It Follows

My eyes roam skyward, sailing East
and, though a week can seem a moon,
when senses, on such beauty, feast
the night will pass away too soon.

My soul is drawn, when sailing west,
to more than I can, safe, absorb,
I am, by heaven's grace, possessed,
enraptured by an ancient orb.

It follows that a moonlit sky
would call your memory to mind
no matter where my roving eye,
no matter where you are. I find

that, love, the distance can't eclipse,
I feel you heart-- if not your lips.

If One

If you are gone and I am left
or else the other way—
if one is, of a love, bereft
to face the break of day,

then one heart wakes to God’s own light;
the glorious unfurled,
and one, the bitter end of night;
a cold and lonely world.

Which one of us will live alone?
My love, what does it matter?
With one name etched in marble stone
the other’s heart will shatter.

~ © 2006 By: W.D. Neighbors ~

When Rhyme Has Passed

I think I’ll think outside the bag
and write between the verses.
I’ll stiff them when they call for sag
and act while they rehearses.

I know I’ll live outside the land
of rules and lengthy speeches.
I’ll, findng rhythm, tune my hand
when free is what they preaches.

I’m anti-poet, since you asked,
inside the lines I’ll not.
And chances are, when rhyme has passed,
my verse they’ll long forgot.

 by: thewebsailor at: 1/15/04 11:56 pm

Tapestry

In tribute to the grace of loving long
I offer this to you in threads of rhyme –
A layered quilt of life, a silk sarong,
our tapestry – eternal, spun from time.

The narrow, cobbled, stony street we saw
where players danced and sang in days of yore
has yet to touch this lovers feet. In awe
I realize that now I love you more.

A piece of steel upon a knap of flint
can strike a spark that will, with luck, ignite,
we came together as if heaven meant
to purge for good the dark abyss of night.

A conscious thought, a choice, or cupid’s call--
you are my only love-- you are my all.

The Flow of Time

The flow of time is always cruel…

Like wintertime molasses.

I'm older now and such a fool…

I don’t know where my ass is.

(okay...its stilly....I don't care)...lol..... it is a "draft"....which means it can look silly while I continue to work on it until it either makes sense...or I quietly delete it.

A Well of Hope

I’m crazy for other reasons
but I so love a storm
from here inside my comfort zone,
with coffee, safe and warm.

And I believe in kiss for kiss
instead of tit for tat...
that dreams are love’s reality,
can you imagine that?

Our words are tools of verity
and verse extends our scope;
the heart’s a harbor built for love;
the soul, a well of hope.

All things being equinox

Magical balance in equinox lives,
if spring or the ending of summer.
Autumnal or vernal, the feeling it gives
is antipathetic of bummer.


I’m hating the solstices, bulging at ends,
unequal in daylight and lack of.
I’m loving the spring and the cool autumn winds
that summer just hasn’t the knack of.

Rhythm, circadian, charges in pools
of equally lengthy partitions.
The solsticey seasons appeal to those fools
encumbered by blind inhibitions.

Autmnal and vernal and solstices, props
and sets of the solar position...
to let us know when to be plantin' our crops
and tell us when we should go fishin'.

Dateline

Time Travel from the perspective of a sailor crossing the international dateline...

The Scholars made a circle out of time,

divided it in pieces like a pie.

Assigned to it a rhythm (not a rhyme)

and threw it, like a net, around the sky.

But Earth does not a perfect circle make.

Imaginary lines do not lie true

so pieces of our lives we must forsake

to hold it all together as we do.

All time will push against a Sailor's bow

when heading from tomorrow on his way...

and when he sails the other way, somehow,

it steals from him a piece of his today.

Knights of the Breakfast Table

Said the knight to the dragon, "I'll lop off your head
and, foregoing breakfast, eat dragon instead."
Said the dragon, "You dreamer, you haven't a clue
I've hardly been trying, I'm toying with you."

And the battle resumed with sword and with flame;
the combatants concerned more with fortune and fame
than with dodging the heat or avoiding a thrust...
these equals in battle, their skills did they trust.

With a sword made of poems, a shield made of hope
here's a modern day dreamer so far out of scope
as to wish himself thither, to there he'd be willed...
to win a fair maid when the dragon he's killed.

"Don't meddle in the affairs of dragons, for you are crunchy and taste good with ketchup!"

Axle

Time is many wheels revolving slowly
along a central spine,
an axle. Is it accident or holy
this universal line?

The stars exist in circles never-ending,
arrayed in common space.
The paradox? The view of time depending
upon the viewers pace.

