Friday, April 18, 2003

USA Wind:

I watched the tall grasses swaying, whipping, hanging on,

The sun was bright in the hot fast spring air,

Kites were flying high, high overhead,

Leaning into the wind I walked along the prarie path,

Where hawks circled and soared far above,

On my way to the place of sunshine and golden grass,

Left overs from last year awaiting fire or new growth,

I saw the dead soldiers that had won the war.

Their skeletal remains stood over the remnants,

The remains of the childhood of a nation,

They were rusted and broken,

Missing vanes like limbs lost to blasts,

More like hailstones, high winds,

Corrosion and neglect,

They and their farms surrounded,

Suburban cookie-cutter houses and town houses,

Mute testimony to once lush fields and a slower life,

The priceless water they'd given had made life possible,

Two continents dependent on their whirling arms,

And here and there, here and there,

You can see a whirligig with fresh paint,

All it's blades straight and true,

Though the pumper shafts seldom touch the wellheads,

And most often they're furled and immobile,

Yet go down Argentina way,

Or maybe to the vast ranches of the American West,

And you'll still find them tirelessly at battle,

Bringing life from the vast Earth gallon by gallon,

Year after year after year,

And if you have good money and open land,

You can still find them new,

Sons of the Aermotor clan,

And there's the tale of the Jacobs,

Left alone at an Antarctic outpost for twenty years,

Still turning and delivering electricity,

To an empty building that saved a few desperate souls in need,

So is that continent number three?

The new soldiers are starting to grow now,

They harvest a different crop,

They take wind and give lightning,

Clean clear power for the growing urban demand,

Standing tall they dwarf their ancestors,

Their feet grown upon the farms or shoals,

They stand upon land and water and deliver,

And their forward charge will someday render irrelevant,

The dark visages of the twin poison monsters,

Oil, sir, and coal, oh no,

They are like the beneficient angels,

Clean crisp white wings twirl endlessly,

Saving farms and lungs the world over,

Heroes that we are just learning of slowly,

In a battle too few understand,

And so like Don Quixote,

I recognize Giants when I see them.


By: Daniel A. Stafford

(C) 04/18/2003

Author's Comments:

New Aermotor mills and parts can be found at:

Dean-Bennet / Aermotor

I'm hoping to do a documentary piece on these mills

around my local area soon, and also will be reading

some of these wind poems for a benefit to help

fund Sheboygan, Wisconsin's Earthfest this May.

If that goes well, I will be giving a full length poetic performance

with also a speech on Midwest wind energy potential

and wind energy in general at Earthfest in Sheboygan this

coming August. And so yes, Dan Quixote is still tilting

at wind mills. Titlting a salute, that is. For an excellent

source of information about wind energy potential,

politics, projects, how to's, and far more, please visit:

The American Wind Energy Association

Thursday, April 17, 2003

Wonderful news... The Grand Enchantress of Earthfest is goibng to squeeze me into the *SCHEDULE* spell and let me recite a couple of *incantations* at the benefit function. If all goes well and the *Spellpower* flows nicely, I'll be welcomed to the full Earthfest for a complete *mejik* show. This will include an *educational* discourse on *WIND ENERGY* and also I will be handing out postcards from the *AWEA* Wind Masters Council. All in all, it should be quite wonderful indeed. I will also be travelling with an old friend, a *HUMOUR* whizzyrd named Art Paul Schlosser who does some interesting and funny *mejik* incantations of his own.

Thursday, April 10, 2003

Some of the spells below are also *Sea Spells* and *Garden* spells, but most are *WIND ENERGY* spells.
Another little project I'm up to: I am trying to *convince* the promoters of a festival called Earthfest in the Monotnusverse to allow me to present some of my *WIND ENERGY* spells aloud at the fest this year. *WIND ENERGY* is a very powerful mejik that can help operate many, many types of spells in the Monotnusverse without utilizing evel *POLLUTION* mejik. *POLLUTION* mejik does things like killing living creatures, *poisoning* waterways, heating up the Ayre, making it harder for whizzyrds to breathe, and eventually they could even render the Monotnusverse lifeless by overheating it so badly nothing can survive. (Although the Evel Eryl whizzyrds that use mejik powered by *POLLUTION* mejik will not admit this, no matter how many *evidence* spells are sent to them.) If the Earthfest Grand Whizzyrds are kind, I will read some very interesting spells, and possibly give a brief lecture on the many benefits of powering spells with *WIND ENERGY*

Some of the spells I have in mind are: (You can view these in my collection at

Sea Shells Turn
Down Home Green
Northern Lights Weeping
City Garden
Wind Blown
Fresh Country Air
The Magic Of A Breeze
The Firewater Conspiracy
Cities On The Edge
Whirligig Way
The Alchemy Of Flutter And Howl

I certainly welcome opinions on this, simply click on the *Mejik Quill and Parchment* spell at the top of my little corner of the Blogverse and send me a missive. If it's really good, I may even *quote* you here...(granted your *permission*, of course.)
Just a tidbit here, I am going to use Blogverse mejik to allow you to LISTEN to some of my spells. There are a few Christmas spells, and then there is a bluesey little piece called "She Was Blue".

