The Sunday Paper...

The Sunday Paper... 

We were watching the Sunday Morning show on CBS,

A Sunday tradition of ours,

Her passing comment took me back decades;

"Like in the Sunday Paper..."

I remember a time when you were lucky,

Maybe a single gas station in town was open,

Family and friends home together.

The expanded comics section was in color rather than black and white,

"The funny papers" some called them.

The arts and theater for the week listed in all their glory,

Reviews and previews.

The local community section with local accomplishments and festivals,

Who won the bake-off,

The local boy who my officer,

College and high school graduations and weddings,

Honorees,

Exotic vacations townspeople were taking.

Himtan interests were the best,

How to keep blacksmithy alive,

Or cutting ice on the river fifty years ago,

Maybe how a new museum was being planned.

Of course there was a gossip section too.

The best days of another era.

AquarianM

© 09/29/2019

By: Daniel A. Stafford

The Pits...

The Pits... 

As my Mother used to say,

"Sometimes in life you get cherries,

Other times it's just the pits."

What was never mentioned;

Sometimes those small hard things might just crack a tooth,

Yet with a little effort and a lot of luck...

Well,

Cherry trees are large,

Fruitful,

Beautiful in bloom.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 09/27/2019

The Scent Of The Grind...

The Scent Of The Grind... 

The beans spill into the hopper,

As I spin the handle in and antique tradition,

The scent washes over me,

Serenity and satisfaction falling,

Ground down and landing in a brown paper bag,

Old-school air freshener,

That rich brown,

Percolator-bound brown gold.

For a few days,

I have the best-smelling garage on the planet.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 09/25/2017

Tarash Sparau...

Tarash Sparau...

There is an ancient name,
They say it was sung by the last summer winds,
In chorus with the stormy gales of autumn,
Tarash Sparau,
The Song In The Breeze,
A magical creature of a season's moment,
The essence of the edge of summer and fall,
She wears a cloak of many colors,
It's vista is that of summer flowers,
Dancing with the turning leaves,
As the season turns all tawny and fire,
Last vestiges of soft pastel and brilliant riots,
Tarash Sparau's cool laughter in grey clouds,
Billowing pillows in the vast sky dimming,
There when mortals are not seeing the wood for the trees,
With their leaves of flaming crimson and yellow gold,
As the leaves broadcast the sunset of the season,
Tarash Sparau bears the horn of plenty,
Carrying it to now hale Autumn,
And Tarash Sparau's fine cloak of colors,
Whipping and flapping in changing breezes,
Resembles owls in the woods,
Or sometimes flocks of blackbirds upon the wing,
And this year Tarash Sparau cries crystal tears,
Raining from her pale sunset eyes,
For her sweet sister Summer is stained crimson,
And Angels with Soul Catchers surround her abed,
Dark eyed and solemn as they await a winter of the spirit,
Their halos of golden light offset by black feathered wings,
Their eyes all a mist for the duty they bear,
For again men's souls have taken the chill of Winter,
Haughty and cold and bringing endings with no remorse,
They have become minions of the Ice Queen,
Their souls puppets on strings in a frozen celestial lair,
And sweet Summer has wept herself to sleep,
Verde, Summer, buenos notches, y vaya con Dios,
Sleep in the arms of God,
Your sweet sister Primavera,
Oh angelic Spring and her gentle blue eyes,
Had no ill winds sweeping through her wild blown hair,
No, Tarash Sparau is bade by Autumn,
"Carry the prayers of men to the council of angels,
Let God's own ear hear the plight and wailing voices."
As an angel cups palms 'round every lit candle,
Tarash Sparau sings her tearful message,
Begging for kindness upon the ears of all,
Or at least all with a heart to hear.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A.Stafford
(C) 09/25/2001

Author's Comments:
I feel a sadness in the passing of summer, even more
than in so many years before, because this year,
winter took hearts and froze them still so long before
their time should ever have come, and those chill
hearts that have lost all mercy and caring wish to bring
more death into the world. I wish their eyes could see
visions of the summer's sweetness instead.

American Corn...

American Corn...

Cheesey,

Embellished,

Kitschy,

Ticky-tacky knic-knac,

I love all these roadsides,

Waving brash history's hat,

It's all fascinating,

The stories of bygone days,

The glories of our bric-a-brac.

Polish up the bullhorn,

Paint up a new sign,

Print it in the paper,

Blogs and social media,

Everywhere you can think and find,

Radio and TV,

Podcast and YouTube,

It's all very well.

Bring out the children,

Animals and local celebrities,

Old coaches and whistling trains.

From the world's largest ketchup bottle,

To castles in death valley,

Mining caves and ghost towns,

Cotton candy and carnivals,

Snap crackle and pop,

I love American Corn.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 09/22/2019

Author's Note:

Inspired by adventures with my wife, remembered through Huell Howser.

https://www.kcet.org/shows/californias-gold-with-huell-howser/episodes/wedding-of-the-waters

The Great Spinning...

The Great Spinning... 

To cover our nakedness,

The first cloth was long-ago spun.

All of life is made up of vortices,

Perhaps everything in the Great All must spin.

Every galaxy in the universe has been spinning since the beginning of time,

Just as do the planets around the Sun,

Jupiter's great Red Spot,

Saturn's majestic rings.

Water down a drain mirrors currents in the seas,

Winds and waves swirling and twirling,

So too tornadoes and hurricanes.

Sound waves spin the air,

Like pressure sculptures invisible.

Love is a vortex always reaching for our center,

Epic whet a brief tornado,

Endless jet stream,

Or brief Summer zephyr,

Leaving us forever changed.

Lies must also be spun,

Like a spider's web,

They are sticky and difficult to maintain,

Anchoring their author in time and place,

Often destroyed by larger forces.

Just as maple seed and Autumn leaves spin to the ground,

So too I imagine the breath in our lungs,

The blood in our veins.

Even electrons and atomic particles spin,

Made up of spinning quarks and magnetic fields.

I imagine other universes spin in dimensions we cannot see,

Perhaps meeting at the center of black holes.

The seasons and our lives exist because things spin,

Even rays of light and snowflakes wind their ways to their destinations.

Perhaps that's why I wrote this in cursive,

My pen spinning to the Muse's lovely tune.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

© 09/22/2019

Did They Bury Candyo In A Car?

Did They Bury Candyo In A Car? 

So the music died again this week,

Another splinter universe created,

A place of fewer songs.

If all the Earth is salted,

Are there still places for a Muse to land,

Ears not too tired to hear a subtle whisper on the wind?

The guitars are dusty,

And I have to go back to work tomorrow.

My soul says "Let's go."

AquarianM

© 09/15/2019

By: Daniel A. Stafford

Author's Note:

I just got word of Ric from The Cars passing away this evening.