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