Transcendent Cigar...
I sit in this slow place of dark wood and leather,
Filled with the untarnished pure scent of fresh smoke,
Blended pure sacred tobacco,
Reading of mystic worlds,
Sending prayers up in white-grey whirls.
This is not a place of rushed cigarettes and worried addictions.
This place between times nourishes the soul,
Filled with reverie and daydreams,
I'm walking between unseen worlds,
Never having left my seat.
This is a place I am awake,
Past going through daily motions,
I savor the consciousness I'm allowed,
Hurry doesn't exist here,
Only insight infused with delight,
Coffee-swirled with magic.
If the universe exists in my head,
I am at its center here,
Exactly half-way between my ears,
Neither grounded nor adrift.
This space isn't for everyone,
Yet all are welcome.
I study and write and dream and wish,
Without desperation or despondence,
Pages in,
Pages out,
Literacy a gift of our ancestors,
The way their spirit can literally be held in my hands,
A sacred trust indeed.
Some day soon I'll hear drums,
I wonder what worlds I'll then wander?
This is the time that softly glows.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 11/3/2009
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Valley Of The Shadow...
Valley Of The Shadow...
I walk in places of darkness with a light shining bright,
Speak of certain evils and call them into plain sight,
Refuse to bow down to dark lords of anger and pain,
Follow not any leader with raging evil dreams,
I speak clearly and truthfully,
For this the shadows hated me,
Tried like unknowing lepers to shut my mouth,
If they could stuff foul cloth and still my heart they would've.
Six years now gone by and all of you walked off a cliff,
I've been far away and gone,
Free of your abuse and misuse,
The one who refused to follow,
Who you tried to Dixie Chick,
Who you told to shut up and write polite.
How does it feel to be among the rocks at the bottom,
Your souls were so eager for visions of steel and pain and fire,
Are you any different now in the after,
Any different than those whose agony you sought in revenge?
I suppose for me it doesn't much matter,
Don't bother to answer,
It's not such a big thing for me to forgive.
Really.
I guess the real question is,
Now that you're the Devil's consort,
Can you forgive yourself?
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 11/03/2009
Author's Note:
I was happily posting poetry at another site, thinking I was with friends. There was talk of war with Iraq. I wrote against going to war. They wrote horrible things back, then locked out my posts from answers, claiming that just leaving them on the board was enough for freedom of speech. Some friends. I wonder how they look at themselves in the mirror, now after all the blood and treasure are gone. I wonder. But I don't really much care.
I walk in places of darkness with a light shining bright,
Speak of certain evils and call them into plain sight,
Refuse to bow down to dark lords of anger and pain,
Follow not any leader with raging evil dreams,
I speak clearly and truthfully,
For this the shadows hated me,
Tried like unknowing lepers to shut my mouth,
If they could stuff foul cloth and still my heart they would've.
Six years now gone by and all of you walked off a cliff,
I've been far away and gone,
Free of your abuse and misuse,
The one who refused to follow,
Who you tried to Dixie Chick,
Who you told to shut up and write polite.
How does it feel to be among the rocks at the bottom,
Your souls were so eager for visions of steel and pain and fire,
Are you any different now in the after,
Any different than those whose agony you sought in revenge?
I suppose for me it doesn't much matter,
Don't bother to answer,
It's not such a big thing for me to forgive.
Really.
I guess the real question is,
Now that you're the Devil's consort,
Can you forgive yourself?
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 11/03/2009
Author's Note:
I was happily posting poetry at another site, thinking I was with friends. There was talk of war with Iraq. I wrote against going to war. They wrote horrible things back, then locked out my posts from answers, claiming that just leaving them on the board was enough for freedom of speech. Some friends. I wonder how they look at themselves in the mirror, now after all the blood and treasure are gone. I wonder. But I don't really much care.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Song Of The Green Way...
Song Of The Green Way...
Green man,
Ancient carved life,
Symbolic derivative dream,
Cast across the living world,
Net and web and cycle,
Born to die to be born,
Circle of seasons stride.
