"stafford" poems
Just lying on the couch and being happy.
Only humming a little, the quiet sound in the head.
Trouble is busy elsewhere at the moment, it has
so much to do in the world.
People who might judge are mostly asleep; they can't
monitor you all the time, and sometimes they forget.
When dawn flows over the hedge you can
get up and act busy.
Little corners like this, pieces of Heaven
left lying around, can be picked up and saved.
People won't even see that you have them,
they are so light and easy to hide.
Later in the day you can act like the others.
You can shake your head. You can frown.
William Stafford
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 10:01 PM UTC
He had got on the train at New Street,
Found an empty carriage spare,
And settled down with the paper
With not one to disturb him there,
But the train pulled in at Sandwell
And the carriage door slid wide,
And in there walked a pair of heels
With a dimple and hips beside.
She sat on the seat across from him
And laid her bag on the seat,
Kicked her shoes on the floor, so he
Could see her pretty feet,
He tried to look at his paper but
The print got up and walked,
Up from her ankles to her calfs
And he found it hard to talk.
‘How do you do,’ was banal but
That’s all that came to mind,
She briefly looked from her knitting, and
He thought that her eyes were kind,
But never a word would pass those lips
She had the slightest pout,
And her needles clicked to the railway clack
As his mouth was drying out.
He’d bought some fruit in the Bullring
So he thought he’d have some there,
And at different times he offered her
An apple, peach or a pear,
But she shook her head so slightly and
Politely, in disdain,
As if the thought of a stranger’s fruit
From a man in a suit, might stain.
The train chuffed on through Wolverhampton
While he drank a Coke,
He knew that his time was limited
For she’d get off at Stoke,
He offered to put the window down
But she said it blew her hair,
Then he offered his name as Paul, but she
Was not inclined to share.
She crossed her legs and she hitched her skirt
Just slightly above her knees,
While his eyes looked up to the luggage rack,
Was this some sort of tease?
Her knitting needles were clicking away
Was she knitting some sort of sack?
It seemed like she was racing the train
Ahead of its clickety-clack.
The train went racing to Stafford,
In and out, but it passed so fast,
He said, ‘We’re almost at Stoke, that’s where
We’ll both get out, I guess?
There’s quite a nice little café
Down by the station in the square,
I’d like to buy you a coffee, if you want
I’ll shout you there.’
She stopped, and packed up her knitting
Tucked it carefully in her bag,
And said, ‘You must be Australian,
And coming here, so sad.
I’ve never been ‘shouted’ a drink before
But I think you’re rather nice,
I’ll let you know that you’re past first base
On your way to Paradise!’
David Lewis Paget
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 1:17 AM UTC
Miss America 1977, the 50th Miss America pageant,
was held at the Boardwalk Hall in Atlantic City,
New Jersey on September 11, 1976 & aired on NBC Network:
Winner Dorothy Benham, Miss Minnesota,
became a singer,
on the Crystal Cathedral's
Hour of Power;
Among the other contestants in 1977
was Miss Florida,
TV actress Nancy Stafford,
&
actress Karen Kopins,
Miss Connecticut;
Another was Patsy Paugh, Miss West Virginia,
who later became the mother
& in 1996, suspected killer
of postmodernist icon Jon Benet Ramsey
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 10:15 PM UTC
The old and now empty railway track
Where iron horses will never come back
Carried trains along it on two four four
Driving along to the Welsh sea shore.
Children would travel with bucket and *****
Later to wonder at castles they’d made
While Mum and Dad with bags by three
Wondered if they’d brought enough for tea.
From Stafford station it pulled away
Stopping at Newport along the way
Then Shrewsbury town and Machynlleth too
Pulling in at Barmouth just after two.
Passengers piled out in their droves
Most of them looking for shallow coves
Mums carrying babies who’d often screech
Heading for quiet spots left on the beach.
To Mum and Dad it was a well earned rest
From their working days and household stress
And the joy of seeing children have such fun
It meant the holidays had begun.
