A Zeugma (gesundheit)

I'm in love with an optional comma,
I discovered while fleeing the nest.
Used, mostly, to separate Mama,
from riff and the raff and the rest.

My zeugma's syleptic and tattered,
three words I just had to look up.
Mom taught me just what she thought mattered
when I was a wordless young pup.

I'll Refrain from explaining the meanings
and use words I don't comprehend
abovers, belowers and tweeners,
it all will make sense in the end.

Of Love

A feeling of euphoria,

a woman and a rose,

a long, committed partnership,

of love the husband knows.

A tenuous and abstract thing

of love he understands--

or thinks he does until they

put a baby in his hands.

A miracle, a wonder who

can bring him to his knees,

who grips his heart with fear at

every cough and baby sneeze,

she calls to him in silent nights,

the deepest sleep defeats.

She holds his breath in hostage till

he knows her heart still beats.

Behold, the hulking man of men

of beastly, manly powers

who’s brought to tears by tiny fists

with gifts of mangled flowers.

A feeling of euphoria,

a little girl, a rose,

a dirty face, a sloppy kiss--

of love the father knows.

The Path

A child, I walked a path of stone
through darkness to the dawn.
A youth, I journeyed so alone,
intent to carry on.

A man, I found my dreams were lying
on the path of "then"...
some comfort for the child there crying,
walking still within.

In middle age the light grew dimmer,
beauty hard to see.
The splendour of the path, a glimmer
hardly known to me.

But, older now, I see quite clearly
where it is I've been.
I've crossed the bridge of life and nearly
reached my home again.

The darkness served to give me leave
to grow before the sun.
The stone forced me, I now believe,
to walk till I could run.

The dreams were left by God as binding,
meant to keep me whole.
The path? Along a river winding
through my mortal soul.

Forever to Never and Back alternate (lol) version

The parallels lined up in traces
each singing in alternate voice
with infinite actors and faces
selected by multiple choice.

In manifold runnels and branches
the players chose courses and tack
concurrently synchronized dances
forever to never and back.

A lullaby sung in a whisper,
a yesterday saved with a smile,
the passing realities kissed her
as clouds tumbled by single file.

still working....some throwaways??  Or keepers???

The parallels lined up in traces
each singing in alternate voice
with infinite actors and faces
selected by multiple choice.

In manifold runnels and branches
the players choose courses and tack
concurrently synchronized dances
forever to never and back.

As Schrödinger's kitty will mention;
if quantum mechanics play fair
the passive observers attention
resolves if you’re hither or there.

Assuming reality branches
at every moment in time
this poet is pleased, for the chance is
his verses both will and won’t rhyme.

In infinite multiverse classes
the matter is sure to repeat
as pessimists fill up their glasses
with whiskey diluted and neat.

A lullaby sung in a whisper,
a yesterday saved with a smile,
the passing realities kissed her
as clouds tumbled by single file.

Forever to Never and Back

The parallels line up in traces
each singing in alternate voice
with infinite actors and faces
selected by multiple choice.

In manifold runnels and branches
the heart chooses courses and tack,
concurrently synchronized dances
forever to never and back.

A lullaby sung in a whisper,
a yesterday saved with a smile,
in passing the memories kissed her
as clouds tumbled by single file.

Unspoken

A never-ending melody
is playing in my mind,
the quintessential poem, yet
without a single rhyme,

a sonnet for eternity
containing not a word,
a lyric never spoken for
a ballad never heard.

I write a single verse a day
my heart in every line,
a tapestry of ecstasy
my love for you entwined.

My silent heart composes verse
to apprehension’s themes.
I write for you a song of love…
but only in my dreams.

It Follows

My eyes roam skyward sailing east
and, though each moment seems 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 one can safe absorb.
I am, by heaven's grace, possessed,
enraptured by an ancient orb.

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

a glow that distance can't eclipse,
I feel your love-- if not your lips.

Elizabeth

This is for my "borrowed" Grandma (My wife, Jeanie's Grandma), Helen Elizabeth Cheney

Elizabeth, you held my heart so near,

as near as any given you at birth.

Without a second thought you called me “dear”

and looked beyond the troubles to the worth.

Although my stubborn tongue refused to tell,

you heard my heart and didn’t probe the shelf,

so high, that hid my past. You primed the well

but let me pump the blood of life myself.

And now my turn to play the “catcher” role,

the one you played for me without a net.

And now my turn to touch a troubled soul--

it seems so hard without you here. And yet,

Elizabeth, you taught me well; love grieves

but, given and returned, it never leaves.

Orange is the color of pain

Blue cats and chartreuse kittens are
careening through my mind.
My ears have seen the truth and now
my nose is going blind.

