Wednesday, September 30, 2020

A Step Into Dreamland...

A Step Into Dreamland... 

Midnight tick,
Midnight tock,
One more tick,
Then it's not,
Into the morning,
We will go,
Into Dreamland,
We will flow...

The center of all dreams is a great tree,
Grandmother and grandfather intertwined,
Above the stars shine and spin,
Angel lights dancing on a pin.
Midnight tick,
Midnight tock,
One more tick,
Then it's not,
Into the morning,
We will go,
Into Dreamland,
We will flow...

I am a composite being,
Wound from the folk of Thor and Lugh,
Hammers and thunder,
Spears and lightning,
The look and feel of trees and electricity,
All dance within me,
The modern blending of hidden history.

Midnight tick,
Midnight tock,
One more tick,
Then it's not,
Into the morning,
We will go,
Into Dreamland,
We will flow...

In the wee hours,
I will dream,
And hear the whispers of trees.


By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 09/30/2020

Saturday, September 26, 2020

Cyberpoetry Archaeologist...

 Cyberpoetry Arcaeologist...

There once upon a time was a golden age of internet poetry,
Somewhere between paper and flat screens,
Farcebook was a baby,
Twitter was a text Geek's dream,
And typewriters were mostly starting to gather dust.

Sites were full of graphics,
Pretty backgrounds,
Dreamy art,
Very few ads,
Not sleek and stark.

You could even compare it to architecture in the 1940's,
Before all the glass and steel,
When brick and terra cotta still existed,
And Art Deco was new and beautiful,
A visual feast.

These poets were mocked and forgotten,
Those in ivy-covered halls full of arrogance,
Above it all in dusty books,
All the while poetry was living under their noses,
Breathing and evolving,
New and wild.

After a time everyone moved,
The glass and steel sameness of social media,
And I now search the wilds of classic Cyberspace,
Word-Mining the ghost towns of the Cyberpoets,
Searching for treasure long after the gold rush,
Words in all their glory,
Echoes of Cyperpoets long gone or dead,
Yet their spirits linger in lost verses,
Perhaps to become treasures again some day.

It's a race against time...


By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 09/26/2020

**N OTE: This work is pending possible collaborative additions by a long-time Cyberpoet and friend. You'll see it here if that comes about. Meanwhile publication to other sites is on hold pending possible revision updates. - Dan

Thursday, September 24, 2020

Punching Clock...

Punching Clock...

I swear morning people are passive-agressive bullies,
That or oblivious.

Sleep deprivation is defined as torture,
Just check the Geneva Conventions.

After 275 years I finally have had enough coffee,
To come up with a retort to Ben Franklin,
The early bird may get the worm,
But those who can stay up late,
They get the date,
So enjoy your worm,
Benny boy.

I imagine a sweet fliptopia,
A world where people all leave for work at noon,
Head home at ten,
Did you forget the commute?

I'll be rockin' just fine until one,
You early birds have fun,
Be the ones too zombied out,
To give your wives alert attention,
You'll be the ones hungry every two hours,
Night owls will get slim,
Pass the cancer and dementia.

One thing's for certain,
You'll finally understand Coffee like we do,
Know in your bones,
If it goes extinct because of climate,
We Zombies will eat your early brains,
Out of sheer impossible frustration.

All I know is my alarm is now a gentle om,
Unlike the clock radio in 1980,
Evil red digits and full volume,
My morning was blown off the pillow,

Needless to say it was a miserable day,
But I was too tired to care.

Think again about your brain,
The next time you cheerfully say,
"Rise and shine!"

First bite's mine!

Catch a clue,
We haven't been a majority farm country,
Not since the early sixties,
Damn near sixty years,
So up yours with the Sun,
Let me sleep.

Whatever you do,
Make damn sure there's good coffee,


By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 09/24/2020

Friday, September 18, 2020

Love Amidst The White Flowers Of Coffee... (Amor en medio de las flores blancas del café...)

Love Amidst The White Flowers Of Coffee... (Amor en medio de las flores blancas del café...)

A young vaquero rides near the coffee fields,
A dirt track,
Not even cobbles.

The coffee blossoms are everywhere,
White and delicate,
Filled with the promise of delicious mornings.

The valley fields of Risaralda bear a light misted fog this morning,
Lending a most spiritual softness,
Blessing the rural fields of Colombia.