Some days later, maybe three or four
Passengers waited by carriage doors
And back to their homes they all would go
With tales to tell to folks they know.
And as they journeyed East again
Saying goodbyes to holiday friends
They felt refreshed and enjoyed the ride
As the train sped away from the wild Welsh tide.
©JRW2014
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 11:41 AM UTC
To toast the official opening
Of our village Millennium Green
Twelve of us went on a journey
To see sights we’d never seen.
With a degree of apprehension
We were all of one accord
With an enormous basket that was attached
To a hot-air balloon we all got on board.
Whooshhh was the noise from the burner
As the pilot lifted up off the ground
But then as we rose up much higher
It was done with nary a sound.
Slowly we drifted Westwards
Then moving slightly to the South
A dozen brave souls in a basket
Gazed at landscapes with open mouth.
Stafford Castle was down below us
Then the motorway passed by too
We soon headed away from Stafford
Then Cannock Chase came into view.
We spotted some fallow deer grazing
Some of them sitting as if to retire
Then the pilot again fired the burner
And lifted the basket much higher.
Finally we reached the maximum height
That we were allowed to reach
Four thousand four hundred and eighty feet
A specific height that our balloon couldn't breech.
It was then that I saw with amazement
While the evening sun shone at our side
A passenger liner flew up through the clouds
It was a beautiful sight which no-one denied.
And did I get such a fabulous picture
Well of course not, I was too much in awe
By the time I had swung round my camera
A tailplane and the sight was no more.
We were coming to the end of our journey
I thought seeing the plane was the peak
But then we saw Lichfield Cathedral
With its three spires that make it unique.
The experience will always stay with me
Of an evening with a view from above
As we floated about in the heavens
Over countryside in the county I love.
©Joe Wilson – A View from Above 2014
‘August 2000 on a Friday evening in glorious sunshine, the balloon
lying in a heap on Derrington Millennium Green in Staffordshire, UK,
gradually began to fill with air as the pilot and his assistant slowly
pulled at it to allow air into all the creases. Suddenly it stood up
and drifted up into the air, though it was still tethered in four places
to the ground. I had no idea they were so big or so tall.’ ©Joe Wilson 2014
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 3:27 PM UTC
I heard the song.
I heard the voice.
I thought it was Elvis.
In the mist of my sleep the song was hypnotizing me.
Had me waking up to the tune "You Don't Know What You Got"
But it was Ral Donner behind the words.
Who I thought was Elvis?
He had his vocals down.
Upon this radio station I was upon, I heard "Tribute To A King".
Again, I thought it was Elvis.
With every word that was sung.
Only to heard the man state it was Ronny Mcdowell.
Even he had the voice down.
Had you thinking the "King" was still around walking.
I heard a song called "Suspicion" and knew Presley recorded the tune.
So I thought it was Elvis only to be cut down.
That it was Terry Stafford version I was listening too.
Yes, he had the voice down.
Had you thinking Elvis was still around.
If impersonation is the highest form of flattery.
Then he has been anointed the one to do.
Especially when many guys can perform him greatly.
Cause I thought all of them as Elvis.
And I wasn't even shook up.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 7:03 AM UTC
Houseflies always buzz,
In the key of F.
Sometimes people come across,
As something different than they are.
A woman attending Clark,
Didn’t think she was smart.
But that was proved untrue,
With her one sixty-five I.Q.
There is No Child Left Behind,
But what is there for children already ahead.
Thomas Edison, holder of a thousand patents,
Was once called stupid by a teacher.
If I ever die, I’d like it to be,
In late March. That way, I’ll have
Winter to go with me, and
I’ll leave the world warm.
In New York, one person’s job is,
To check all the musical instruments,
And make sure they’re in tune.
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 11:17 PM UTC
My father could hear a fish diving into the depths,
or a bee lost in an odourless darkness
and every pump of blood
that kept us alive.