The Earth and her companion form an axis,
an ordinary wheel.
Man, and this is where the parallax is,
has pride enough to feel...

that time and space revolve around his need,
the need to understand.
And, strangely, time now seems to be, indeed,
unfolding as if planned.

Beauty in the Beast

She might have seen the beauty in the beast
who prayed for her attention for so long.
She might have heard his pretty words, at least,
if only he had written them in song.

There lived a silent poet underneath
the muted suit of armor that he wore,
but only at its death did love bequeath
the nerve to write what wasn 't said before.

A never-written sonnet is a waste.
To hold the tongue of love is near a sin.
The sweetest words acquire the vilest taste
when seasoned with a love that might have been.

His poetry, his eloquence and light,
is wasted on the cold and lonely night.

Moonlight

From the dish of the gentle breeze
moonlight butters the night.
air as soft as a baby's breath
sweet as a young girls sigh.

Filled

In youth my heart was full of ghosts.
The living space inside of me
was filled with dreams and idle boasts,
what I could do, who I would be.

Now reservoirs of love I've found
and wells of hope have learned to spring.
My bold pronouncements, once profound,
now suddenly don't mean a thing.

I harvest thoughts to fashion rhyme
as old emothions drown in new.
A weary traveller in time,
I'm yet astounded by the view.

An empty vessel at the start,
it's filled with life... this human heart.

Kona Cowboy

Kona Cowboy
Posted: 7/8/01 9:56:17 pm

---

A slightly "different" cowboy poem... seems to be my specialty..

A far away vaquero
one dark Hawaiian night
let artificial heroes
lead him into a fight.

His saddlebags were taken,
his Appaloosa gone,
his lariat forsaken,
he vowed to move along.

His fragile spirit broken,
let down by life again,
his heartbreak left unspoken,
so all alone in pain,

he journeyed over water
to drink his sad away
and met a fallen daughter
from Wiamea Bay.

A thoroughfare to Nada
loomed in the cowboy's sight.
A Unicorn Remuda
trailed this Hawaiian knight.

She promised him forever.
he saddled up to ride.
forever turned to never,
the cowboy in him died.

The Devil's very envoy,
she was his final hope.
Aloha Kona Cowboy...
hanging under his own rope.

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 today.... 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?"

Half of one oh eight

Though some may say I'm fifty-four
to that I can't relate.
I prefer to think that I'm 
one half of one oh eight.

My bones may creak and groan as I
ascend another rung,
my mind, however, stubbornly,
remains forever young.

Six months from now my body may
insist that I recline,
but in my head I'll dance with joy...
one half of one oh nine!

Rush Hour

We hurry out of childhood into youth,
impatiently we spend the coins of time.
So little do we notice time, in truth,
we cannot see the reason for the rhyme.

The second act, our freedom here at last,
the freedom to do only what's expected;
to fight a battle rooted in the past
with images so blurred they aren't reflected.

And so we come upon our middle years,
our goal in sight, our focus to retire.
The "easy life" is music to our ears,
but life's momentum lasts till we expire.

Alas, before we take our final bow,
we take no time to be content with now.

The Snail and the Sports Car

A tiny sports car sputtered in,
a snail was at the wheel.
The gas attendant, with a grin,
said, "Snail, are you for real?

I 'preciate your right to cruise
and that red color's swell...
and naturally I can't refuse
to serve you here at 'Shell'...

but, I must say it's odd enough
now, snail, you must confess...
for such as you to drive and stuff...
say, why'd you paint that 'S'

there on the door, the driver's side,
in glowing shades of blue?"
The snail rose up with stately pride
and said, "Hey you would too...

I'm tired of hearing people say
'there goes that lowly snail'...
and night by night and sunny day
you know, they'd never fail...

to laugh at me, my lack of speed,
until I bought this car,
but, see me now, my soul's been freed,
I'm pretty near a star!

They teased and snorted; mocked my pace,
my life was filled with woe...
but now, they shout, as by I race...
look at that S car go!!!"

© 2004 WD Neighbors

A Tapestry

In tribute to the grace of loving long
and well, I offer this, a simple rhyme
to spin our lives together as in song,
a tapestry, eternal, spun of time.

The narrow, cobbled, stony street we saw
where players danced and sang in days of yore
has yet to touch this lover’s feet. In awe
I realize that now I love you more.

A piece of steel upon a knap of flint
begets a spark that will, with luck, ignite
We came together as if heaven meant
to purge, for good, the dark abyss of night.

To warm my soul within this surging fire,
to fuel our love is all that I desire.

34

A call has come we can’t ignore;
the bells of glory chime
to gather o­n a distant shore
a crew from out of time.

