Stuffed...
An eerie glow fills the room,
Flick of the switch.
My own thoughts remain unborn,
My head filled to bursting,
With the carefully-crafted thoughts of others,
People I don't even know.
Stuffed.
AquarianM
By Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 06-30-2017
Rembrandt Sleeping - Poem # 20
Friday, June 30, 2017
Prodigal Poet...
Prodigal Poet...
Pages have lain bare,
Wanting for ink,
Thirsty for soul dreams,
Lonely for mind-candy's hallowed release.
More than six years pass by,
Finally my pen is back to hand,
In the wee hours,
Absent the glow of electrons and keys.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 06-29-2017
Rembrandt Sleeping, Poem # 19.
Pages have lain bare,
Wanting for ink,
Thirsty for soul dreams,
Lonely for mind-candy's hallowed release.
More than six years pass by,
Finally my pen is back to hand,
In the wee hours,
Absent the glow of electrons and keys.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 06-29-2017
Rembrandt Sleeping, Poem # 19.
Dream Riding With Night Spirits...
Post by AquarianM on Dec 29, 2007 at 12:02am
Dream Riding With Night Spirits...A child again I ride,
Pedaling furiously in the twilight,
The ancient oak by the rail yard,
Silent and majestic in the starshine,
Growling wolf stops me cold,
"Wrap in the white light first."
Howling he runs beside me,
In my white light suit I race the tree,
Branches laden with ideas growing all about,
A bough breaks and falls away,
I ignite the rockets to either side,
Bolted to my bicycle,
I scream up the rough bark into the sky,
Arching high over the moon,
Wolf on the back seat singing.
I admire a passing star,
She beats tiny gossamer wings,
A streak of stardust to kiss my cheek,
I see the world floating below,
Having climbed the tree of life,
I ride the winter skies in joy.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 12/29/2007
Thursday, June 29, 2017
A Perfect Night For Magic...
Post by AquarianM on Dec 30, 2007 at 10:32pm
A Perfect Night For Magic...Silence holds me close,
Something Winter is singing,
Utter absence of sound profoundly deep,
Enclosing a glistening world of pure magic.
Each step completely a new thing,
Tracks laid in a fresh-fallen thick carpet of diamond dust,
White with a billion glitter points anywhere in eye-fall,
Streets of cloud filled with tiny gems.
Light fog lends the open field mystery,
Light-dust falling through the mist from streetlights,
Others surrounded in faded white globular nebulae,
Charcoal clouds ragged about the edge of the world.
Directly above the open sky rains constellations,
Dancing within and without the invisible clouds,
Feast and famine of light brilliant and fading and gone,
All around - trees crested in white flocked snow and frost wigs.
My breath joins the show as I set the last recycling to the curb,
An extra trip on a perfect night for magic,
The remainder of faded Christmas' lights an eerie burst of color,
The last night of the year else-wise bathed in black and white and starlight.
Happy New Year indeed.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 12/31/2007
Wednesday, June 28, 2017
Drumbeat Feet…
Post by AquarianM on Jan 3, 2008 at 12:19am
Drumbeat Feet…I’m walking the track at the Y,
Fast paced and tired,
A thousand kids haven’t made it back to school yet,
New Year free on the basketball courts,
Dribble and shoot,
Dribble and shoot.
It’s the middle of the day my night,
And I hear the basketballs drumming,
Drumming like spirit-callers,
My eyes half close as I step to the erratic ecstatic,
Beat trance dancing I pretend it’s the savannah,
Wildebeast herds off in the distance,
Hoof-rocked and pounding stampede.
A dingo dog appears and walks with me,
Dusty trail not withstanding,
I see no lions or tigers,
Until an Aborigine man steps alongside,
Walking walking walking,
Footfall pounding the dirt with me,
Another dreamwalker.
I conjure up a snow globe,
Full of tiny wet flecks,
A nose-tickler and breath froster,
A toy so he can know snow,
He hands me a globe of hottest summer,
Full of croc breath and burning dry air,
Endless hotfooting across the burning Outback.
We smash the two together to create a balanced world,
The clock tells me to stop walking and go home.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 01/03/2008
Nothing Roasted, Nothing Drained...
Nothing Roasted, Nothing Drained...