Green spirit,
Life lives in each breast,
Heart touched and tender,
Irrepressible faith,
Understood without thought,
Guide inside to glide,
Soaring forest and low prairie,
Shadow of shade joy.
Green moment,
Beginning embodiment,
First breath and beat,
Universe living now,
Timeless point of creation,
Enduring endeared engendered,
Reflection of spirit unbowed.
Green light,
Surrounds and permeates,
Interwoven magical field,
Visualization creation,
Glow of softnesses' great strength,
Beauty in Mind's unending eye,
Infinity calling.
Green way,
We walk loving mother Earth,
Dancing embracing joyous,
Boundless duty of us all,
Stewards' path soft-trodden,
Winding and wended throughout,
In all that we do we're begotten,
Future and past and mostly NOW.
Green people,
Seeking searching surviving thriving,
Beautiful and wistful and loving,
Tenure to seek and hold,
Touch with caring for all,
Walk softly determined.
Green magic,
Sacred circle unbroken,
Uncorked bottle of higher creation,
World whirled in cosmic mind,
Kindred of the kind,
Splashed from wet earthy fingers,
As gardeners unendingly delight,
Softly keening chant,
Celebrate light life and night.
Green Earth,
Mother and children,
Rocking cradle and grave,
Shining bright life's light.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 10/29/2009
Words are the mind's bridge - its connection to all the universe.
Love is the heart's bridge - its connection to all other souls.
Loving words can work miracles.
Green man,
Ancient carved life,
Symbolic derivative dream,
Cast across the living world,
Net and web and cycle,
Born to die to be born,
Circle of seasons stride.
Green spirit,
Life lives in each breast,
Heart touched and tender,
Irrepressible faith,
Understood without thought,
Guide inside to glide,
Soaring forest and low prairie,
Shadow of shade joy.
Green moment,
Beginning embodiment,
First breath and beat,
Universe living now,
Timeless point of creation,
Enduring endeared engendered,
Reflection of spirit unbowed.
Green light,
Surrounds and permeates,
Interwoven magical field,
Visualization creation,
Glow of softnesses' great strength,
Beauty in Mind's unending eye,
Infinity calling.
Green way,
We walk loving mother Earth,
Dancing embracing joyous,
Boundless duty of us all,
Stewards' path soft-trodden,
Winding and wended throughout,
In all that we do we're begotten,
Future and past and mostly NOW.
Green people,
Seeking searching surviving thriving,
Beautiful and wistful and loving,
Tenure to seek and hold,
Touch with caring for all,
Walk softly determined.
Green magic,
Sacred circle unbroken,
Uncorked bottle of higher creation,
World whirled in cosmic mind,
Kindred of the kind,
Splashed from wet earthy fingers,
As gardeners unendingly delight,
Softly keening chant,
Celebrate light life and night.
Green Earth,
Mother and children,
Rocking cradle and grave,
Shining bright life's light.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 10/29/2009
Words are the mind's bridge - its connection to all the universe.
Love is the heart's bridge - its connection to all other souls.
Loving words can work miracles.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Maybe volunteering at the County forest preserve a little...
Made inquiries re: volunteer @ Co. Forst presrv. Comp. gave us a day off 2 do.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Walking The Labyrinth...
Saren & I went for an Autumn afternoon visit to Quest book store at the American Theosophical Society headquarters in Wheaton just a bit ago.
I picked up the September & October issues of Mindful Metropolis, the Soul-Heir to our vanished Conscious Choice magazine.
After finishing at the bookstore, we got outside among the giant old trees just turning for Fall. There are huge old Sumac there too. As we were walking to the large labyrinth to walk the spirals in the chill air, I was carrying my cherry-trunk walking staff; the one that I'd burnt the entire Oagham alphabet in with a magnifying glass, seven feet tall.
I caught the unmistakable scent of beeswax on the breeze. Sure enough, the bee keeper was working the hive, harvesting combs I think.
The sky was steely grey and a soft ceiling over us as we walked the paving stones, silent in meditation except for feet on gravel.
