The Gibson

My Father-in-law, Bob Blake, owned and played an old Gibson acoustic guitar for most of his life… from the age of 13 until he was about 60.

While it was still around, in the mid-1960’s the guitar began to show her age. She had a crack in one side that went almost the whole length of the body. It had been played so much that there were deep grooves in the neck. Bob wrote to the Gibson company and asked if they could repair her. They said no, so he lovingly took her all apart and used epoxy to glue her side and filled in the grooves and cleaned and polished her and put her back together. She sounded more beautiful than ever. Bob has been gone for many years now…he, and his music, are missed. I wrote this some time ago…. it was, partly, inspired by another poem (Voices), written by my friend Kathy Earsman. Eventually, when arthritis took its toll on his fingers, Bob gave the Gibson to one of his sons… and somewhere in the shuffle the Gibson was lost.

In gentle tones he sang the blues,
with working hands caressed a chord.
Not one request would he refuse
for nothing more could he afford.

He lived within a country song;
his Gibson and his voice defined
the only tune that wasn’t wrong;
the hidden sweetness in his mind.

And near the end, in sweetest voice,
the music filled his soul it seems…
and in the end, as if by choice,
he left the music to our dreams.

The sweet and mournful music sleeps
in other hands– the Gibson weeps.

Fresh Roasted Peanuts

You know the park and how the scene will go.
You know the girl and boy, you know them all.
You know, by now, the boy should really know
the girl will always snatch away the ball.

You know the house behind the house of brown
You know the baron shot it from behind.
You know the pilot well who rides it down
but even so, you never seem to mind..

While tickling the ivory one night
the quiet boy who wants to be the star
saw that he'd never lead the troupe despite
his talents which, by rights, should take him far.

And maybe now you understand just why
he changed his tune and made the beagle cry.

Autumn Apple

The Autumn apple, crisp and tart
or spicy crusty warm in pies,
to please the senses, touch the heart,
the nose, the tongue, the hungry eyes.

Sarah

In shadow views of battle yet to be
the final stranger beckons me. I fear
that I must now accept what I forsee;
the moment of my death is drawing near.

Oh sarah, how I want to see your face,
to touch, once more, the softness of your skin.
Though fate is sealed and destiny in place,
I long to hear your gentle voice again.

If it is true that spriits conquer death
then I will yet return to you somehow.
The winds that cool your skin shall be my breath,
my tears the gentle raindrops on your brow.

I pray you, Sarah, do no mourn me dead...
think I am gone to wait for you instead.

The Captain

The Captain lifted anchor, daring thunder
and loosed his steam on stationary shaft.
He planned a voyage south-a-ways; down under
in his expensive yacht of shallow draft.

At dinner time he hailed the chef “Luigi”,
“it’s time to drop the pasta in the pot.
I need to build my strength. I hear, in Fiji,
that girth and manly size count for a lot.”

The crew was lazy, leaving work till later—
their sleeping skills and loafing to refine.
Thus, when the yacht approached near the equator,
there was no swabby set to gaff the line.

The equator upon the bow was captured
and through the miles and lonely night was stretched
till, suddenly, as if he’d been enraptured,
the Captain, to the Bering strait, was fetched.

Arising to the call to eggs and bacon
the Captain halted fork enroute to mouth
his eyes beheld the view and he was shaken
for he had traveled north by steaming south.

© copyright 2005 w.d.neighbors

Little Hands

Little hands are making messes.
Little voices making noise.
Dirty shirts and dirty dresses.
Little fingers breaking toys.

Papa pay us some attention.
Little patience from the start.
Papa, don't forget to mention,
Little hands that hold your heart.

Necessary Task

If necessary I will die or kill
within the rules engaged to govern such,
though these may slow my fuse, impede my will
against a foe with no such moral crutch.

If necessary I will go to war;
extend my country’s might beyond the sea,
but when you ask this of me, nay before,
look closely at my face and you will see—

the little babe who suckled at your breast,
who once believed you walked upon the water.
I am the worst of you and all your best;
your own courageous son, your gallant daughter.

My country, in your heart, before you ask,
be certain death’s a necessary task.

© Copyright 2005 W.D.Neighbors

Pausing

Life’s autumn fell and kept on falling
to the point of no return,
so I, a child of fifty pausing,
turned to watch my candle burn.

My youth, and those forbidden lovers,
wasted lies, ungallant nights.
The truth is in my rear-view mirror;
errors, balks and false delights.

My pride, our children and their children
found the end of mother’s rope.
My life and love went off in search of
something more, another hope.

There, on the edge of self destruction,
second chances found the first,
and she, a child of fifty pausing
loved me though I’d feared the worst.

So we, aware of sixty calling,
doubled down on all our bets,
and, burning both ends of our candle,
moved ahead with no regrets.

Reflections (for Marty)

Having spent Christmas with my "rock hound/UFOlogist" brother in law and his family...

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In darkened desert peaks
imagination seeks
to find the ancient faces in the stone…

and “want to see it eyes”
search water-mirrored skies,
in wonder, for reflections never shown.

An object in the lake,
in helpless double take,
escapes from unidentified to known...

the visitors from space,
in alabaster lace,
are beams the moon has spilled for you alone.

The Captain

The Captain lifted anchor, daring thunder
and loosed his steam on stationary shaft.
He planned a voyage south-a-ways, down under
in his expensive yacht of shallow draft.

At dinner time he hailed the chef “Luigi”,
“it’s time to drop the pasta in the pot.
I need to build my strength. I hear, in Fiji,
that girth and manly size count for a lot.”

The crew was lazy, leaving work till later—
their sleeping skills and loafing to refine.
Thus, when the yacht approached near the equator,
there was no swabby set to gaff the line.

The equator upon the bow was captured
and through the miles and lonely night was stretched
till, suddenly, as if he’d been enraptured,
the Captain, to the Bering strait, was fetched.

Arising to the call to eggs and bacon
the Captain halted fork enroute to mouth
his eyes beheld the view and he was shaken
for he had traveled north by steaming south.

© copyright 2005 w.d.neighbors

Drink of Life

My planned spontaneity doesn’t surprise;
my rose colored glasses don’t cover my eyes
but all of that matters so little. It’s true
because of the fortunate presence of you.

We’ve matching insanities, perfectly synched
we stare and we stare then together we blink
Compatible vices, no reasons to hide
with hearts on our sleeves we will stumble in stride.

When life gives me lemons, I know what to make,
I’ve gallons and gallons, I’m filling a lake.
And wasn’t it fortunate, nearly a sin
that I should meet one to whom life would give Gin.

In a hand basket

The bike is coasting down the lane
the wheels go round and round,
why am I in this basket and
where is it that I’m bound?

I take my chance, a leap of faith,
then quickly to the farm
to jump into her arms, again.
I’m safe from further harm.

Then off to walk the yellow road,
adventures are in store.
I think it’s safe to say we aren’t
in Kansas anymore.



This was inspired by a bumper sticker I saw.... it read, "Why am I in this hand basket, and where am I going?"

and it just wouldn't go away until I wrote it.

"If happy little bluebirds fly
Beyond the rainbow,
Why oh why can't I?"