I reach for the long blue handle of the antique English coffee mill,
Only to spin it again and again,
Lovely roasted brown flows into a paper sack,
Awaking the aroma that makes this the best-scented garage in the world,
If only for a day.
I've tried electric grinding,
It simply hasn't the soul,
Yet better than nothing.
Put your arm in it,
Along with some heart.
It's like the difference between a sea foam green Hermes and paper,
Vs. the light of a glowing screen,
You can't feel the pages,
Never hear the bell,
Don't feel the "thunk" in your wrist of the hard return,
It hasn't the grace.
Stainless steel is the basket in my percolator,
The better not to strain out the flavor you know,
The scent and steam and bubbling rattle of morning,
It's gratifying and more addictive than stopping time,
The heat of the stainless steel and the winding of the cord,
Or the bakelite handle and fuzzy aluminum with a bubble on top,
Stowed in my camping gear.
Does the scent filling the house awaken you?
Can you hear the rattling siren call?
I drift back to a younger time,
Transported,
Adrift in sweet dreams of my grandparents,
In the days before Hemingway drowned in a bottle,
When pages were real and could yellow with age,
When you could hold spirits in your hands and work flowed from flesh and bone,
Time was slow and daylight languid on a Summer weekend.
The world has gone wide and shallow and fast like rapids,
I miss the deep still lakes and the slowness of actual books,
Things that might never be really known again.
I am a deeper puddle in the muddle of splash,
Staring into the empty coffee cup of the old life and times,
Thinking slowly,
Lavishly,
"Nothing roasted,
Nothing drained..."
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 06/28/2017
I reach for the long blue handle of the antique English coffee mill,
Only to spin it again and again,
Lovely roasted brown flows into a paper sack,
Awaking the aroma that makes this the best-scented garage in the world,
If only for a day.
I've tried electric grinding,
It simply hasn't the soul,
Yet better than nothing.
Put your arm in it,
Along with some heart.
It's like the difference between a sea foam green Hermes and paper,
Vs. the light of a glowing screen,
You can't feel the pages,
Never hear the bell,
Don't feel the "thunk" in your wrist of the hard return,
It hasn't the grace.
Stainless steel is the basket in my percolator,
The better not to strain out the flavor you know,
The scent and steam and bubbling rattle of morning,
It's gratifying and more addictive than stopping time,
The heat of the stainless steel and the winding of the cord,
Or the bakelite handle and fuzzy aluminum with a bubble on top,
Stowed in my camping gear.
Does the scent filling the house awaken you?
Can you hear the rattling siren call?
I drift back to a younger time,
Transported,
Adrift in sweet dreams of my grandparents,
In the days before Hemingway drowned in a bottle,
When pages were real and could yellow with age,
When you could hold spirits in your hands and work flowed from flesh and bone,
Time was slow and daylight languid on a Summer weekend.
The world has gone wide and shallow and fast like rapids,
I miss the deep still lakes and the slowness of actual books,
Things that might never be really known again.
I am a deeper puddle in the muddle of splash,
Staring into the empty coffee cup of the old life and times,
Thinking slowly,
Lavishly,
"Nothing roasted,
Nothing drained..."
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 06/28/2017
Tuesday, June 27, 2017
Appraisal...
Post by AquarianM on Jan 4, 2008 at 1:46am
Appraisal...Shhh…don’t let the secret out.
It’s a horrible dollar amount,
Dead plastic dreams in the dust,
A breach of your own trust.
Squeak and squirm and fidget,
Find a way to sell a new widget,
Before the flood comes.
Eating on credit cards,
The gas to move the car,
A pretty house not too large,
But wages are flat,
Paid by rats.
How much is it really worth?
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 01/04/2008
Monday, June 26, 2017
Lost In The Mist…
Post by AquarianM on Jan 9, 2008 at 2:04am
Lost In The Mist……of time,
So little to be found,
Like grains of sand passing one by one,
A rainstorm in January,
Thunder and lightning,
Tornado roaring,
Green grass in February,
Floods and drought,
What wins out?
Picture postcards in a lost museum,
Snow as high as your house,
Children in snowsuits sledding,
Night riding in a sleigh,
Melted away.
Who will remember Winter?
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 01/09/2008
Sunday, June 25, 2017
Eggnog Latte...