I sense yellow p’s, purple fives
and bitter smelling sounds.
I’m hearing colors, tasting shapes,
perception’s out of bounds.

I have oval Thursdays, orange pain
and brain lobes with no fences.
I taste your voice and see your scent;
I’m multiplexing senses.

It’s half past square and sounding cold,
this wind’s a dreadful hue.
I’d paint your questions for you but
I’m feeling rather blue.

Away

Aweigh the anchor! Underway tonight.

I ride the changing tides of time to sea,
beyond the breakers, past the guiding light
into the depths of sweet serenity.

Away to find my purpose I depart
this port without a compass or a scroll.
Away to know God's presence in my heart,
to feel His gentle touch upon my soul.

As I embark on life's embracing wind,
so like a lover's touch, a velvet hand,
grant me, oh Lord, calm seas to journey's end
and grant my love a way to understand...

the drunkenness that seaward Sailors know...
this sweet intoxication as I go.

Askance

We look, askance, at self in jest
with naked, empty eyes;
we try to chart the track that’s best
through life’s uncertain skies.

We cannot make an outward choice
without an inward glance
to check the state of mother’s voice--
we dare not take the chance.

The lords of ambiguity,
we work to earn a “name”,
pursuing great celebrity--
while demonizing same.

Words

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


Our words engulf us like the sea
and as the dark abyss will peak,
will ebb and swell with mystery,
so too the language that we speak.

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

On Dublin streets, in Kingston bars
the native sings his odd refrain;
the language bears its local scars
yet stays intact and shall remain

the sum of all that man has wrought,
his precious words, his common thought.

© 2006 W.D. Neighbors



The words surround us like the sea
and, as the dark abyss will peak,
will ebb and swell with mystery,
so will 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 man has wrought,
his precious words, his common thought.

© 2006 W.D. Neighbors

Mists of Autumn

Let me share with you a story
of a Kingdom by the sea,
Knights of old in all their glory
filled with pride and gallantry.

I have seen the moonlight glisten
on the lake at Camelot.
I have dined with the magician
and crossed swords with Lancelot.

Hear the story, dark and tragic,
of the King at Avalon
how the Kingdom lost it’s magic,
all the dreams of glory gone.

There came a King for all of Britain,
destined, he,  to claim the throne
pulled the sword as it was written
from the scabbard made of stone.

Gallant knights around a table
gathered as a bard did sing,
daring, battle-scarred and able
led by their forever King.

Guinevere, the fairest maiden
gave her hand but not her heart,
know this Queen was trouble laden,
never faithful from the start.

Mists of autumn never-ending
down the corridors of time.
mounted knights and horses blending
into beasts of war sublime.

Fields of battle, rolling thunder
bloody sword and piercing lance,
did he choose to die I wonder
was it destiny or chance?

Arthur, wounded, pale and bleeding
all his plans of battle failed,
with the force of life receding
did forsake the Holy Grail.

He was born to rule forever
but forever came apart
Cursed by love, in love forever,
love has stilled his broken heart.

At the lake while moonlight glistens,
Merlin ponders his mistake,
now he knows he should have listened
to the Lady of the Lake.

Gone for now or gone forever,
what will future poets sing?
For the wizard, deft and clever
named him “Once and future King”.

Oldest of One

I’m the youngest of seven, the oldest of one,
a paradox past understanding,
I'm.the oldest of five that I wed on the run
while fleeing the market street landing.

I’m naked inside like the eyes of a clown
and cannot believe what I've told you…
but such as this can’t keep the tongue in me down,
my ignorance needs to enfold you.

~Dean Neighbors~

Chronicle

So it's off to Omega I go
and, as future events I traverse,
it's a comforting thing just to know
in the end I'll come back in reverse.

My personal universe lives
as a chronicle written in rhyme
filled with hints that my subconscious gives
of my previous travels through time.

As I travel time's infinite scope
I'm aware that my passage is paid
with the tangible substance of hope
from which all human wishes are made.

Pecos Calvin Cline

Old Pecos Bill rode into camp
astride his grizzly bear,
he wore a hat of diamondbacks
and cactus underwear.
 
His shirt was made of alligators
captured by surprise,
which you could tell by lookin' in
their dazed, shirt button eyes.
 
His trousers were coyote skin
superbly cured and dyed,
but I believe the critters still
was livin' there inside.  
 
For boots he wore live armadillas
held there on his feet
by two old rattle snakes he'd wrapped  
around and knotted neat.
 
A cloak of angry timber wolf he'd throwd  
acrost his back
and I could see he had another
tucked inside a sack.
 
"You're lookin' good old Pecos Bill"
I said, as he hopped down.
He stabbed at me with beady eyes
and pierced me with his frown.
 
