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

Journey To Misted Lands...

Journey To Misted Lands...

I feel the call,

Charlie guides me,

Befeathered for my ease.

I only just recently discovered that Charlie is Odin,

But I've known for awhile one of his other names is Hermes Mercury. 

That the Egyptians knew him  as Thoth was new to me as well.

At Yule, my Norse ancestry pulls me to the mysticism of old Viking gods, and giants, and the misted, snowy lands they loved.

Time works differently there. It comes with a pivot point of possibility that can't be navigated in a modern patadigm. 

The Runes called to me last year, and I studied them somewhat, then put them down. That last is earning me some blowback. My runebook has vanished into the Void, and I await its return.

The Runes have been calling to me again, strongly.

Compassion is the greatest sign of Humanity.