Missing Felicia...

 

Author	Date Entered/Modified	Views
Daniel A. Stafford	8/10/2000 5:46:09 AM 9/28/2022 4:19:38 AM	871

Missing Felicia

Aunt Felicia, friend and confidant,
Raven hair, tall slender good looks,
What more could you want?
Nephew who listens to your ideas, not books.

Teenage years, so uncertain who to be.

There were things you told me then,
No, I'll never forget when,
I always listened, to your voice,
Because I trusted in that choice.

Could you sing Rose Garden for me again?

You friend Carol my not-so-secret crush,
And the things you blatantly said made a freshman blush,
Moonlight bike ride along the beach,
Certainty just a bit out of reach.

Where, oh where could you be?

Those younger days haunt me now,
Because it's clear that I don't know how,
To find you or to come near,
You're hiding in the pictures and the voices that you hear.

Tiffiny looks so like you I can hardly believe my own eyes.

I heard California is the place for you,
But since Grandma died, I wonder if that's so true.
Your daughter a young woman now,
It's been so many years,

But you are one of the voices, that I'll always hear.

I miss you.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C)08/10/2000

By: Daniel A. Stafford

Author's Comments

My Aunt Felicia. She was like a mix between teacher and confidant.
One year older than me, and we used to spend hours talking late
into the night one summer that she came to stay. We were riding my
bike down past the beach when a dog chased us, laughing home.
All I know now is that she succumbed to her battle with
schizophrenia and is in a home somewhere in California.
It's been since I was in high school that I last saw her. Her daughter
Tiffiny is now just a bit older than she was then and her mother's spitting
image, very near. (Update 2022: Aunt Felicia passed away several years ago. She will never be forgotten.)

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Author	Date Entered/Modified	Views
Daniel A. Stafford	8/10/2000 5:46:09 AM 9/28/2022 4:19:38 AM	871

Hand Trim The Grass...

 

Author	Date Entered/Modified	Views
Daniel A. Stafford	8/9/2000 9:41:13 PM 9/25/2022 6:46:39 AM	985

Hand Trim The Grass

Just a childhood memory,
From when I was maybe two or three,
A place Noni & Nono took me to see,
A gray headstone in the cemetery.

Hand shears snip-snipping in the shade and sunshine.

Flowers and memories that weren't mine,
Of someone that time had left behind,
My grandmother's mother resides above,
Maybe one that time had left, but not love.

I doubt I could find it now, except in my mind.

Just an adulthood memory,
Driving past the catholic school where I used to be,
In the cemetery a low reddish stone with letters,
Two I love free of life's fetters,

Gino and Sadie Nofri say the letters.

I can't read the numbers to the right with dry eyes,
But over there Uncle Ross resides,
Every time I drive by,
I can't help looking out of the corner of my eye.

I never will say good bye.

God trims the grass, too.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C)2000



By: Daniel A. Stafford

Author's Comments

When I was a child, my grandparents would go to the cemetery once a week in the summer
to trim my great grand mother's grave and put up flowers. I remember helping with the hand
trimmers, those little grass shears. Their grave is in another cemetery, just inside the fence off the
street, right next to where I used to go to school. My brother's house is two blocks away from them
and I am always right next to them in my heart.

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Daniel A. Stafford	8/9/2000 9:41:13 PM 9/25/2022 6:46:39 AM	985

Public-Domain E-Book: "The Great Book Of Blizzard..."

Preface to "The Great Book Of Blizzard":

The Poetry that is contained in these pages is the result of a lifetime spent mostly in places with real Winter; The Great Lakes for the most part, yet also the Great Plains, the Rockies of Colorado, and even mid-North Texas and Northern New Mexico.

In the face of Climate Change, I wanted to save and preserve what it was like to live in these places in the era of actual Winters.

Many of these poems are what I like to call “Poetic Memoir,” and are based on real events in my life. Some are simply fantasy based on a lifetime of experience with snow and Winter...real Winters.

