In A Summer Chair Reading Poetry…
Cigar smoke rises up on a hot breeze,
It’s dance in the sunlight lifts the corners of my mind,
Still snarled around the pages of Poetry magazine,
A thing of melancholy beauty,
Glorious wounds of the psyche travel the world on its back.
A day like this should paint beautiful prayers,
Make young lovers strip down to the sweat,
Push people into lakes and pools,
Rustle green leaves and cook them in bird call spice.
I close the page and release what I read,
Remainders dangle unripened until a rainy cold day.
Tobacco and coffee and hot sunshine,
Things made of the tufts of sunlight fallen from Heaven,
These belong,
Wet feet and sand belong.
Defiance of the ticking clock,
I am not fully Borg,
Will never truly be a crushed $pirit,
Though they frog-march me into the shadowland,
I escape a few moments or hours any given day,
Dreaming of freedom and longer telomeres,
I am the bottom of an aluminum can,
Never truly crushed and forever recycled.
There is another green in my world,
A place of yellow dandelions and frisbees,
Shady trees and cool pools,
Spinning bicycle wheels,
Freshwater waves and beach glass,
Music and moonlight,
Dancing and romance.
My numbers are still in play,
Hope for a break in the window of in$anity,
This artificial dinosaur crafted by twisted old men,
Only awaiting the right comet to crash into the gestalt of a world creaking,
Straining under its rotting weight,
Awaiting chrysalis.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 08/21/2013
It’s dance in the sunlight lifts the corners of my mind,
Still snarled around the pages of Poetry magazine,
A thing of melancholy beauty,
Glorious wounds of the psyche travel the world on its back.
A day like this should paint beautiful prayers,
Make young lovers strip down to the sweat,
Push people into lakes and pools,
Rustle green leaves and cook them in bird call spice.
I close the page and release what I read,
Remainders dangle unripened until a rainy cold day.
Tobacco and coffee and hot sunshine,
Things made of the tufts of sunlight fallen from Heaven,
These belong,
Wet feet and sand belong.
Defiance of the ticking clock,
I am not fully Borg,
Will never truly be a crushed $pirit,
Though they frog-march me into the shadowland,
I escape a few moments or hours any given day,
Dreaming of freedom and longer telomeres,
I am the bottom of an aluminum can,
Never truly crushed and forever recycled.
There is another green in my world,
A place of yellow dandelions and frisbees,
Shady trees and cool pools,
Spinning bicycle wheels,
Freshwater waves and beach glass,
Music and moonlight,
Dancing and romance.
My numbers are still in play,
Hope for a break in the window of in$anity,
This artificial dinosaur crafted by twisted old men,
Only awaiting the right comet to crash into the gestalt of a world creaking,
Straining under its rotting weight,
Awaiting chrysalis.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 08/21/2013