Now we're indoors with hot chocolate, Duffy, Norah Jones, Van Morrison, ad other wonderfully mellow songs playing.
What a wonderful, cold, colorful, cocooned day.
Dan
I picked up the September & October issues of Mindful Metropolis, the Soul-Heir to our vanished Conscious Choice magazine.
After finishing at the bookstore, we got outside among the giant old trees just turning for Fall. There are huge old Sumac there too. As we were walking to the large labyrinth to walk the spirals in the chill air, I was carrying my cherry-trunk walking staff; the one that I'd burnt the entire Oagham alphabet in with a magnifying glass, seven feet tall.
I caught the unmistakable scent of beeswax on the breeze. Sure enough, the bee keeper was working the hive, harvesting combs I think.
The sky was steely grey and a soft ceiling over us as we walked the paving stones, silent in meditation except for feet on gravel.
Now we're indoors with hot chocolate, Duffy, Norah Jones, Van Morrison, ad other wonderfully mellow songs playing.
What a wonderful, cold, colorful, cocooned day.
Dan
A Day At The Beach...
A Day At The Beach...
Sand - soft and giving usually,
Today packed and damp and hard,
Breakers rumbling tumbling rippling rolling,
Ceaseless as the wind in your hair ears eyes face,
Sea gulls climb it screeching swooping gliding turning,
Sky of grey steel blue charcoal ash in constant motion,
Sun faded washed scrubbed over-dubbed clouds,
Grasses waving blowing swaying rustling browning,
Trees whipping bending tapping turning browning,
Leaves flying drifting swirling falling sliding,
Red ones orange ones yellow ones brown ones crinkle and blow and rustle,
Lake Michigan powerful at your feet moving spraying churning.
The only still things driftwood sitting on the dark yellow sand and old footprints.
Autumn is here and it's another day at the beach.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 10/10/2009
Sand - soft and giving usually,
Today packed and damp and hard,
Breakers rumbling tumbling rippling rolling,
Ceaseless as the wind in your hair ears eyes face,
Sea gulls climb it screeching swooping gliding turning,
Sky of grey steel blue charcoal ash in constant motion,
Sun faded washed scrubbed over-dubbed clouds,
Grasses waving blowing swaying rustling browning,
Trees whipping bending tapping turning browning,
Leaves flying drifting swirling falling sliding,
Red ones orange ones yellow ones brown ones crinkle and blow and rustle,
Lake Michigan powerful at your feet moving spraying churning.
The only still things driftwood sitting on the dark yellow sand and old footprints.
Autumn is here and it's another day at the beach.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 10/10/2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Uniform Corn...
Uniform Corn...
Row-upon-row of identical gold,In products wherever they're sold,
Corn oil and plastic,
Corn paper and corn sheets,
I wonder will it someday be corn false teeth?
The whole world over we depend on corn,
Drive it fly it eat it grind it boil it butter it,
Pop it and salt it,
But can you believe it?
Uniform corn with so much uniform DNA,
So few varieties - but when the GM comes into play,
Doomsday seeds and BT,
All the better to kill off the bees,
Floating away on a pollen-filled wind,
The GM genes will do us in.
Will climate change the corn,
Or can our corny world survive?
Uniform corn,
I scorn the uniform corn,
Boil it all and feed it to pigs,
Bring back the indian variety and sweet,
Colors and flavors and fun,
It's all a corn maize we have to run.
Corn rows of blackbirds all in flight,
It's uniform corn that we must fight!
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 09/25/2009
High Summer On Herrick Lake...
High Summer On Herrick Lake...
The sky is a cloudless seventy five and sweet.The breezes soft as a baby's kiss,
The grasses dance slow,
Slow and sultry and tall.
People are all around and reverent,
Walking dogs,
Rowing boats and canoes,
Fishing,
Throwing frisbees,
Lying in dappled shade holding hands.
The leather and wood I carry is essential,
Almost as old as I am,
Somewhat battered and serviceable,
Beauty inside waiting.