We come to grieve the many dead,
the shipmates lost back then
and as we hear the tributes read
our thoughts return again

to ports of call in foreign lands
a distant, brighter day
when life was held in younger hands
ashore and underway.

We listen to the bugles call
and wipe away the tears
as names and faces we recall
across the many years.

Now as the circle draws an end
forgive the tears we weep
to see our gray and weathered friend
committed to the deep.


~ © 2005 By: W.D. Neighbors ~




"I wish to have no connection with any ship that does not sail fast for I intend to go In Harm’s Way."
John Paul Jones to M. de Chaumont on 16 November 1778.

Shining Moments

Those shining moments in your youth,

they self define us, leave a scar,

emboss us, subtly, with their truth.

They serve to make us who we are.

Those blazing banners in the night,

the golden etchings set in stone.

Forever shining with a light

for other eyes but not our own.

For Me Alone

Why is it yours to pray for me,
precisely choose the course I set,
to tune the scope that I might see
your plan for me? My friend, I’ve yet
to fathom your intolerance
for those who sow and reap their fate
without your forced benevolence,
advice that won’t abide debate.

The scriptures of the universe
appear before our mortal eyes,
we stretch our minds to read the verse,
to comprehend, to realize,

the words are etched on every stone,
for you, my friend-- for me alone.



“I render infinite thanks to God for being so kind as to make me alone the first observer of marvels kept hidden in obscurity for all previous centuries.”

~Galileo Galilei

Priorities

That life will run this unrelenting pace

until the final syllable of time

does not, by any trial or judgment, place

an urgency on this, my lazy rhyme.

In motion, slow and slower, I will scribe

with frequent breaks to fill a cup with brew.

I change my cup when tea I would imbibe;

it’s nearly Sunday night and I’m not through.

Molasses, that of winter, oooh’s and aahh’s;

the tortoise’s have stopped  to wait in vain.

I write a letter, comma… now a pause…

as hope of verse completion starts to…. “Wayne!!

Your honey do’s aren’t done! It’s Sunday night!!”

“I’ll do them when I get this couplet right.”

On Leaving

On leaving Christmas presence in the air,
on holiday from work, or maybe not--
the spirit feels, as winter, cold and bare,
the body, now a temple sense forgot.

The reasons for the Christmas presents bought
are gone, like bows and papers in a bag
somewhere behind a fence. The hearts besot
with cheerfulness with milk and honey, sag
from Christmas dark regret, to new years sulk and drag.

© Copyright 2006 W.D. Neighbors

Of wind

I’ve often set my mind to solve
the riddle of the wind
that gently rocks the sleeping child,
that wills the trees to bend.

The magic of a lover’s touch
I’ve pondered in its turn,
that soothes as gentle, velvet ice,
that sets the soul to burn.

The love that keeps a body warm,
that, appetites’, well please,
can turn about on this and that
and bring you to your knees.

The wind that fuels the raging storm,
that feeds the surging seas
will whirl about in seconds flat
and, blows the gentle breeze.

Of wind and love I ponder, yet
no form or face perceive
but here my heart and there my sail--
of each would I receive.

© Copyright 2004 Dean Neighbors

Well

I’m crazy for other reasons

but I so love a storm

from here inside my comfort zone

with coffee, safe and warm.

And I believe in kiss for kiss

instead of tit for tat,

that dreams are love’s reality;

can you imagine that?

Our words are tools of verity,

and verse extends our scope.

The heart’s a harbor built for love--

the soul, a well of hope.

Epitaph

The poems form a universe

within the writers mind,

totality in metered verse,

infinity defined.

The poet gives his soul away

in portions he decides,

with thoughts that ebb and flow to play

emotions like the tides.

He writes of love and other things

he might have found in me,

of broken hearts and Angel's wings

I've lost and found at sea--

of parenthood and common sense,

of brothers on the wall,

revisiting their innocence

and other ports of call.

An honest bard he re-ignites

the glaring torch of truth.

With wells of bitter ink he writes

the epitaph of youth.

Private Practice

If I should write the splendor of your eyes,
if I describe your elegance and grace,
the readers may conclude the writer lies.
Who would believe the beauty of your face?

What fool will heed my voice in years to come,
so filled with of loving images of you.
They’ll sooner think I worship demon rum,
 then yield my case and pay your charm its due.

I dare not write a play about your smile,
what future actress then could play your part?
My shrine the angry critics would defile
and this brings a great distress into my heart.

I cannot, then, make love to you in verse;
but—if we cannot act, can we rehearse?

The Promise

Evicted from her garden by
a knowledge never sought,
was she villain, then, or victim in
a play that time forgot?