*She Was Blue*

*The Electric Elf*

*Whissler's Paradise*

*Calling All Snowflakes*

*Snow Down*

I Hope you enjoy!

Laine's Cry:

Where my eyes fell into the small
There was beauty in the details,
Un-noticed and unseen until your voice,
Humming wordless in the thin air,
Though you spoke not a whit,
Still I heard the oceans' endless roar,
The cycles of life passing,
Just behind your ecstatic eyes.


By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 04/10/2003

Author's Comments:
Crafted in response to C.E. Laine's poem,
I have been working very hard on the new keep at *Word Whizzyrds* with new whizzyrds' robes and scrolls and beautiful *POETRY* spells. Please feel free to take a look over there. I've purposely kept it pretty simple, and I hope to maintain that simplicity. I will be adding small *spells* and tweaks as well as *mejikal* services and items for sale. I am also starting to delve into *Wind Mejik* as well - and the very first *Wind Energy* robe is now available. I plan to develope a complete line of both *POETIC* and *Wind Energy* products and *mejikal* services over the coming moons. There is also a quarterly *missive*, the Word Whizzyrds' Scroll that you can *subscribe* to, and I encourage you to do so. It will feature site upgrades, public appearances, *poems*, and selected *Wind Energy* news.
It fascinates me how operation Iraqi Freedom is becoming operation Iraqi Jubilation. I hope this is true - and that our boys fought and died for something good. It has been very difficult for me to write as this issue keeps spilling over into my writing like some kind of *spell* or *Hekz*. I am diligently working on *counter potions* to make room in my portion of the collective undermind for everyday life and magic.

Sunday, April 06, 2003

The Cathedral Of Spring:

The place where we were married,
Funny date that,
January 01, 2001,
At 1:10 a.m.,
And bless them,
They gave us room 111,
The sky that next morning,
On our unplanned wing-it return,
That was perfect blue,
Seventy three and birds singing,
Just a slow breeze through bare trees,
We walked the trails up,
Walked the trails down,
The trees still bare and last year's brown,
The leaves were mostly on the ground, mostly,
A few must have clung on high and long,
Maybe to overlook Winter's rule and white cloak,
But that was passing and we walked the ridges,
Hearing birds singing in the distant maze of branches,
Hawks soaring over olive green river and weathered limestone,
Looking down the canyons sheer and sharp,
All the blasphemous that had carved names in God's place,
Maybe they didn't understand, maybe,
Down along the creek In Saint Louis Canyon,
Well past Starved Rock's towering rocks of sorrow,
Along the thin shallow trickle of water through dead leaves,
Fallen trees and branches uncovered before the leaves hiding green,
We walked into Saint Louis and down to the Cathedral of Seasons,
The fall was thawed now and flowing cool and singing off the stone,
It's burbling voice in the cool shaded air the reflection,
Ten thousand drops per hour sparkling bursts on yellow limestone,
Lichens and moss clinging here and about,
The glacier carved shallow caves like galleries for the faithful,
The standing stone overlooking the base of the fall like an altar,
And we held hands in silence to look and listen,
I put my free hand up and my love raised hers,
Two leaves floating down from above to land in cupped palm,
Different, one larger one smaller and subtle changes of hue and shape,
Yet the same and the smaller leaf nestled gently in the curls of the larger,
I took Spring's gift and placed it in a small stone alcove safe,
I spoke the wish to write this prayer,
And in that instant a thousand leaves fell all around us as She breathed,
The wind rushing over the top of the canyon just long enough,
And all the myriad incarnations of "yes" came floating down around us,
I laid my hand upon the stone and watched breathing soft,
Carried away what detritus of the unknowing unfaithful I found,
As we walked out along the path that glowed,
Sparkling with billions of silica bits catching afternoon sun underfoot,
And there was no question it was blessed Spring.


By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 04/06/2003

Author's Comments:
This was last Sunday at Starved Rock State Park,
Exactly as it occurred, and every event took place exactly as
it's written. The magic, well, that my friends you have to
see on your own.

Friday, April 04, 2003

The last couple of Suns have ben quite enjoyable. I've found a new *ZAZZLE* spell that I've put into place at my keep,, and it allows me to conjure beautiful finery and fashion for interested whizzyrds.
Fire Angel:

Walk upon the still waters,
Pouring down in silent sunshine,
The waves of blue that touch a poet's soul,
This vision of peace a gift,
Bow your head in silent prayer,
God hears you as clear,
As the color of your heart,
In that cool blue moment.


By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 04/04/2003