I find an old picnic table in the shade,
Down at the far end of the lake,
I can scent the green and mirror water,
Dragon flies dancing over sparkling rowboat wakes.
Everything is green and light,
Faint hints of Summer's yellow end barely showing.
I pull the golden brass from its case,
And through me Bello sings.
Clear as water and bright,
The notes drift out over the lake,
Easy and mellow,
The reed sings to all its cousins,
"I am alive!"
I bring the notes down low and rumbling,
A deference to Thunder that's left us all this grceful peace,
Then push for the ragged edge of harmonics,
As close to chords as a saxophone gets.
Young children stare in delighted surprise and wonder,
Parents smile and walk slower.
People smile in passing,
I play and play,
One of the last bright Sundays of Summer languidly passing by.
If this is not church and worship and thank-you to God,
I am lost and deaf and blind,
No more so than sources of dispute.
I roll gently through the deep and soft notes of my ending song,
Disassemble,
Close the case,
Walk back to the yellow truck.
A fine cigar and chair are waiting,
Coffee and the songs of frogs and cicadas.
September is sweet,
At peace,
A piece of forever.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 09/13/2009
My Little Park...
My Little Park...
Over in the old town today,Doctors and physical therapy.
Finally realeased,
It's like recess,
Cloudless 85 degrees,
The Summer that almost wasn't.
The soybeans in the field are a third golden,
Like God swashed a streak of yellow amid the green paint.
The edges of stately old trees are orange or yellow,
Faint yet unmistakeable signs of Autumn's advent.
Birds lazily chirp in time to cicada melodies,
Not quite ready to flock.
A white egret drifts across blue sky,
Somewhere between fishing ponds.
I've played Bello's golden notes to the lowering Sun,
Laid him to rest and lit my Cameroon cigar.
Butterflies and bees float by,
And if I couldn't see the cars and telephone wires,
I could be a hundred years younger.
I went by the old house today,
The grasses I planted lush and flowering seven feet tall,
Untouched by the mortgage buzzsaw's relentless insanity that cut us out of Paradise.
I sit at my little park on 135th street,
Mentally removing pavement from my picture.
I missed the dandelions so.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A.Stafford
(C) 09/14/2009
Honey Be...
Honey Be...
The birds and the bees,Know a thing or three.
The sun up above,
Shines down on our love.
Oh, Honey be,
Sweet for me,
I'll love you,
Forever and I do.
The flowers and the trees,
wil see me on my knees.
Only for you,
Honey, yes it's true.
Oh, Honey be,
Sweet for me,
I'll love you,
Forever and I do.
When I see you smile,
It thrills me like a child.
Sweet Summer Sweet,
You're my honey treat.
Oh, Honey be,
Sweet for me,
I'll love you,
Forever and I do.
The birds and the bees,
Know a thing or thee.
You're the one for me,
So pretty and so sweet.
Oh, Honey be,
Sweet for me,
I'll love you,
Forever and I do.
Oh, Honey be,
Sweet for me,
I'll love you,
Forever and I do,
Love you.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 08/31/2009
Author's Comments
Think 50's rock-n-roll ballad...Gonna Give Rosie A Ring...
Gonna Give Rosie A Ring...
Ah,
Sweet mornin' glowing bright and true,
Gonna give Rosie a ring,
Sweet-playing thang,
Gonna give Rosie a ring.
If the day comes when I'm feelin' down n' blue,
Gonna give Rosie a ring,
All six strings,
Give Rosie a ring.
Playin' true in the morning,
Strummin' happy by evenin',
Even if I can barely sing,
Just gonna give Rosie a ring.
Someday I'll play so fine,
Happy up on cloud nine,
All because I gave Rosie a ring,
Sweet-playin' thang,
Just gonna give Rosie a ring.
And when Heaven calls,
Won't need no harp in the Angel halls,
No,
Just gonna give - give Rosie a ring,
Lord, let me give Rosie a ring.