When tempted by an evil
bearing legendary fruit
did hunger conquer innocence?
Can history refute

this yarn of human weakness that
has passed from ancient times?
Is this a tale of simple truth
or fodder for our rhymes;

is it myth or could it be
a tapestry we weave
to chronicle the promise-- or
apocalypse of Eve?

Out of Print

Within the book of wasted time
a section must exist
with articles in perfect rhyme
of poets never kissed

by lady luck or fortune’s son;
(the gender matters not),
of loves and favors never won,
of passions never wrought.

My chronicle would grace this page
my love if not for you
as written by some useless sage
for all the world to view.

My dearest love I here exalt
that I am out of print.
The presses, dear, were made to halt
by orders, heaven sent.

Palo Duro Canyon Walls

The Palo Duro canyon walls
still echo with the sounds

of stalking braves and buffalo;
Comanche hunting grounds.

The Cheyenne and Arapaho,
the Kiowa and more,

well stocked with food to last till spring,
lived on the canyon floor.

Then in the moon of yellow leaves,
the blue coats tracked them down

with mercenary Tonkawa
they came without a sound.

Chief Kicking Bird and Lone Wolf led
brave warriors in the fray,

to hold the blue coat charge until
the women got away.

A valiant fight, a gallant stand,
then bloodied warriors fled

too late to gather horses so
they left on foot instead.

The Tule Valley to this day
yet echos with the sounds--

a thousand horses slaughtered on
Comanche holy grounds.

In Chains

I know, at last, why my heart sings
though in your prison I remain;
it’s borne aloft on Angel’s wings.

Love’s prisoner by free will’s choice
I serve my time, I don’t complain;
in custody do I rejoice—

for I know, well, that true love lies
within the freedom of my chains---
and in your heart, and in your eyes.

English

Inspired by “The Story of English” by Robert McCrum, William Cran and Robert MacNeil.

The words surround us like a sea
and, as the dark abyss will peak,
will ebb and swell with mystery,
so does the language that we speak.

The words we hold, perchance discard,
will differ with the where and whence;
yet English grows with each new card,
homogenized by common sense.

On Dublin streets, in Boston bars
the speech will sing its odd refrain;
our language bears its local scars
yet stays intact and shall remain

the sum of all that we have wrought,
our common words-- our common thought.

At the Bookstore Coffee Shop

He hangs out in bookstores, all dusty and dim,
or is it the bookstores that hang out in him?
He knows about life in a clinical way
from books he has read and the things people say.

The pants are too short and the face is too long.
The shirt and the bright purple vest are all wrong.
He hides behind glasses with tortoise shell frames
and lives with a cousin whose gold fish have names.

But he can think thoughts that no other can touch,
like Hawking, string theory, genomics and such.
He quotes from Will Shakespeare, and Cicero too
and knows Aristotle "much better than you".

He eats when he’s hungry and lives without time.
He hopes without rhythm and dreams without rhyme,
covertly, in cyberspace rooms where he knows
that he can be anyone, anything goes.

He’s read about life but he hasn’t yet been,
he promised his Mom but he backed out again--
and he’d shed a tear if he knew how to cry;
he’s dying to live while he’s waiting to die.


© Copyright 2004 W.D.Neighbors

Written, in draft at least, at the "Book Passages" bookstore in Corte Madera CA while I was waiting for my wife to finish her lunch. This is an ebellisment on an observation of a real person; a fantasy expansion (mostly in my mind) based on the subject's looks alone. I really like this poem (is it okay to like your own poem?).

Wicked

Of good we need so little sign
accepting what we’re told.
With ease do “evil” we assign
to ugly girls and bold.

Though wicked never was her name,
from in the west she flew.
And Glinda “north” then placed the blame
but, truly, Glinda knew

the Kansas girl of innocence;
of pure and simple thought,
escaped beyond the munchkin fence
with shoes she hadn’t bought.

Oh, evil is as evil does
and wicked’s often seen
in those depicted less than good
upon the silver screen.

Wages

“In timeless magic, lofty trees
don blankets made of virgin snow…”
This imagery is sewn to please
in ways that only poets know.

Inquire of nature, “What’s the time?”
and watch the day sink into night,
but hear the image in a rhyme
and see without the need for sight.

For life and love and beauty’s sake,
at banquets spread in poets minds,
of metered sweetness men partake
in verses of the many kinds.

What then could poet’s wages be
but joy and peace-- and sanity?

I Dream

I dream in iambic
I mumble in verse
for Will was my teacher
and Em was my nurse.

My quill dips in fountains
of eloquent ink
and beautiful etchings
for Poe was my shrink.

