Wednesday, August 27, 2003


I need 60 poets to read at Harvest Fest:

We need 30 poets each day over two days to read for six minutes each.

This will be a large outdoor family oriented function, part of Plainfield's annual Harvest Festival,

on Saturday September 20th 2003 & Sunday September 21st 2003.

Please, keep in mind there will be children and families in attendance when choosing material for this reading,

and choose appropriately. Please have at least one poem on fall or the harvest.

This event is entitled the “Gourmet Junction Harvest of Words” and is being sponsored by and hosted at Gourmet Junction,

( at 505 West Lockport Street, Plainfield, IL.

The readings will take place under a tent on the street in front of Gourmet Junction.

Local high school and college poets will be reading between 1:00 pm to 2:30 pm,

and adult poets between 2:30 pm to 4:00 pm each day.

There will be a single table available for chapbook displays for shared use by all poets.

If fully booked, this event will feauture a total of sixty poets, thirty adult and thirty young poets over two days.

Interested poets please contact:

Daniel A. Stafford


Please provide your name, city or neighborhood, phone number, e-mail if available,

and the best times to reach you, and age group, school or adult.

This event could well kick off monthly readings in Plainfield, so we need to really show ‘em what we can do!

This event will be free to the public.

I’ll be taking names until 4pm Tuesday, September 9th or all 60 slots are booked, whichever comes first.

Thursday, August 21, 2003

In Search Of Light:

In the deep dark mejik I fell under tonight,
There were ghosts and miseries,
Plans I could never see.

The windows all were closed,
But a draft fell on my candle flame,
Tears were never far,
Angels on the window sill.

Funny how the night is so deep in between my ears,
But it's just a bit south and left where the hole lies,
And nothing can ever quite fill it right again.

No, I can't give you the crystal ball answers,
No I can't open the blinds on life,
All I can do is stand here looking for the lighthouse,
Wondering where you are.


By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 08/21/2003

Author's Comments:
Missing those who've passed beyond my world.

Saturday, August 16, 2003

A little childhood mejik for you to ponder on:

Woolgatherers Rule:

You feel the chills running down your spine,
Wave after wave and hackles risen,
Dread and despair so close they could cut you,
Any moment the claws will rend,
You feel the teeth crawling over your skin just shy of breaking,
Roaring in your ears like the end of time,
The silver screen's ghosts come to life,
Right there in the torture cell,
Where they make you go at night,
And the only thing that saves you,
Is the wool you pull over your little eyes,
Ah, shiver little Ostrich,
How long can you hide behind the Woolgathers' Rule?


By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 08/16/2003

Author's Comments:
Ever pull the blankets over your head after a night
of scary movies and banishment to a pitch-dark room?
Make up the rule that monsters can't get you under the covers?
I sure remember those nights!
Just a playful little thing I posted for some friends in the Gothicverse, the kind with white fangs and long black capes with red silk linings...

Black Leather - Red Lei:

He walked in the shadows,
Under the pale Hawaiian moonlight,
It was cast full and searching over the palms and waves,
He remembered a time long ago,
He'd called this place blue...

She walked unaware following faint notes on the wind,
Hearing a beautiful voice that was forever,
A lei of red flowers draped from nape to breast,
The only light was the silver moon,
She could hear the soft strains of Loving You,
Climbing the wooden stairs away from the beach,
She felt lonely and forgotten,
Barely noticing the midnight black 1957 Caddilac,
At least at first,
But then she realized where the song was coming from,
A pale slender figure in black leather,
Leaning against the front fender,
Slicked back jet black hair,
Sharp features and prominent sideburns,
Laser blue eyes that pierced her soul,
And man he could sing,
So easy about it while the hair on her neck rose,
Half in fear half in fire,
Damn he was good looking too,
She couldn't help walking close,
And he smiled that half-lip way she remembered,
Like in the movies and on the Ed Sullivan show when she was little,
He had that magic and he looked un-Godly like the real thing,
But hell it was August 16th 2003 on a beach in Hawaii,
And that king was dead,
But she looked in his eyes and she swore,
Swore that they were all somehow wrong,
She walked close just listening,
Her eyes glazing and her breath coming in shallow gasps,
Just his voice was melting her there,
Like when she was home alone in the bath,
Listening to those records and fantasizing over the calendar,
The one of him on the wall that made her fall,
She'd spent years loving a voice and dream too old for her,
But this she couldn't resist,
Not a word she let him take her hand and pull her close,
She looked up and burned in his gaze listening,
She never remembered for certain but she'd later believe,
There was music in the air to back him up,
And he reached out with a toss of his head on a soft note,
Grabbed the gold door handle on the black as night Caddy,
And opened the door like that kind of gentleman,
The kind you barely found these days,
And seated her in the plush blood red interior,
All the trim was gold and the red of the velour was LOUD,
Like he used to be when he decorated his place,
And he had that certainty to him,
Like he knew he couldn't lose,
And as the door closed the smoky tinted windows engulfed her,
Just like his embrace,
How could he still sing while his lips,
Were raising gooseflesh on her throat,
And the song changed to hard and fast,
Hound Dog hard she clung to his black leather and fell from grace,

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 08/16/2003

Author's Comments:
A little taste for the King on his anniversary...mmmm.

Thursday, August 07, 2003

The darkness of Mercurial Retrograde affects the casting of spells, leaving the Blogverse in the darkness of a mejikless night. No Whizzyrd, no matter how great, may post in a fog of Plenetary Mejik, unless the Godforce smiles down upon them.