Aahaaaa,
Yeah,
Give Rosie a ring.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 08/29/2009
Author's Comments
I can hear this in a late 50's style, no distortion, kind of clear and bright chord strumming. Some day I'll be able to play it. As you know, Rosie is my Strat - so when I play her, I call it "giving Rosie a ring." The cloud 9 reference is because our new digs are on the 9th floor, so I call the place Cloud 9.Candy Apple Strat...
Candy Apple Strat...
Twang!
I can feel a little heat off the amp,
It's like a Christmas bulb in my eyes,
Pretty and hot.
I've waited for years and later finally came,
I can hear it screaming sweet in my head,
Waiting for release.
Slow steady work finally located Rome,
Now for the years to build it,
Not starting a day too late.
I can feel all my legends buzzing under my skin,
If I can play anything they invented I'll be thrilled,
Finding joy in a burst of song.
Glory days don't have to pass you by.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 08/28/2009
Author's Comments
I bought a Mexican-made used Fender Stratocaster on eBay, the guitar you see pictured here. She's in mint condition and plays like a dream. Candy Apple Red with a rosewood fretboard. I'm thinking to call her Rosie. I have a lot of learning to do - I'm also wanting to learn to repair guitars on the side. No, I have not given up the sax - but at times I get in a rut with it and have to put it down for a few days. I've wanted one of these for 20 years - so now I can alternate between the two.Movin' Time Blues...
Movin' Time Blues...
Put it here,Throw it there,
Push it - pull it up the stairs,
Drenched in sweat,
No time for sleep,
To take your life it will constantly creep,
Move it, move it move it!
A change of address,
A change of state,
Relaxed to busy,
Resigned to fate,
Exhaustion's folly,
I'm not one spared,
These new digs now must be shared.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 07/31/2009
Friday, September 25, 2009
Perfect Afternoon...
Perfect Afternoon...
Seventy degrees,
Top-of-the-line cameroon cigar,
An even burn from light to finish,
Not even a lighter-flick between,
One mile per hour breeze.
The songs of birds and insects washing over fields mostly golden,
Weeping willows draped over a small creek,
Sunshine just peeking through a ceiling of grey the last fifteen minutes,
Golden fire that eases up to your feet,
Drifts by like an old friend coming home.
Sipping coffee slowly,
As first leaves of Fall drift down from huge old trees,
They swirl across a country road in circles,
Tickled by Summer's playful good-bye breath.
The Equinox celebrated by life's song,
I am in quiet reverence,
The air of home I breath in,
Last-of-the-season dandelions speckle still-green grass,
Watching clouds kiss the top of an ancient domeless grain silo,
Witnessed by the old barn with a mossy roof.
There is something sacred in moments like this,
Something in my blood and bones knows these lands intimately.
I am feeling close to my ghosts as the season passes,
Another year drifting towards the snows of closure,
I am in this current of time,
Fishing for the best moments,
Another landed in my poetry's net,
Set to live long and glorious,
Resplendant in the color of serenity,
Tinted by a hint of angst,
Poignant in forever's unending universe.
The prairie flowers are my silent witnesses.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 09/21/2009
(135th Street, Eaton Preserve, Plainfield, Illinois, USA)
Seventy degrees,
Top-of-the-line cameroon cigar,
An even burn from light to finish,
Not even a lighter-flick between,
One mile per hour breeze.
The songs of birds and insects washing over fields mostly golden,
Weeping willows draped over a small creek,
Sunshine just peeking through a ceiling of grey the last fifteen minutes,
Golden fire that eases up to your feet,
Drifts by like an old friend coming home.
Sipping coffee slowly,
As first leaves of Fall drift down from huge old trees,
They swirl across a country road in circles,
Tickled by Summer's playful good-bye breath.
The Equinox celebrated by life's song,
I am in quiet reverence,
The air of home I breath in,
Last-of-the-season dandelions speckle still-green grass,
Watching clouds kiss the top of an ancient domeless grain silo,
Witnessed by the old barn with a mossy roof.
There is something sacred in moments like this,
Something in my blood and bones knows these lands intimately.