Post by AquarianM on Jan 15, 2008 at 1:07am
Eggnog Latte...In the falling afternoon sunlight,
Lazy Fall Sunday afternoon,
A steaming cup of holiday,
Whirls about my mind,
Stirred and lidded hand-warmer,
From which I spill poetry.
As I sip from that cup of memories
Of holidays long gone by
I savor the fragrance of their joy
Amid the velvet echoes
Of loves' sweet caress
Creamy and dreamy,
blackness and fluff
sweetness lingers
covering the bitter bite
Last minute shopping,
frantic wrapping,
hiding all the whimsical surprises,
at last a reward of frothy delight,
time being held still with a sip of holiday enjoyment,
a sense of satisfaction of new memories
being created and old ones passed on.
By: Green Leaf Coffee House Poetry Circle
© 11/24/2007
Contributing Authors: (In order of verse written)
Daniel A. Stafford
Russ Pergram
Shannon Prahl
Mary Andersen
Saturday, June 24, 2017
The Question…
Post by AquarianM on Jan 15, 2008 at 11:56pm
The Question…I have to ask it of you,
I must know the score,
Who is to be President,
Who will get the chore?
I’ll make you rack your brains,
The answer to guess and hack,
But what comes out of the machines,
Is what got put in the back.
If you think you have a crystal ball,
I’ve got silicon crystals to beat them all,
I’ll type at buttons and laugh,
You just voted for a blue giraffe.
An army of hackers red and blue,
A dog and pony show that’s now true blue,
Super Country killed by pieces of Nerdite,
Computer-scanned ballots black-inked on lilly-white.
Pay no attention to the electrons behind the curtain…
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 01/16/2008
Friday, June 23, 2017
Thursday, June 22, 2017
The Pear Tree Circle Mural Project...
The following mural was painted on the wall & ceiling of our 2nd floor at our townhouse in very early 2003 by me:
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The mural was painted over about three weeks ago as we are in the process of selling the town house. The upstairs area is now a stark, sterile, neutral white. The wall to the right of the mural had been painted a warm, tomatoey red and had black and white Elvis portraits and album covers in frames hung on it. The lamp in the stairwell is an imported Italian light fixture of an angel flying with a staff of wheat in one hand and a yellow-green lamp in the other. Like most Italian art, it is a touch risque'. The ceiling had the sunset fading to a deep indigo and then to black with stars and a comet on the ceiling. All the painting was done on a scaffold made of six two-by-six boards laid on the top stair and a ladder rung, and tied together.
Dan
(C) 10/27/2005 By Daniel A. Stafford
||||||||||||The mural was painted over about three weeks ago as we are in the process of selling the town house. The upstairs area is now a stark, sterile, neutral white. The wall to the right of the mural had been painted a warm, tomatoey red and had black and white Elvis portraits and album covers in frames hung on it. The lamp in the stairwell is an imported Italian light fixture of an angel flying with a staff of wheat in one hand and a yellow-green lamp in the other. Like most Italian art, it is a touch risque'. The ceiling had the sunset fading to a deep indigo and then to black with stars and a comet on the ceiling. All the painting was done on a scaffold made of six two-by-six boards laid on the top stair and a ladder rung, and tied together.
Dan
(C) 10/27/2005 By Daniel A. Stafford
I Was Born On A River…
Post by AquarianM on Jan 31, 2008 at 4:16am
I Was Born On A River…I was born in the midst of frost and snow,
Ice jagged on the riverbanks,
Stars chilled almost still on a cold night,
Some small town I still see magic in.
The old lagoon used to freeze over,
Ice skaters in the warming house,
Now the paddleboats reign,
A fresh coat of paint on the doors.
The people that imbued that place with magic,
It seems many have fled to someplace higher,
Or flowed down the stream of life,
Salmon run out to sea.
Springtime comes and the fish jump,
Life awakens all about,
Green water and green hills,
Trees budding in the scent of river water.
New dandelions flower,
Tadpoles turn to frogs,
Cottonwood seed floats in the sunlight,
Yet the limestone blocks of the water tower stand.
I was born on a river,
Where the current never stops.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 01/31/2008
Wednesday, June 21, 2017
Sleeping Under Misti...
Post by AquarianM on Feb 21, 2008 at 2:21am
Sleeping Under Misti...The Three Sisters of Arequipa,
Nearby the sea,
Saucy and hot,
Eruptive,
Chaotic.