I farmed with my Tennyson
planting the seed,
I studied my Cummings
(old e.e.), indeed

“anyone lived” is a
poetry force--
and as for my Kipling,
I’ve kipled, of course.

I’ve mingled and mangled
with many a bard.
I will be a poet
it can’t be that hard.

First Bank of Poetry

The wisdom of the world is in a verse.
The mystery of life is in a book,
for poets re-create the universe
in every rhyme. It may be worth a look

into the bank of poetry, the vault
containing all the poems ever born
and all the clever words meant to assault
our muddled brains. For surely verse is torn

directly from the living mind of Man
presented red and dripping--with a smile,
the mask of jesters since this world began--
that men may read these words of wisdom while

they're pulsing with emotion, seeking morals--
or resting, warm and comfy, on their laurels.

Out of Print

Within the book of wasted time
a section must exist
with articles in perfect rhyme
of poets never kissed

by lady luck or fortune’s son,
(the gender matters not),
of loves and favors never won,
of passions never wrought.

My chronicle would grace this page
my love, if not for you
as written by some useless sage
for all the world to view.

My dearest love, I here exalt
that I am out of print.
The presses, dear, were made to halt
by orders, heaven sent.

Gifts

Some years ago I dared to ask the Lord

to stop all time, a beauty to preserve.

But life will set what pace it can afford
and time must charge such toll as we deserve.


My wish, though penned in earnest verses true,
was rendered moot as life reviewed the rhyme.
When God decides to dress a beauty new
then He will build the clock and set the time.


And chief among the many things I've learned;
I’m compensated though my wish is wrecked
for beauty has been doubled and returned
and time is truly cause to this effect.

In silence now I watch my gifts unfold...

a wiser man but surely never old.

Unfinished

It's not exactly therapy I guess
although these words, I find,
are more than just the way that I express
the storms within my mind.

The poems are a lifetime set to rhyme;
the scripting of a role;
a simple heart attempting to define
a complicated soul.

The poetry is meant to shout above...
more often, though, it sighs
in sweetly whispered welcomes to a love
or bittersweet goodbyes.

The verses sail the seas of age and youth...
they wander where they will.
The poems wrote the poet and, in truth,
they're working on him still.

Pandora Dear

Pandora dear, what have you there?
Don't meddle with those fragile locks.
Pandora dear please take a care,
don't open that unopened box.

The box is standing open now,
the words from deep inside have fled.
Pandora's left to wonder how
to render spoken words unsaid.

Our words are frozen thoughts defined
as they are formed within our past.
Our prejudices unrefined,
the thoughts are gone-- the words will last.

Some words and thoughts we shouldn't show.
Just ask Pandora, she would know

Myths and Rainbows

The truth will wear the clothing of a myth
to teach the common hero how to dance.
The philistine that David battled with?
If truth were told, he never stood a chance.

Our writings and our stories manifest
the spirit and the mystic side of Man;
they summarize the truths that we have guessed
along with all our dreams since time began.

The essence of the ocean's in a drop;
the mystery of life, within a flea--
and words connect the bottom to the top
so all the wonder circles back to me.

and as ye sow then so ye shall be told--
of promises and other pots of gold.

Friendly Fire

We mourn the losses, praise the heroes well--
then loose, again, the beast that we control.
We know, of course, the beast was born in hell
but, gentled now, by good’s collective soul.

We tune the awkward monster, hone his sight
to humanize, recalibrate his aim.
But, though we seek to turn him to the right,
at heart, his beastly purpose is the same.

A child, alone, belonging to the earth,
no race, religion, nation understood
is in the path by accident of birth
and innocence won’t do him any good.

For, War, the beast we hone to render mild
cannot be trained to recognize a child.

The Snail and the Sports Car

A tiny sports car sputtered in,
a snail was at the wheel.
The gas attendant, with a grin,
said, "Snail, are you for real?

I 'preciate your right to cruise
and that red color's swell
and naturally I can't refuse
to serve you here at 'Shell,

but I must say it's odd enough
now, snail you must confess,
for such as you to drive and stuff...
say, why'd you paint that 'S'

there on the door, the driver's side,
in glowing shades of blue?"
The snail rose up with stately pride
and said, "Hey you would too!

I'm tired of hearing people say
'there goes that lowly snail',
and night by night and sunny day
you know, they'd never fail

to laugh at me, my lack of speed,
until I bought this car,
but see me now my soul's been freed,
I'm pretty near a star!

They teased and snorted; mocked my pace,
my life was filled with woe,
but now they shout as by I race.--
look at that S car go!!!"


© 2004 Dean Neighbors