I am feeling close to my ghosts as the season passes,
Another year drifting towards the snows of closure,
I am in this current of time,
Fishing for the best moments,
Another landed in my poetry's net,
Set to live long and glorious,
Resplendant in the color of serenity,
Tinted by a hint of angst,
Poignant in forever's unending universe.
The prairie flowers are my silent witnesses.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 09/21/2009
(135th Street, Eaton Preserve, Plainfield, Illinois, USA)
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Welsh Hills...
The evening is raw and fallen,
The chill bone-deep upon the wind.
The chill bone-deep upon the wind.
The stones by the solemn blue seaside are wary and drab,
Laid in a place where hearts rage in wounded silence.
There is a cold and ancient magic there,
Amid the barrows and monoliths in the Welsh hills.
It makes people sing.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 07/18/2009
Words are the mind's bridge - its connection to all the universe.
Love is the heart's bridge - its connection to all other souls.
Loving words can work miracles.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Firefly Park...
Firefly Park...
The Moon full and glowing silver.
Stars and planets shine,
The Season is Summer warm and humid.
I read of art and think to paint again,
Breach all the colorless barriers that surround me,
False walls of wisdom so heartless.
The lords and ladies of lightning dance the skies tonight,
Flickering greenish yellow among grass and oak and maple,
Childhood friends I look to every season.
As the Spring blossoms wilt and fade,
I understand that we all long for more than our short season,
This being the root of all fears of change.
Could we glow season after season,
Chasing dreams of love amid dancing fireflies,
The rustle of grasses at our feet in the breeze.
Write and paint and play your music!
Never stop,
Except to witness the Fireflies dance.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 07/06/2009
Words are the mind's bridge - its connection to all the universe.
Love is the heart's bridge - its connection to all other souls.
Loving words can work miracles.
The Moon full and glowing silver.
Stars and planets shine,
The Season is Summer warm and humid.
I read of art and think to paint again,
Breach all the colorless barriers that surround me,
False walls of wisdom so heartless.
The lords and ladies of lightning dance the skies tonight,
Flickering greenish yellow among grass and oak and maple,
Childhood friends I look to every season.
As the Spring blossoms wilt and fade,
I understand that we all long for more than our short season,
This being the root of all fears of change.
Could we glow season after season,
Chasing dreams of love amid dancing fireflies,
The rustle of grasses at our feet in the breeze.
Write and paint and play your music!
Never stop,
Except to witness the Fireflies dance.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 07/06/2009
Words are the mind's bridge - its connection to all the universe.
Love is the heart's bridge - its connection to all other souls.
Loving words can work miracles.
Monday, June 8, 2009
The Perfect Bowl Of Soup...
The Perfect Bowl Of Soup...
If I could take what's in your eyes,
Boil it down in a huge steaming pot,
Stir in what's in your heart,
Maybe a fresh onion,
Carrots and tears and smiles,
Celery and pain,
The scent of helpless joy,
And the taste of home,
Just a hint of future possibilities,
Ancient ways and traditions,
Youthful exuberance and chopped carrots,
Five drops of a dream come true...
The scent roiling up from the pot would leave me speechless,
The perfect bowl of soup.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 06/08/2009
Author's note:
I watched Ramen Girl tonight. Poets will get it easily.
If I could take what's in your eyes,
Boil it down in a huge steaming pot,
Stir in what's in your heart,
Maybe a fresh onion,
Carrots and tears and smiles,
Celery and pain,
The scent of helpless joy,
And the taste of home,
Just a hint of future possibilities,
Ancient ways and traditions,
Youthful exuberance and chopped carrots,
Five drops of a dream come true...
The scent roiling up from the pot would leave me speechless,
The perfect bowl of soup.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 06/08/2009
Author's note:
I watched Ramen Girl tonight. Poets will get it easily.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Isla De Los Suenos Malos... (Island Of Bad dreams)
Isla De Los Suenos Malos... (Island Of Bad dreams)
Life on an island,
Late afternoon sun,
Dinner at a sidewalk cafe,
Latin dancing in the streets,
Mission architecture everywhere,
Colorful and beautiful,
A movie crew filming down the street.