They sleep for a time,
How long no one knows,
Your guess as good as mine,
Yet day or night,
They can roar with fire,
Smokingly explosive.
Ampato the tall one,
Chachani the middle sister,
Beautiful and dangerous little Misti,
Daughters of Peru,
What will you do,
On an Arequipa night?
Senoritas calientes…
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 02/21/2008
www.andeantrails.co.uk/misti2.htm
Tuesday, June 20, 2017
Rembrandt Sleeping...
Post by AquarianM on Feb 18, 2011 at 10:30pm
Rembrandt Sleeping...Painting a night's impression in soft and vivid dreams,
Imagery jumbles life like a learning curve,
Pillow-lust in linseed oil tints,
A renaissance of nightly mind evolves slowly,
Whispering like momentary centuries of colored dust,
Mutable and yet credible,
Inspiration ripe to pluck,
On the finished canvas of drowsy morning.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 02/11/2011
"Rembrandt...Sleeping" poem # 5.
Torrone...
Post by AquarianM on Feb 25, 2008 at 6:34pm
Torrone...A little yellow box,
Pictures of the old places,
Famous names and faces gone,
Sweet Arancio,
Vaniglia gentle on the tongue,
Lemon gentle,
La Florentine,
From the red white and green,
I grew up with them,
In each box I taste childhood,
A mystery of long ago,
And all the magic people inhabiting it,
A wonder that suits my taste.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 02/25/2008
Monday, June 19, 2017
For Want Of An Olive...
Post by AquarianM on Feb 28, 2008 at 12:17am
For Want Of An Olive...I stalk down memory lane – hiding,
Lest a breath blow away my ghosts,
Hearing whispers of happy times,
A place where dreams were infinite.
You can’t lose here as long as you don’t disturb anything.
The filters that bring me to this place are diverse,
Songs or dishes or old antiques,
Some wisp of yesteryear on the internet,
A picture haunting a magazine page.
I can never get enough – how about you?
I tread with utmost caution,
Trying to glimpse anything I’ve forgotten,
Put it in my treasure box,
Filled with the ultimate of ultimates – memories.
My hunger growls from my gut - unquenchable.
For want of an olive my shadows hear me,
Running off to Heaven on rainbow wings,
Discovery thwarted by distraction,
A lack of hypnosis and focus.
I awaken starving for more sleep.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 02/28/2008
A Matter Of Focus...
A Matter Of Focus...
What I say,
What I see,
Large-looming things I water in the garden of my life.
It maters little if I despise them,
Not a whit if I wish to uproot,
Nor love and cherish,
The flowers or weeds I speak to will grow.
All the World should pay attention,
Give that payment to the flowers,
For the weeds grow so easily.
It's really all a matter of focus.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 06/19/2017
What I say,
What I see,
Large-looming things I water in the garden of my life.
It maters little if I despise them,
Not a whit if I wish to uproot,
Nor love and cherish,
The flowers or weeds I speak to will grow.
All the World should pay attention,
Give that payment to the flowers,
For the weeds grow so easily.
It's really all a matter of focus.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 06/19/2017
Sunday, June 18, 2017
When Sunset Falls...
Post by AquarianM on Oct 4, 2007 at 12:04am
When Sunset Falls...I used to love the soft fiery orange of you,
The feel of your wheel under my hands,
Responsive and agile and powerful,
We raced rainbows and hawks,
Toured the countryside and highways,
Listened to soft jazz and hard rock,
But tonight I hear the blues.
In the silvery haze of falling rain,
You danced free of my hands,
Like a wild thing I’d found myself riding,
Throwing us both into hard concrete,
Smashing and abrading at forty five miles an hour,
In the darkness of a washed-out night.
It’s not the pain in my chest pulled,
Nor the bruises on my arm,
Nor the missed night of work,
But the hard-earned payment freedom,
The feel of something that finally fit me perfectly,
Torn and ruined and twisted,
A forlorn broken child,
Huddled in the driveway.
Instant replay keeps me near steaming,
Boiling and furious and lost,
I never thought the Sunset Truck,
Would try to water ski down I-55.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 10/04/2007
Saturday, June 17, 2017
A Breath Of Chill...
