Friday, September 18, 2020

Love Amidst The White Flowers Of Coffee... (Amor en medio de las flores blancas del café...)

Love Amidst The White Flowers Of Coffee... (Amor en medio de las flores blancas del café...)

A young vaquero rides near the coffee fields,
A dirt track,
Not even cobbles.

The coffee blossoms are everywhere,
White and delicate,
Filled with the promise of delicious mornings.

The valley fields of Risaralda bear a light misted fog this morning,
Lending a most spiritual softness,
Blessing the rural fields of Colombia.

As his burro slowly plods the track of quiet dawnlight,
A beautiful sound reaches the young man's ear,
A feminine voice in early morning song,
Singing softly,
And his eye sees her framed in the slanting early light of the Sun,
A beautiful young woman in colorful garb,
Scenting the coffee flowers.

His morning cup of coffee will never be the same again.


By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 09/18/2020


Amor en medio de las flores blancas del café...

Un joven vaquero cabalga cerca de los cafetales,
Una pista de tierra
Ni siquiera adoquines.

Las flores del café están por todas partes
Blanco y delicado
Lleno de la promesa de deliciosas mañanas.

Los campos del valle de Risaralda llevan esta mañana una ligera neblina,
Prestando una dulzura sumamente espiritual,
Bendición de los campos rurales de Colombia.

Mientras su burro avanza lentamente por el sendero de la tranquila luz del amanecer,
Un hermoso sonido llega al oído del joven,
Una voz femenina en la canción de la madrugada
Cantando suavemente
Y su ojo la ve enmarcada en la oblicua luz temprana del sol,
Una hermosa joven con atuendo colorido,
Perfumando las flores del café.

Su taza de café matutina nunca volverá a ser la misma.


Por: Daniel A. Stafford
© 18/09/2020

Wednesday, September 16, 2020

A Knack For Clickety-Clack...

A Knack For Clickety-Clack...

It all goes on in our heads,
If anywhere at all,
You don't need a crystal anything,
Not a ball,
Not a skull,
To know that the mystery of future and history,
Is anything but dull,
But it's easy to forget to track,
We're the ones making it right now,
So keep the gears all meshed and spinning,
It's not a matter of losing or winning,
Put your ink-pen back on track,
Like a freight train,
You need to keep a knack,
For making it roll on clickety-clack.


By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 11/07/2014 - Poetry & art work.

Saturday, September 12, 2020

A Plea For Depth And Beauty...

A Plea For Depth And Beauty... 

There are contrasts in this world,
Perhaps they lend a sense of duality,
Yet this is illusion.

The ocean doesn't have water,
Only at the top,
Only at the bottom,
Only cold,
Or only warm.

There is a gradient,
How many living things reside,
And where.

In writing there is computer font,
Thousands of forms,
And then hand-printed letters,

Movies have Mad Max,
Close Encounters of the Third Kind,
Myriad more.

In song,
Lucy In The Sky,
Norwegian Wood and Eleanor Rigby,
Beethoven's 5th.

There are bongos,
Electric guitars,
Stradivarius violins.

Graphic novels,
Grand murals,
Outsider art,
Van Gogh and Matisse.

Home-baked cookies,

Life is better in gradient,
Not confined,
Limited to the cheap or the priceless.

A life without art and grace is an apocalyptic Hell,
Yet so is a world where nothing is smple,
Pretty and functional,
Yet quick and affordable.

We need the full range.

When it comes to the variants in life,
The range if you will,
We must have beauty and depth,
Quick flashes,
Long reads,
And in-depth enduring focus.

Life in only two dimensions isn't living.


By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 09/12/2020

Friday, September 04, 2020

Four By Three Resolution...

Four By Three Resolution... 

There's something amazing,
1990's Sci-Fi,
On TV,
Maybe it the pacing,
Perhaps continuity,
Possibly Character depth,
Lack of distractivity,
A ton less in whiz-bang.

That little square screen,
So full of hope,
Chivalry even.

Binge me,
I must be dreaming.


By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 09-03-2020

Wednesday, September 02, 2020

When Twenty Twenty Has Gone...

When Twenty Twenty Has Gone... 

I look back through this year,
This psycho cocoon of a year,
And I wonder.

The damn thing literally saved my life,
Locked down the traffic,
Just as the rain spun me,
No poetry,
No me,
For real.

We've been each given one or t' other,
This year,
This clear as glass year,
Essential and working like maniacs,
Or home staring at the walls,
In either case,
Our souls are reflecting back,
No mirror the wiser.

Do you know what is real yet?

I look back at this rollercoaster of a year,
All the flash and crazy carnival,
Disaster theater on steroids,
Carnival barker buffoons in all directions,
Pissed-off Mother Nature,
Us little crybabies sitting time-out.

I look back,
I wonder,
Cam we really do it?

Go back to the snake oil,
Bullshit and rah-rah cotton candy,
All the used car sales of a life?

Do you know what is real yet,
Who actually must go on?

Will we pull the veil clear of our illusions,
Free of our self-delusions,
After Twenty Twenty is gone?


By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 09/01/2020

Sunday, August 30, 2020

The Bean...

The Bean...

Some say it's a shiny thing in Chicago,
I know better.

These words come pouring into my head,
From some steaming pot of universal wisdom.

In the hours past midnight,
I have sought out Midnight Mud in the hospital cafeteria,
In the savage morning,
Challenge my coffee wu do not,
Until my morning cup have I had.

I have gone to the dark side,
I drink it black,

I have my old friends,
A grinder or two,
And the scent of paradise fills my garage,
As soon as the beans are turned to dust.

Yet let me tell you of coffeemojis,
There is one to every mood or purpose under heaven!

The universe does not exist until there has been coffee,
The entire thing arises,
Fresh-brewed daily out of a steaming pot,
This is the reason my friends,
Stellar plasma is hot.

In fact.

The biggest planet in our solar system,
It looks freshly stirred,
Does it not?

With a hint of cinnamon,
I just you all by the strength of your brew,
Never ever,
Be a drip.

Weak coffee is a cause for woe.

Good morning,
Wake up and smell the coffee,
Let all of creation commence.


By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 08/30/2020

Friday, August 28, 2020

Indiana Rose And The Temple Of Thorns...

Indiana Rose And The Temple Of Thorns...

She wanders the desert tough as nails,
Her petals of faded glory,
Wearing canvas garden gloves,
Bearing snips and a trowel.

Perhaps she'll find it in the next ghost town,
Thinking as she pores over old paper maps,
Sipping reposado tequila,
Dreaming of treasures forgotten.

Maybe a dried out shack will be the place,
Somewhere tumble weeds and ghosts pile up,
Somewhere a young bride once lived,
Her and her husband both seeking gold.

It might be a diary left tucked in a night-stand drawer,
Written in old Spanish cursive,
Spectral whispers of long-lost dreams and hopes.

In some once front yard,
A place that hears only wind,
Sees only searing sun by day,
Billions of stars by night,
That's where it will be.

The oldest rose,
A variety so forgotten,
You'd have to read a dark-ages Spanish gardener's journal,
Just to know its lost name.

It will be the most famous ghost-town rose in history,
Only long-dead spirits will know its scent.

Hidden in the forgotten desert towns of California,
She will find the Temple of Thorns.


By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 08/28/2020