.
It's so easy to give in, give up on dreams.
But when your account runs dry, what is life then for?
Take advice from one who's learning, swim the dreamer's shore.
Never give up anticipating more to live to do,
Because when you have no dreams left, there's no heart left in you.
Dream big, dream small, but dream forever more.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C)2000
One of those revelation moments in life hit me today. I can just see us, all with a bank of anticipation, and if we let the joy, dreams, and hope go away, then suddenly we ARE old, with no hope left, and empty. As long as we have things to look forward to, and loved ones who will share them with us instead of "keeping us in reality check", then we have hope and purpose in living, a reason to smile and go on.
| Author | Date Entered/Modified | Views |
| Daniel A. Stafford | 9/3/2000 9:08:48 PM 10/13/2022 9:00:28 AM | 862 |
Total Comments: 2
Comments | |||
| APoetsPerspective | 9/4/2000 4:09:59 AM | ||
| As a dreamer myself, I can personally relate to this one. Wonderful and well put. -j | |||
| Janine Daniel | spinnys@hotmail.com | www.spinnys.com | 9/4/2000 4:31:31 PM |
| I say "YAY" for this one Dan and ditto to what John said. I'll never give up my hopes and dreams.... never!...*S* | |||
| Author | Date Entered/Modified | Views |
| Daniel A. Stafford | 9/2/2000 11:00:55 AM 10/14/2022 9:19:39 AM | 920 |
Late in the evening, the music plays low,
There's a special place my love and I used to go.
We called it the tree house, because of it's feel,
And moments spent there were sweet and surreal.
Just a balcony off a small apartment, shaded by tree branches.
Stars would peek and twinkle through branches,
And at the right times, the Man In The Moon also dances,
In a space behind the leaves, a corner of the eye scene.
Two chairs, a wooden table, visions in between.
Warm summer nights, candles behind hurricane glass aglow.
Tree House, I miss you, you know.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C)2000
The last place I lived, in the summer, the one summer we had there, this was the center of the place. At least for us. The walls were brick, and we were between two rows of buildings along the courtyard, rows of three storied buildings with balconies, a small patch of sky along between. Airplanes Twinkling like UFO's as they made way across the night skies in numerous travels to distant lands. My brother lived with me there, he would sit out at night playing guitar, or better yet the blues on harmonica. (He is really good at that.) Or Saren & I would sit out listening to music and talking...I loved it.
| Author | Date Entered/Modified | Views |
| Daniel A. Stafford | 9/2/2000 11:00:55 AM 10/14/2022 9:19:39 AM | 920 |
Total Comments: 3
Comments | |||
| Daniel A. Stafford | aqmstaffo@mailbag.com | 9/2/2000 11:08:52 AM | |
| Summer 1999 | |||
| Janine Daniel | spinnys@hotmail.com | www.spinnys.com | 9/4/2000 12:47:11 PM |
| You've weaved your special kind of magic again Dan. I love this poem. | |||
| Joan Foesenek | area51@brunnet.net | 9/5/2000 6:15:25 PM | |
| I really loved this poem, it made me smile keep up the good work.. | |||
| Author | Date Entered/Modified | Views |
| Daniel A. Stafford | 9/1/2000 5:28:48 AM 10/11/2022 8:04:34 AM | 916 |
A muse of a special nature,
And quite grand, I think, in stature,
She delivers what all poets crave,
Recognition of how hard we slave,
O'er words of wit and beauty,
Hoping to write a cutie.
I think she might have just snuck in,
Invisible, deciding who should win,
Words of encouragement so dear,
As any poet should hear.
Yes, I think I see her translucent flight,
And so I think I'll say goodnight.
Wait, I think I've a new comment to write!
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C)2000
I think a friend of mine, from a much more southern place in time, Has decided to visit the Lightverse tonight. She leaves such nice and encouraging notes, I thought I would write a poem in honor of my friend from Down Under.
| Author | Date Entered/Modified | Views |
| Daniel A. Stafford | 9/1/2000 5:28:48 AM 10/11/2022 8:04:34 AM | 916 |
Total Comments: 1
Comments | |||
| Janine Daniel | spinnys@hotmail.com | www.spinnys.com | 9/1/2000 3:07:17 PM |
| Wow Dan, I love it...and for the first time in my life I'm speachless!....haha, (only kidding). You know I believe in giving credit where it's due... and I'm not talking about me but you, so if I see a poem I like... if I read something that is pure delight, I'm going to say something to reveal, about how I truly feel... and it's that your a genius Dan. (Here's a ((((hug))) for you from your No.2 fan...:o) | |||
| Author | Date Entered/Modified | Views |
| Daniel A. Stafford | 8/31/2000 5:29:43 AM 10/13/2022 10:26:39 PM | 875 |
A cold New Year's in Madison, Wisconsin,
When the Great Blizzard of '99 blew in.
At my mother's house by the lake,
With my new Love for goodness' sake!
Snowed in three days.
In the dark, windy, howling night,
Out the wall to wall window, a spectacular sight.
Roof peak lamp over the yard shines,
And swirls and eddies falling in sparkles and shines.
Looking for all the world like diamond colored fireflies.
Catching the light with twists and turns,
Tiny sparkling prisms with a beauty that burns.
Dancing over the lake, and under the giant willow tree,
Over the pier and winding into the drifts I see.
Snow as deep as the waist of a six foot six inch man.
The frozen lake,
Snakes of white snow drifting across,
Like a sea of pearlescent frozen glass,
Out in the yard, kids give the puppy a toss.
Little Joey disappears in a swirl of white,
Only to burst up in a moment of free flight.
Falling back into disappearance.
Across the lake,
The orange lights of the resort towers softly glow,
Window lights part of this winter show.
I wonder if the guests are snug and warm?
My Sweet Baby and I are watching the diamond swarm.
Curled up in the wicker chair with candles,
Watching the Snowflies Dance.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C)2000
The power was out, and it was a 30 inch snow storm over two days. The New Year's date that lasted a week, My then new Love Lady Saren and I snowed in with my whole family on New Year's night, 1999. It sure was pretty, though!
| Author | Date Entered/Modified | Views |
| Daniel A. Stafford | 8/31/2000 5:29:43 AM 10/13/2022 10:26:39 PM | 875 |
Total Comments: 1
Comments | |||
| Janine Daniel | spinnys@hotmail.com | www.spinnys.com | 9/1/2000 4:39:56 PM |
| I was going to go to bed then I thought, no, I'll just read one more and I'm so glad I did. Forgive me if I sound like I'm repeating myself but...I love this poem Dan. It's something I can only imagine, living where I do and having never experienced the wonder of snow. WOW! What more can I say to tell you how I felt when reading (living) through this poem. Thankyou so much for the experience...*S* | |||