More spoke to him from the vacant-eyed creatures
than his own blood,
standing feet beneath him,
screaming but still silent for his loud disapproval.
My father lived with the sounds
of walls closing in on him,
blocking the barriers with the
thoughts of his children’s voices.
After William Stafford's "Listening"
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 4:37 PM UTC
Some time when the lilies are all in vases ask me
the lessons I've learned. Ask me in a
picture, Ill give you words. Others
have been remanded, most plucked
away, and some roots hang
by a fray: ask me what is
a lily without the wind?
I will listen as best I can.
You and I will wade and play in
the muddy pond to find them. We know
they used to be there, drowning; and
there were hands to save them, trying
not to touch the petals but forgot us.
What the lilies say, that is what I say.
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 7:56 PM UTC
my eyes follow line upon line
strips of white in between
strange voices, stretches of silence
I hear them too
they lead me away from my peers -
in among the trees
birches breeding close to me.
knowing all along i can always return
although it won't be the same
*
still we go willingly where silence takes us
as cracks open - briefly -
in all the talking we do
Jan 15, 2011
Jan 15, 2011 at 3:11 PM UTC
Silver, cool, harsh rock-smooth as rolled steel on the horizon defies the cold blue-violet sky of Mars as the pinpoint dots of distant white suns circle in wonder of the scene.
Green mist hanging from the verdant leaves of the thick mountain forest permeates the humid cool air of a rain of a few minutes past above the soggy moss, gray-green rock, deep red brown trail, columned by mighty yet yielding deep-colored trunks.
Glistening snow reflects on each crystal the apparition of a cold white moon, blinding in glorious circles the eye which beholds the perimeter of sentinel black-green poines, opening the snow-hidden field to that which it mirrors.
Deep sea-salty blue-green transparency softens the pink bottom to a wavy yellow-pink-yellow-pink-banded black-white-black skittering across the deep pink-yellow-pink green blades waving in time to the yellow-pink-yellow deep sea, never leave.
On this day Cernan lands from his Gemini IX flight with Stafford conducting a two-hour space walk in that void.
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 8:23 AM UTC
I didn’t realise. I was a fool
Just another government tool
Beavering away, working hard
Until I got the pensioner’s card.
And now my ancient bones all ache
I’ll need NHS for my health’s sake
But a third of contracts in sickness’ fray
Like my local hospital, they were given away.
People’s views all treated with disdain
The Health Service reeling from such internal pain
While the wealthy go private, it’s simple for them
The ire of voters won’t be so easy to stem.
©Joe Wilson – The Family Silver Sale or The Stafford Hospital Lament… 2014
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 1:27 PM UTC
she used to sing around the house
songs from the Hit Parade
there was a little transistor radio
slim, dark green with a telescoping antenna
kept on the kitchen windowsill
she would listen to music
singing along while cooking and cleaning
or going solo a Capella
Rosemary Clooney, Della Reece
Frank Sinatra, Andy Williams
Jo Stafford Weston
she told me that when ‘Daddy” was in the hospital
he had his favorites
Don’t You Know and You’ll Never Know
he asked her to sing them again and again
her singing came from a good place
somewhere deep inside her
a place where she could just be herself
apart from life’s responsibilities
far away from the roles of wife
and mother to too many children
leaving behind the frustrations
of carrying on in poverty’s face
if only for the moment it took
to sing a song
she would sing about pyramids and sunrises
about a lady with an enigmatic smile
cheating hearts and when she might fall in love
and we learned all those songs too
as her hearing worsened
she stopped singing
as if she lost a piece of herself
she’s gone now
but we still have those memories
a musical legacy for her talented children
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 4:53 PM UTC
I am
water and
wry here
that watch
this motte
with Lucretia's
but her
riverbed yet
a glorious
day foretold
if her
buck didn't
sight this
and her
knot was
spangled in
her earring.
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 6:13 PM UTC