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.