Although I have lived in Southern California for four years as of the completion of this compilation in 2018, never forget that I am a native of Wisconsin who spent fifty years in the Midle West of these United States of America. My family still lives there, and lives with snow.

For those of you who find snowy Winters a novelty, or know it not at all, I hope this book can give you a deeper understanding of what it was like.

What so many forget is that almost everything in nature needs a period of rest and renewal before the busy regrowth of Springtime. Even humanity needs – and mostly neglects – quiet time to turn inward, reflect, and recharge.

Thank you for reading.

With love and light,

Daniel A. Stafford

10/07/2018

This book donated to Public Domain

Download .PDF e-book for free HERE.

The Weight Of Ghosts...

The Weight Of Ghosts...

Life is like an egg timer,
Or maybe an egg shell,
Or some other fragile damn cliche.

I know the richness of memories,
Times and places only a very few will know,
Less and less every year,
But I remember.

We're like cloud shapes in the sky,
Just visible for a blink or two,
But I have seen some seriously good ones.

It's comical,
When I talk to someone half my age,
The backdrop they're missing,
Utter cool evaporating on the wind.

Faces,
Places,
Times and sayings,
Hair and clothes and music,
But people,
People most of all.

The thought of no one knowing who they were,
That's crushing,
And I wonder if that's what truly ages us,
The sheer weight of ghosts.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 07/25/2018

All The Stars That Shined...

All The Stars That Shined...




Sometimes the first time you really see someone is long after they've gone,
And while the leaves are twisting colors on the branch,
That's a beautiful time to sing to your ghosts,
So we have a dear old cousin who likes to pray that way,
And now I've finally seen Gramma for herself.

Wish it was long ago,
So I could let her know,
Gramma Marion and Auntie Birdene,
Long gone but never forgotten,
One I thought I knew,
One I don't recall I ever met.

Time is like that,
It warps your connections,
So it twists the branches and twigs,
Yet as the frost gathers in your breath,
You learn and grow and come to know,
All the stars that shined.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 09/21/2011

Author's note:
Auntie Birdene (left) & Gramma Marion (right), we miss you both, and we'll always remember.
Don't they look like a couple of movie stars from back in the day?

Last Edit: Sep 22, 2011 at 12:39am by AquarianM

Words are the mind's bridge - it's connection to the universe.
Love is the heart's bridge - it's connection to all other souls.
Loving words can work miracles.
---------------------------------------
All of my published poetry is at:
www.lulu.com/spotlight/coloringbookforallages

If A Sparrow Falls...

Post by AquarianM on Oct 7, 2011 at 2:59am

If A Sparrow Falls...

Fragile life of soft crystal,
Drawn thin as lace,
Illusory solidity,
Fluid in a leaking and delicate relic,
Dependent on Angels,
Whim,
Mercy,
Luck,
The blind look through it vapid and unaware,
Total mistake.

If a sparrow should fall,
Will it rise up and fly again,
Joined by a flock of whirling feathers,
Angry birds circling,
Stirring up red-gold and flaming Autumn leaves?

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 10/06/2011

Words are the mind's bridge - it's connection to the universe.
Love is the heart's bridge - it's connection to all other souls.
Loving words can work miracles.
---------------------------------------
All of my published poetry is at:
www.lulu.com/spotlight/coloringbookforallages

In The Space Of A Breath...

Post by AquarianM on Oct 19, 2011 at 1:41am

In The Space Of A Breath...

Life is a fragile dream,
Caught in a bubble of modern peace and prosperity,
One I could paint in whispers of your name,
A place of grace we only reach for a moment,
The flicker of a candle as a song gently ends,
The echo of notes in my mind,
A morning in your arms just before I go,
For the last time,
Something I didn't yet know,
A song that plays again once in awhile,
Brings me back the scent of our youth's beauty,
Iridescent like a flower encased in glass,
Like a dandelion gone to seed just before the breeze,
Time took us on the wind,
Scattered and aching,
You blew away.
AquarianM

(C) 10/19/2011
By: Daniel A. Stafford
Dedicated to those gone before they should be.