Post by AquarianM on Nov 6, 2007 at 3:12am
A Breath Of Chill...In the clouded dark of November night,
Autumn whispers softly fall,
Starless grey-yellow glow of city lights,
Flurries come to call,
Luscious sisters to Jack Frost,
He’s been painting a delicate web,
Listening nights of summer lost,
Longing for warm covers abed,
Leaves, leaves, leaf and twig,
Dancing all about the air,
Just a falling mercury jig,
A hat upon my grey-speckled hair,
Goodnight is not yet - it’s early eve,
Treasure the light and candle’s warmth shining in the air.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 11/6/2007
Friday, June 16, 2017
Eagle Boy's Gift...
Post by AquarianM on Nov 28, 2007 at 1:05am
Eagle Boy's Gift...A thing of pure beauty,
Easy to rest the eyes on,
It sits on my finger in a silver circle,
Graceful oval with silver wings,
Looking like the globe of the Earth,
Perched in my own personal space.
It’s my own little ceremony,
I have three rings,
One gold and white-gold wedding band on the left,
One silver and turquoise on ring finger right,
Right pinky silver with a black and white yin-yang,
The last I bought when twenty,
On the banks of the river in my home town,
My first time at Riverfest.
The turquoise and silver was made by Eagle Boy,
It even says so inside,
I bought it at Hozhoni’s – a friend’s shop,
Janet knows the artist now retired.
Every day I put them on,
Starting left to right:
“I am connected to, protected by, and supplied by love.”
“I am connected to, a protector of, and supplied by the Earth”
“I am connected to, protected by, and supplied by God and all the Universe.”
Eagle Boy gave to me the Earth.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 11/29/2007
Thursday, June 15, 2017
Frozen Delivery...
Post by AquarianM on Dec 8, 2007 at 12:54am
Frozen Delivery...Just a child,
Long ago,
A memory,
Of sweet young summer,
Little dark haired girl.
Daddy's girl,
Before there were ice cream trucks,
Horse's bells chased children's ears,
Brick paved streets,
Small midwestern town,
The ice man is coming,
Cut from winter rivers and streams,
Crystal shards the tongs break free,
Shine dripping in sunlight,
Given to a child,
Wood and leather and horses,
Clip clop, clip, clop,
Pet the horsy,
Blessed cool clear ice,
On a sweltering summer day,
No other relief unless water's found,
Not an air conditioner anywhere around,
Frozen fingers in the nineties,
Mom told me about those days,
I guess it's different things,
But kids don't change their basic ways.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 11/07/2001
Author's Comments
One of Mom's fave childhood memories, I
could picture this so clearly when she was
telling me about it. How men with horse-drawn wagons delivered ice cut from the river in winter on summer days before air conditioners or ice cream men existed in the everyday world.
Wednesday, June 14, 2017
Something About The Moon Last Night...
Post by AquarianM on Nov 25, 2007 at 11:51pm
Something About The Moon Last Night...They say it's just ice crystals,
High in the atmosphere,
Twenty two degree refraction,
Across forty six degrees of sky,
But that's just science for you.
They say it means weather on the way,
However many stars in the ring are the number of days,
Frost and fraught with hazardous white,
A portent of frozen night,
But that's just folklore for you.
I say it's rare and wondrous,
The moon a brilliant pebble dropped,
The sky a frosted grey pond of night,
And wonder of folklore and science,
But that's just me for you.
All I know for sure is it covered a quarter of the sky that night.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 11/26/2007
Tuesday, June 13, 2017
Latter Day High School Saints...
Post by AquarianM on Nov 25, 2007 at 11:29pm
Latter Day High School Saints...I looked around a bit,
In the mirror I saw what the blow dryer had wrought,
I was back to seventeen,
Wearing my Barry Gibb wings of golden hair,
Sans bell-bottoms, wide collars and stacks.
We went to the mall like that,
Stopped at the Fanny May kiosk,
The Rappers were the checkout clerks,
All giant hood and baggy pants,
It suddenly occurred,
The bell-bottom curse had grown,
Something fed in the Little Shop of Horrors,
These latter-day high school saints,
Are wearing the bell from top to bottom,
If they go polyester I'll know for sure.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 11/26/2007
Monday, June 12, 2017
Snow Skies Whiting...
