Poets' Trance...

Poets' Trance...

Writing this way,

The mind slides underneath,

Lays down and rests,

Sunlimates to the verbiage,

Subconscious connections,

Endless probabilities spin,

A quantum word bin whirls,

A tornado of spirit winds,

The vortex at the center of everything,

Words fall out,

Land in flutters and thumps,

All about you,

And ideas grow like leaves and branches,

Tying back to the trunk of reality.

A poet lies under the tree on an Autumn afternoon,

Absorbed in the fall and turn and flutters and landings,

But the good ones,

They see the possibility of pretty leaf piles,

Arrange the fallen words just so,

And stories or new realities guard the seeds of new branches awaiting the future.

AquarianM

By Daniel A. Stafford

© 10/26/2025

Regards,

Dan Stafford

F the algorithms, power to the blogging people!

F the algorithms, power to the blogging people!

I want to make a search engine that only searches Wikipedia and blogs with no more than static banner ads.

I want the honesty of writing from the heart,

The focus and concentration of pages where nothing winks,

Nothing blinks,

Nary a letter tries to disco-ball your mind.

I want the ad section at the back of my favorite science magazines,

With every oddity and gadget under the Sun,

Where I can pick or peek at my own discretion,

And nothing effing talks or moves.

I also want conversations,

With the author and other readers,

Not just posts,

And your eyes don't need to know Jiu Jitsu to follow a simple sentence.

Algorithms and AI are dark arts,

They belong in shopping carts,

Not in truly intellectual property.

The bits,

You see,

We don't see eye to eye.

If I want arcana,

Let me freaking read!

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

(C) 10-26-2025

Empty Hands, Force, And Energy...

Empty Hands, Force, And Energy...

Fascinated by the symbol,

Decades in a Yin and Yang balancing act.

It was by the river when I was nineteen,

Of all places in my Southern Wisconsin hometown,

Silver-nested black and white circle,

Swirling in my subconscious,

Perched on a pinky.

In high school I dreamed of being Iron Fist,

Don't most of us?

That dragon's breath in a mountain cave,

Mad skills in the village,

The mystical glow of chi.

Now,

I dream of moving well when I'm eighty,

Maybe beyond,

So I dance in a strip-mall mountain village,

There's even a hill below it,

And it's nested away in the unwilds of California,

Some mystery dimension between vineyards and desert.

Power games are old news,

Worthless,

But will and skill,

Knowing the difference between energy and force,

I'm learning to dance the spirit winds,

A dimension of union for body and mind,

Where every breath is a silent spell,

And existence is a love letter to the Multiverse.

I am a lowly grasshopper,

Praying to fly.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford

(C) 10-26-2025

Pine Trails Inn Sunday Bloody Mary Special

 So as it turns out, in the summer of 1988, I went to bartend at the Pine Trails Inn in Hazlehurst, Wisconsin.

This little bar was owned by a friend of my mom's, and the previous bartender had been stealing out of the till. 

Pine Trails Inn had a weekly Sunday bloody mary special. People used to come from miles around for the bloody Marys. 

I used to make the drinks for them, so I know the secret recipe that made them come from miles around. 

Since the bar closed in the fall of 1988 I'm pretty sure I'm safe to release the secret recipe. 

It calls for stock bloody Mary mix, probably the Cuttars, and a shot or two of vodka, and then a quarter teaspoon of creamy horseradish sauce, and a dash of Worcestershire sauce in a Tumblr. Salt or season the rim, add a stick of celery, add some olives on a stick. 

And there you have it the secret of the Pine Trails Inn Sunday bloody mary special.

This also might have something to do with my son being born, since I met his mother there. That, however, is an entirely different story.

Regards,

Dan Stafford

 

The Mystery Painter Of My Autumn Youth

 

I bought this painting at Granny's Attic antique mall here in Temecula, California.

It's signed "E. Marshall," but I can find nothing in search (On multiple search engines) that matches the style and signature.

This painting really reminds me of Autumn days in Southern Wisconsin when I was growing up, and I absolutely love it.

I would love to learn more about the artist, but even barring that, the painting is beautiful and joyful, with a mystical presence like a misty Autumn day.

If you know anything about the artist, drop me a note.

Dan