Words are the mind's bridge - it's connection to the universe.
Love is the heart's bridge - it's connection to all other souls.
Loving words can work miracles.
---------------------------------------
All of my published poetry is at:
www.lulu.com/spotlight/coloringbookforallages

Vortices…

Vortices…

Great spinning energy,
Red flame flecks like spinning burning leaves,
Bits of paper in an orange-lit cyclone of mind,
Special places where the fire is a healing burn,
Cracking open the shells of rebirth,
What is a disaster for the old is an usher,
So get ready to dance at the center,
Spinning,
Glowing,
Burning,
Whirling light in the darkness,
Who will be be left standing?

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 11/18/2016

Author’s note:
Every once in awhile I get flashes of insight, and they can be just subconscious imagery. I had a flash of this today. Like the place I was in was at the center of the fires of change, protected, just the place for an audience to ride it out.

Fun House Mirrors…

Fun House Mirrors…

I watch the twists and turns of light,
Like a Fresnel lens of insanity,
A beacon of changing tune,
A hurricane-driven weathervane,
An egoic Super Moon of willful ignorance.

Day-by-day we must wonder and fret,
Twisted upon an impaling spike,
Awaiting a hail of stones,
Yet hoping for the kindness of a shovel and bath towels,
Receiving a schizophrenic cyclone.

We’ve eaten more trail dust and grime than an ancient cowboy,
Run over by our own cattle,
No real awareness of the deed,
Oblivious to the utterly warped light,
Of these fun house mirrors in every room we inhabit.

E. R. Murrow is spinning hard enough to burst into flames,
Mirroring our sad excuse for truths and portents.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 11/16/2016

Dreaming Of Being Tesla...

Dreaming Of Being Tesla...

There’s a beauty and elegance in the olden days,
A craft of the mind-to-hand,
A curvature of style and function,
Something at once cosmic meditation and genius inspired,
If only we had the old Gods of lightning again,
Miracles would charge forth electric,
Legends walk the land and the dream,
Power arcing in our hands.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 08/29/2014

Dan Stafford August 29, 2014

Racing The Tide...

Racing The Tide...

I built a lovely sand castle,
It sat high above the surf,
The rooms and turrets lush.

Time washes by,
Foam bubbles back into the sea are swept.

Every detail and sconce was a moment of my life,
A palace of ephemeral wonders and thoughts flashing by,
Fish in the cloud currents.

The sea is rising,
The waves always roll and roll.

I race the tide,
Trying to recreate all the details,
Here upon higher sand,
A place to last a century or a decade longer,
Just to leave a trace.

My world is Pompeii,
I pray for wind in my sails.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 07/25/2017

Author's Comment:
My long-time personal website, Word Whizzyrds / Super Aquarian ( www.whyzzrds.com / www.superaquarian.com ) is going under. I can't afford the hosting costs any longer. I will still retain the domain names, and re-point them after it goes down some time in August. I've been duplicating as much as I can at superaquarian.blogspot.com , and am doing a little more every night. To be honest, if you look at it on a desktop, I think that the Blogger site is slightly more visually beautiful. There's no way I can transfer it all in the amount of time, however. I also can't duplicate some features, and there are links around the web that will go dark. Some of the MP3 links and pictures I have on poems in the archives of this site, for example. I do have a backup of the full site, but it took me well over a decade to get it in place. The domains will be pointed at the Blogger site after the original goes nova.

The Bean Diet...

The Bean Diet...

Bean burritos,
Three kinds,
Only a buck forty-nine.

Red beans and rice,
Maybe an apple,
Would be nice.

Wallet may be thin,
Yet somehow,
We'll win.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 07/15/2017

"Rembrandt Sleeping..." Poem #29

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

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