High-wire dancing ladies,
Cameras up high on booms,
Rooflines only pictured,
"Psst - why only the roofs?"
"A movie on Global warming, they'll blue-screen the water."
"Won't that be a thousand years from now, that deep?"
"No, a hundred at most, if it keeps going like this."
Wandering home darkness falls,
A six-story apartment house with balconies,
Wide open walls at the ground level,
Looking West waves are coming chest high,
No winds only light warm breezes,
Waves right into the house and rising,
Soaked and shivering climbing stairs,
Fourth floor finally high enough,
Fitful sleep All manage.
Morning comes,
Waves lowered down to first floor now,
Far above the beach now sunken,
No storm - rising water,
Wading to where the beach should be,
Community trying to pile sand to block waves,
Struggling as water washes all away.
Back to the house,
Movie dancers in the air in crystal skirts in the distance,
Giant squid reaching into the house searching prey,
Dodge and walk upland to the air strip.
Small plane very high,
The Earth's curve below,
The land on the map shrunken and sinking in reality below,
Everywhere.
Alarm clock rings.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 05/27/2009
Author's note: My dream last night.
Life on an island,
Late afternoon sun,
Dinner at a sidewalk cafe,
Latin dancing in the streets,
Mission architecture everywhere,
Colorful and beautiful,
A movie crew filming down the street.
High-wire dancing ladies,
Cameras up high on booms,
Rooflines only pictured,
"Psst - why only the roofs?"
"A movie on Global warming, they'll blue-screen the water."
"Won't that be a thousand years from now, that deep?"
"No, a hundred at most, if it keeps going like this."
Wandering home darkness falls,
A six-story apartment house with balconies,
Wide open walls at the ground level,
Looking West waves are coming chest high,
No winds only light warm breezes,
Waves right into the house and rising,
Soaked and shivering climbing stairs,
Fourth floor finally high enough,
Fitful sleep All manage.
Morning comes,
Waves lowered down to first floor now,
Far above the beach now sunken,
No storm - rising water,
Wading to where the beach should be,
Community trying to pile sand to block waves,
Struggling as water washes all away.
Back to the house,
Movie dancers in the air in crystal skirts in the distance,
Giant squid reaching into the house searching prey,
Dodge and walk upland to the air strip.
Small plane very high,
The Earth's curve below,
The land on the map shrunken and sinking in reality below,
Everywhere.
Alarm clock rings.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 05/27/2009
Author's note: My dream last night.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
When Summer Comes...
When Summer Comes... Sun shining brilliant of diamond clarity, On grasses and trees a sea of green, The Rock of my youth turned way up, Windows down on the highway and wind in my hair, Memories of Summer nights dancing noon 'til two, Walking home miles along the river by starlight, Plastered and exhausted and impatient for another night, Raw motion emotion and music saturated, Wild and light on my feet as lightning, The river still runs there where the festival comes, The night clubs burned down or deserted, Memories of an era of incessant motion, When Rock County was the ruler of dance, Miles by scores and centuries in every golden direction. AquarianM By: Daniel A. Stafford (C) 05/19/2009 Words are the mind's bridge - its connection to all the universe. Love is the heart's bridge - its connection to all other souls. Loving words can work miracles. .
Monday, April 27, 2009
Dream Life...
Dream Life...
A course set in stardust,
Moonbeams and silver screens,
Paper wizards dying gasps,
Mental insulation encapsulated in desire,
Lust for status really is lust for better flesh,
An orchestration of psycho-science's black magic,
Played against instincts like Bach's piano,
Until no one knows reality from cotton clouds,
Sold dreams and living ignorant of nightmares.
It's so easy to lie on that sofa,
Exhausted from chronic lack of real life dreams.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 04/27/2009
Author's note:
The average working adult in the USA gets six hours per night of sleep, two of television, and very little non-corporate news. It's only with the advent of the internet that this is beginning to change.