Post by AquarianM on Dec 7, 2007 19:56:26 GMT -7
Snow Skies Whiting...I look up and the sky is a close ghost,
Grey mist roof dome waiting,
Dreaming of fractal designs in crystal and soft white,
Hiding the soft underbelly of gliding hawks,
Which alight in the standing sticks like snow spirits,
Peering at an up-staring mad poet,
Who bothers so much to often notice.
The streets are push-dried and lined with plow-plunder,
Wet whispers wishing for more,
And I can’t get past the child-in-wonder in me,
Delighted despite the chores,
I fantasize snow down a co-worker’s neck,
Laughing clouds of jewel-smoke breath,
Surrendered completely to winter.
I was putting up and out Christmas just that morning and afternoon,
The perfect time to winkle and twinkle and blinkle,
Colors like candy-light over white,
Dancing boughs in the grey-blue steely wind,
The sun is a blinding white spot of haze just waiting to retire early,
I am cocooned soundless under snow skies whiting.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 12/08/2007
Sunday, June 11, 2017
Why We Need To Save The History Of Web Poetry (Video)
Online poetry is a very unique *global* culture. It speaks to the emotional mindset of a large cross-section of the world. Web poetry began in the mid-1990's, and some of the poets that started with it have already passed away. For understanding the psychological history of humanity, if nothing else, this is an important tool. How it came about and was shaped over the years is an important factor. This history is little-known, and in danger of being lost. This is the second in a series of videos I plan to do on the subject, so that at least what I know of it is recorded for posterity. - Dan
Silent Blue Hills…
Post by AquarianM on Dec 20, 2007 at 2:38am
Silent Blue Hills…In the late night fog freezing,
Shivering stars above,
Dancing in and out,
Moon ghost floating high,
Faded and lazy night,
Silverfish memories swim my blood,
Bone chilling wonder and regret,
Alone in the snow light,
Too much for tears ever to melt,
The silent blue hills are calling,
Wishing me into the mists,
Not ready I stand in the falling snow,
A dash of Christmas in my hand fading,
Led dazed by a cruel heart,
To water now flat blue ice,
I shall never again consent to drink,
A specter of frost and glassy ice,
Gleaming in holiday lights.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 12/20/2007
Saturday, June 10, 2017
The Golden Age... (With Video)
The Golden Age...
In this matrix everything was new,
Young,
Naive,
Hopeful,
Wistful,
Only a few imps played about.
All about the poets danced their pens,
Everywhere everywhere were their secret gardens,
Full of gemstones all tucked away,
Glittering glittering bright.
The world was crossed with them,
Neither mattered country nor creed,
The words poured between,
Quiet little treasures of humanity.
Soon enough the matrix grew up,
Bridge trolls eyeing pots of gold,
jewels are not their thing,
Gold, only gold.
They dug up the gardens and laid them waste,
The jewels buried in the rubble dissolved in the rain,
Sugar-baubles washed away away,
Ephemeral.
A few gardens survive,
Oases in a hard-paved desert,
Only a token away from the trolls' destruction,
When the last piece of gold has gone.
Who will tell the story of the Golden Age,
Will the world even remember when the poets wrote the world,
Their names and their names,
Or even their bones?
A scribe we need,
To cage the Golden Age,
Bottle it up for all to see and remember,
When the electric fields and we were young.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 06/10/2017
Author's note:
We're at a unique time and place in history. Many of us here witnessed the birth of the internet...and with it, internet poets.Too often, when a website goes down for lack of funding, the poetry goes with it. The poets, like all people, age and pass. It strikes me that the last twenty years has been a sort of golden age for internet poetry. The web has grown soooo commercial. The sharks circle the heavens, and there are ghost towns strewn about like after the wild, wild West was no longer young. If this era and these things aren't chronicled in some way, this literary history could be lost; Dandelion seeds on the Summer winds. There is a reason the Beat Poets and the Romantics are remembered. Their works were put down on something more permanent than electrons on chips. Their history and legends were chronicled, their works made available to the public. I wonder of ours.
In this matrix everything was new,
Young,
Naive,
Hopeful,
Wistful,
Only a few imps played about.
All about the poets danced their pens,
Everywhere everywhere were their secret gardens,
Full of gemstones all tucked away,
Glittering glittering bright.
The world was crossed with them,
Neither mattered country nor creed,
The words poured between,
Quiet little treasures of humanity.