As his burro slowly plods the track of quiet dawnlight,
A beautiful sound reaches the young man's ear,
A feminine voice in early morning song,
Singing softly,
And his eye sees her framed in the slanting early light of the Sun,
A beautiful young woman in colorful garb,
Scenting the coffee flowers.

His morning cup of coffee will never be the same again.


By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 09/18/2020


Amor en medio de las flores blancas del café...

Un joven vaquero cabalga cerca de los cafetales,
Una pista de tierra
Ni siquiera adoquines.

Las flores del café están por todas partes
Blanco y delicado
Lleno de la promesa de deliciosas mañanas.

Los campos del valle de Risaralda llevan esta mañana una ligera neblina,
Prestando una dulzura sumamente espiritual,
Bendición de los campos rurales de Colombia.

Mientras su burro avanza lentamente por el sendero de la tranquila luz del amanecer,
Un hermoso sonido llega al oído del joven,
Una voz femenina en la canción de la madrugada
Cantando suavemente
Y su ojo la ve enmarcada en la oblicua luz temprana del sol,
Una hermosa joven con atuendo colorido,
Perfumando las flores del café.

Su taza de café matutina nunca volverá a ser la misma.


Por: Daniel A. Stafford
© 18/09/2020

Wednesday, September 16, 2020

A Knack For Clickety-Clack...

A Knack For Clickety-Clack...

It all goes on in our heads,
If anywhere at all,
You don't need a crystal anything,
Not a ball,
Not a skull,
To know that the mystery of future and history,
Is anything but dull,
But it's easy to forget to track,
We're the ones making it right now,
So keep the gears all meshed and spinning,
It's not a matter of losing or winning,
Put your ink-pen back on track,
Like a freight train,
You need to keep a knack,
For making it roll on clickety-clack.


By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 11/07/2014 - Poetry & art work.

Saturday, September 12, 2020

A Plea For Depth And Beauty...

A Plea For Depth And Beauty... 

There are contrasts in this world,
Perhaps they lend a sense of duality,
Yet this is illusion.

The ocean doesn't have water,
Only at the top,
Only at the bottom,
Only cold,
Or only warm.

There is a gradient,
How many living things reside,
And where.

In writing there is computer font,
Thousands of forms,
And then hand-printed letters,

Movies have Mad Max,
Close Encounters of the Third Kind,
Myriad more.

In song,
Lucy In The Sky,
Norwegian Wood and Eleanor Rigby,
Beethoven's 5th.

There are bongos,
Electric guitars,
Stradivarius violins.

Graphic novels,
Grand murals,
Outsider art,
Van Gogh and Matisse.

Home-baked cookies,

Life is better in gradient,
Not confined,
Limited to the cheap or the priceless.

A life without art and grace is an apocalyptic Hell,
Yet so is a world where nothing is smple,
Pretty and functional,
Yet quick and affordable.

We need the full range.

When it comes to the variants in life,
The range if you will,
We must have beauty and depth,
Quick flashes,
Long reads,
And in-depth enduring focus.

Life in only two dimensions isn't living.


By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 09/12/2020

Friday, September 04, 2020

Four By Three Resolution...

Four By Three Resolution... 

There's something amazing,
1990's Sci-Fi,
On TV,
Maybe it the pacing,
Perhaps continuity,
Possibly Character depth,
Lack of distractivity,
A ton less in whiz-bang.

That little square screen,
So full of hope,
Chivalry even.

Binge me,
I must be dreaming.


By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 09-03-2020

Wednesday, September 02, 2020

When Twenty Twenty Has Gone...

When Twenty Twenty Has Gone... 

I look back through this year,
This psycho cocoon of a year,
And I wonder.

The damn thing literally saved my life,
Locked down the traffic,
Just as the rain spun me,
No poetry,
No me,
For real.

We've been each given one or t' other,
This year,
This clear as glass year,
Essential and working like maniacs,
Or home staring at the walls,
In either case,
Our souls are reflecting back,
No mirror the wiser.

Do you know what is real yet?

I look back at this rollercoaster of a year,
All the flash and crazy carnival,
Disaster theater on steroids,
Carnival barker buffoons in all directions,
Pissed-off Mother Nature,
Us little crybabies sitting time-out.

I look back,
I wonder,
Cam we really do it?

Go back to the snake oil,
Bullshit and rah-rah cotton candy,
All the used car sales of a life?

Do you know what is real yet,
Who actually must go on?

Will we pull the veil clear of our illusions,
Free of our self-delusions,
After Twenty Twenty is gone?


By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 09/01/2020