"A fashion plate, a man to envy,
Pecos Calvin Cline."
He stared at me a moment then
as though I'd lost my mind.
 
"What, this old thang?", said Pecos Bill,
"I got ta tell ya, pard,
I whipped this up this mornin' from
the critters in my yard."
 
And then a grin attacked his face and
conquered his demeanor.
"I had ta shoot my other suit...
the durn thing ate the cleaner."

Oceola

In eighteen hundred thirty eight
a painter, passing by
before it was too late,
used skill and artists eye

to gauge a noble warrior’s heart
to excavate his soul
to make a warrior torn apart,
appear, forever, whole.

The eyes of golden amber brown,
the face of mirrored dread,
a feathered plume, a crimson crown,
a race so nearly dead.

The “trail of tears” this warrior chief
could not, by choice, abide,
his Seminoles met sad defeat
bereft of hope and pride.

The warrior garb belied his pain
for life and hope were done,
he wouldn't live to fight again
as death had nearly won.

When Catlin ceased, his eye fulfilled,
his painting graced a hall
to show the world a warrior, killed,
could live to haunt us all.

A link to the George Catlin Portrait of Osceola and his story.

Sweet Abyss

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 bouquet in rhyme

that re-declares my love, that would describe
the sweet abyss that slowly drew me in,
the amber liquid love I yet imbibe,
the kiss of life that dares me, kiss again.

When life with you is over, verses read,
when words no longer form within my soul,
when light has gone and all is dark instead
our love will yet remain, as ever, whole--

as long as there's the power of the quill,
as long as there is verse... and longer still.

Rivers of Time

Dinosuars waiting for stone to erode,
their skeletons covered, uncovered again,
iron that's forgotten the blood where it flowed
and phosphorous leached from a primitive brain--

delicate sabers of soft-stepping cats
enshrouded in shimmering oceans of sand,
strata of relative sediment that's
concealing the bones of the earliest man--

visible traces of numerous beasts,
the sum of Earth's creatures forever enshrined--
signs of their passing won't slow in the least
the rivers and runnels of ongoing time.



"We loved the earth, but could not stay" ~ Loren Eiseley~

This poem was inspired by an aritcle by Loren Eiseley.

When Life Invented Love

Love is but a state of mind we choose,
or not, depending on a want or need--
a bet we make, a pot we win or lose.
It's not a magic process. Nor indeed
is happiness a right we’ve earned because
we've paid some youthful dues, accruing debt
to be collected under nature's laws,
a charged potential, not extracted yet.

By all that’s right in life, by all above,
be earnest in your choices, humble too.
The best intent can bring the best of love
or bring you back to earth to choose anew.

All such was understood before the time
when life invented love-- and lovers rhyme.

Owed To Me

I am a lowly throw rug that
is lying on your floor.
You often wipe your feet on me,
you think that’s what I’m for.

I am a full-length mirror down
the hallway by the shelf.
You look only at my surface
for reflections of yourself.

You cover me with garbage, I'm
the bottom of your sink.
I am at your disposal--
or so you seem to think.

Like the electric blanket that
you use while counting sheep,
you turn me on to warm you up
and then go right to sleep.

I am the picture window where
you watch the falling rain.
To you I am transparent, you
will never see my pane.

But, I'm a rusty wind chime that
you cannot just ignore,
when you knock me from my pedestal,
I'll tinkle on your floor.

And I'm a winter snow storm that
has covered up your lawn,
and like those fragile snowflakes, by
the springtime I’ll be gone.

A Tail of Two Sisters

Oh, Cali the dog is a long one

with hindquarters narrow and far,

her nose sniffs around in the pantry

while her tail is out dusting the car.

Her muzzle is noble and wolf-like

she wears four white socks with a smile,

she’ll bark at intruders politely

but “watch dogging” isn’t her style.

Short Boxy, the wonder pup fuzzball,

ferociously growls as she scoots,

the fantasy squirrels all around her

take cover and shake in their boots.

She climbs to her perch on the sofa

and curls in a ball for a nap,

one eye is half open and watchful

for a treat or a welcoming lap.

The girls, of course, aren't truly sisters

although they would challenge that call,

young Cali the big family sweetheart
and “A.K.A. Lucy”, the small.

Circle Circle

Oh why, dear muse, has this pen been forsaken?
Does verse not slake your ego when you thirst?
Perhaps your taste in wine I have mistaken,
a sour grape for muse? I have rehearsed
the motions of the quill I made before
but little seems to flow. The verses should
be pooling on the paper, not the floor
like blood or wine. If only poets could
turn on and off the muse through force of will,
extract the feelings deep within the heart,
I’d wick the fear and love from pot to quill
and scratch them on a page. If I could start

perhaps then, muse, you would restore my knack
and let the magic circle, circle back