Soon enough the matrix grew up,
Bridge trolls eyeing pots of gold,
jewels are not their thing,
Gold, only gold.
They dug up the gardens and laid them waste,
The jewels buried in the rubble dissolved in the rain,
Sugar-baubles washed away away,
Ephemeral.
A few gardens survive,
Oases in a hard-paved desert,
Only a token away from the trolls' destruction,
When the last piece of gold has gone.
Who will tell the story of the Golden Age,
Will the world even remember when the poets wrote the world,
Their names and their names,
Or even their bones?
A scribe we need,
To cage the Golden Age,
Bottle it up for all to see and remember,
When the electric fields and we were young.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 06/10/2017
Author's note:
We're at a unique time and place in history. Many of us here witnessed the birth of the internet...and with it, internet poets.Too often, when a website goes down for lack of funding, the poetry goes with it. The poets, like all people, age and pass. It strikes me that the last twenty years has been a sort of golden age for internet poetry. The web has grown soooo commercial. The sharks circle the heavens, and there are ghost towns strewn about like after the wild, wild West was no longer young. If this era and these things aren't chronicled in some way, this literary history could be lost; Dandelion seeds on the Summer winds. There is a reason the Beat Poets and the Romantics are remembered. Their works were put down on something more permanent than electrons on chips. Their history and legends were chronicled, their works made available to the public. I wonder of ours.
Whisper Winter’s Name…
Post by AquarianM on Dec 14, 2007 at 3:58am
Whisper Winter’s Name…A night of soft glow reflection on whited-out ground,
Lost in the coal-grey night starless,
Boot-crunched slip-slide among the candy lights,
Dreaming of fire-lit morning and torn wrappers,
Everything just-right white,
If the ground be seen on the eve prior,
I whisper Winter’s name,
Calling and begging for decorations falling,
Frosted window panes,
Happy music and brown grass tufts afloat in white waves,
A need for light in life’s respite,
We’re whispering Winter’s name,
Whispering wishing waiting and wanting,
Crystal art became from falling rain.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 12/14/2007
Friday, June 09, 2017
With A Little Love…
Post by AquarianM on Dec 22, 2007 at 12:43am
With A Little Love…A sigh and a long look,
Out a winter window,
Small snowflakes fall,
White blanket to tuck the world abed,
Grey-white light fading fast,
The Christmas lights are all about.
The songs we sing are joyful or longing,
Happy or hopeful or wistful,
Tender music sculpts the holiday air,
Putting our spirits in a gentle reflection,
A year fading fast and a new one slipping in.
Walking in breath clouds we dream,
With a little love our tears slip out,
Maybe washed away by snowflakes,
Maybe we’re just a bit more open about the heart right now,
All dream-wide and mystical.
With a little love.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 12/22/2007
Thursday, June 08, 2017
Steppin' Over The Line...
Post by AquarianM on Sep 7, 2007 at 11:02pm
Steppin' Over The Line...I feel the pull of a puddle of jet,
Trying to keep my feet from getting wet,
I'm high-steppin' to leave it behind,
Burning the darkness from my mind,
A waste of breath and ticks of the clock,
I'm seeking the light from bottom to top,
Goin' to turn left or right just in time,
'Cause there's just no use,
In steppin' over the line.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 09/08/2007
Wednesday, June 07, 2017
Tree To The Sea...
Post by AquarianM on Sep 11, 2007 at 10:09pm
Tree To The Sea...Drumbeat waves roll - heartbeat sand crashed night,
Into the small cave by the sea,
Climbing glowing drú into the upper world,
Wading dream-time star seas,
The voices of waving grasses sing,
Chants of stones and sea-foam moonlit,
Lightning symbol crescendo emphasis,
Wounds bound of dry sea oats,
White light whispers from heaven,
Hawk guides albatross to my shoulder,
Climbing down we emerge,
Healing union.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 09/11/2007
*Note: drú - Gaelic for oak*
Tuesday, June 06, 2017
Dear Sally...
Post by AquarianM on Sep 17, 2007 at 8:58pm
Dear Sally...Ahhh, sweetheart -
You've been our girl next door since I was just a teen,
Amazing yet and all the better,
You still are.
You've got a heart on you hon.
I can hear it -
They might not want me to,
But oh yes - I most definitely can.