A course set in stardust,
Moonbeams and silver screens,
Paper wizards dying gasps,
Mental insulation encapsulated in desire,
Lust for status really is lust for better flesh,
An orchestration of psycho-science's black magic,
Played against instincts like Bach's piano,
Until no one knows reality from cotton clouds,
Sold dreams and living ignorant of nightmares.
It's so easy to lie on that sofa,
Exhausted from chronic lack of real life dreams.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 04/27/2009
Author's note:
The average working adult in the USA gets six hours per night of sleep, two of television, and very little non-corporate news. It's only with the advent of the internet that this is beginning to change.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Secret Whispers...
Secret Whispers...
It's in the heart.
To always wonder,
Why,
Am I here,
Will I die,
Or be remembered?
So we dance,
Whisper in a whirlwind,
Wondering.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 03/18/2009
Words are the mind's bridge - its connection to all the universe.
Love is the heart's bridge - its connection to all other souls.
Loving words can work miracles.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Finally I Can Post here Again!
I've been unable to post to this site since some changes my ISP made in mid-January. I just got that fixed today.
Things are a bit rough for me right now. I broke my ankle in three places shoveling snow in late February. I'm still looking at anoth 6 & 1/2 weeks on crutches with no weight bearing on my ankle. After that, it's only gradually adding weight.
I've been allowed to use vacation time to cover the last three weeks, plus one more. After that I'll have to go back to work while still on crutches for five weeks. I'll be on desk-only duty during that time.
It'll be some time in the fall before I get to go back to karate. That part is really hard.
I hope all of you are doing well and enjoying our early spring weather.
All the best,
Dan
Words are the mind's bridge - its connection to all the universe.
Love is the heart's bridge - its connection to all other souls.
Loving words can work miracles.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Quick Reply…
I'm looking around and seeing no modern day Jesus,
Just men with or without hearts,
Women their equal.
People still thinking they are above and outside the bonds of community,
Because they think they can play the system,
And those who see the necessity but can't find the object.
It's a world in whirling transition out there,
And hip waders will only get you so far,
Especially on TV or in print.
Walking around the edges stinks,
And being at the center is drowning in the dream-turned-nightmare.
It's time for another time,
Another paradigm,
And you just made me write a poem,
Without even thinking deep,
SuSanne.
In response to SuSanne's "Too Deep To Wade".
(http://thegoldenquill.yuku.com/topic/13911 <http://thegoldenquill.yuku.com/topic/13911> )
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
©01/28/2009
Words are the mind's bridge - its connection to all the universe.
Love is the heart's bridge - its connection to all other souls.
Loving words can work miracles.
Just men with or without hearts,
Women their equal.
People still thinking they are above and outside the bonds of community,
Because they think they can play the system,
And those who see the necessity but can't find the object.
It's a world in whirling transition out there,
And hip waders will only get you so far,
Especially on TV or in print.
Walking around the edges stinks,
And being at the center is drowning in the dream-turned-nightmare.
It's time for another time,
Another paradigm,
And you just made me write a poem,
Without even thinking deep,
SuSanne.
In response to SuSanne's "Too Deep To Wade".
(http://thegoldenquill.yuku.com/topic/13911 <http://thegoldenquill.yuku.com/topic/13911> )
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
©01/28/2009
Words are the mind's bridge - its connection to all the universe.
Love is the heart's bridge - its connection to all other souls.
Loving words can work miracles.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Got my astrology chart done 2day...
Got my astrology chart done 2day, GLOWING report from my astrologer. Should be a banner year. He actually said he doesn't ever remember doing a chart with so many beneficient aspects. Way cool.
Words are the mind's bridge - its connection to all the universe.
Love is the heart's bridge - its connection to all other souls.
Loving words can work miracles.
I HATE grocery shopping.
Did I mention that I HATE grocery shopping? 1 or 2 bags, fine, but more than 5 sux.
Words are the mind's bridge - its connection to all the universe.
Love is the heart's bridge - its connection to all other souls.
Loving words can work miracles.
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