I remember that about you,
It was always there as long as I remember,
And you reached out with it on that stage again,
But the fox is a hound and tried to muzzle.
Dear little riding the Bandit's hood,
You said it like it is,
And all the stop action in the universe failed,
Because you've got a heart on you.
You've got a heart on you hon.
I can hear it -
They might not want me to,
But oh yes - I most definitely can.
Dear, dear Sally.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 09/17/2007
(For Sally Field)
Monday, June 05, 2017
Of Grass And Tree...
Post by AquarianM on Sep 13, 2007 at 12:09pm
Of Grass And Tree...
There is no world without trees.
There is no world without grass.
Tall and strong and whispering flutter on the wind,
Leaves and blades rustle and wisk,
The color clock of seasons shades the hour,
Holding the land steady,
Soil firmly in place and neither wind nor rain diminish that life,
From the deep earth they nourish,
All the beasts of the land live by their sacrifice.
The air itself is thus replenished,
The sky is balanced and whole in their presence,
The butterfly and bison,
The cattle and the sheep,
The grasshopper and spider,
The earthworm and the bear,
The chipmunk and the squirrel,
The wolf and the cougar,
The tiger and the lamb,
The owl and the man.
Of God who gave the gifted world to us,
Use it and them as we will,
God put our life in our own hands.
Balance lives, and all else falls.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 09/13/2007
Sunday, June 04, 2017
I Want To Believe...
Post by AquarianM on Sep 23, 2007 at 10:18pm
I Want To Believe...I want to believe,
Yes I want to believe - oh, believe,
In something bigger than me,
In something more than a season,
Of change,
Or more of the same.
Love can hold away the blues,
Sometimes -
Think you might know what you'll find,
But the winds never stop,
They just blow and blow.
I want to believe,
Yes I want to believe - oh, believe,
In something bigger than me,
In something more than a season,
Of change,
Or more of the same.
Can we touch the world,
Some way beautiful,
Some way sane,
Some way fine?
I want to believe,
Yes I want to believe - oh, believe,
In something bigger than me,
In something more than a season,
Of change,
Or more of the same.
You color the spring and summer and fall,
But winter always comes,
Freezing for a frightened soul,
That doorway each faces alone.
I want to believe,
Yes I want to believe - oh, believe,
In something bigger than me,
In something more than a season,
Of change,
Or more of the same.
What goes around,
What goes to ground,
What everyone remembers,
Maybe just for now.
I want to believe,
Yes I want to believe - oh, believe,
In something bigger than me,
In something more than a season,
Of change,
Or more of the same.
I live by this season's love,
A gift so precious,
I'll give and receive but never let go,
It's all the forever I get to really know.
I want to believe,
Yes I want to believe - oh, believe,
In something bigger than me,
In something more than a season,
Of change,
Or more of the same.
Come with me every night,
Every winter's cold road,
Every lane to a fireplace,
You know the only way home.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 09/24/2007
Saturday, June 03, 2017
Weather Wishing...
Post by AquarianM on Oct 1, 2007 at 2:18am
Weather Wishing...Whispers inside you sigh,
Rain from a cloudless sky,
Bring the silence of still air just in time,
Grow the grass and feed the trees,
A touch of warmth lingering longer by the year,
When the cool breath of Fall finally blows by,
Black birds and geese rule the sky,
Herons and mallards and peregrine,
In the hush of a misting mind I sigh,
Turning to watch the stars.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 10/01/2007
Friday, June 02, 2017
In The Quiet Hours...
Post by AquarianM on Oct 1, 2007 at 10:30pm
In The Quiet Hours...The clock rolls round past the mid-mark,
Into the space of the inside,
When we’re all closer to the ragged edges of space-time,
Not far from the gusher of raw undermind,
And specks of light fire the imagination,
Lack of sleep breaking down barriers,
Let us forget “reality” for an hour or three.
If you stand under the stars on these cool nights of fall,
Feel the hackles on you rise,
See off into distant space,
Feel closer to some ancient camp fire than electric lights,
Don’t worry much about it.
Poets do that all the time,
See things with inside eyes,
Illuminated more by heart-light than cold reason,
We touch the stuff of everything,
Trying to bring back a little something,
In the twisted little cacophony that words become,
When compared to that vision.
Maybe some night,
A hint of melody will follow them through,
Reason enough for this life’s quest.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 10/02/2007