Consider

 

Consider if you will our flying friends,
recipients of nature's greatest grants.
Imagine just how dull Earth might have been
had birds not struck a bargain with the plants.


Consider if you will a simple seed
whose embryo and sustenance combine
to give the feathered traveler his speed
and pay the fare for those that drop behind.


Consider if you will the quest of man,
digging up his world in search of power,
his universal, superficial plan
is clearing skies of birds and Earth of flowers.

Consider now the miracle of Spring--
suspended from a petal and a wing.

The Udder Truth

 "A cow is of the bovine ilk;

one end moo the other milk." ~ Ogden Nash ~

Born to give us cheese and butter,
usefulness that’s keen and utter,
milking cows is such a treat…
takes a sit and grabs a teat.

Aim the stream and hit the bucket,
skim the cream. With any luck it
pleased you when I made that rhyme.
I’d rather poet anytime

than milk a cow as in my youth.
They smell bad, that’s the udder truth.

Whisky Diluted and Neat

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

As Schrödinger's kitty will mention,
if quantum mechanics all jive
the passive observers attention
resolves if you’re dead or alive.

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

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.

Longer Still

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,
and words no longer form within my soul
our love will yet remain, as ever, whole …
when thoughts are spent and wonder left unsaid,
as long as there's the power of the quill,
as long as there is verse ... and longer still.


alternate verse 3

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

Running 9/1/01

Writing in the margins,
hiding on the page.
Schooled in imperfection,
cowering with rage.

Following the guidelines,
living by the book.
Simulated blindness,
terrified to look.

Frozen indecision,
powerless to choose.
Diagramming failure,
satisfied to lose.

Putting off beginning,
steering clear of ends.
Intimate with strangers,
insecure with friends.

Fleeing ever faster,
running short of breath.
Sprinting out of childhood,
hurrying to death.

Lying in the postscript,
bleeding from the heart.
Living in the margins,
dying from the start.

January Eyes

“And the sea shall grant all men new hope, as sleep brings dreams of home.
     - Christopher Columbus, 1451 – 1506”

We were headed for a mooring

in the damp and heavy mist

of a cold and dreary morning

by the chill of winter, kissed....

when the final act of landing

brought a sadness to my face

and a Sailor’s understanding

that the years cannot erase.

I have only to remember

for the feeling to arise

in the bones of my December,

in my January eyes.

I'd depart again tomorrow

on the voyages of youth

but, as age is kin to sorrow,

I must face the bitter truth—

I am headed for a mooring

in the damp and heavy mist

of a cold and dreary morning--

---by the chill of winter, kissed.

~ Dean Neighbors ~

Circle Circle

A circle circles roundabout

and finds a way to, neatly, close

without a pause or any doubt.

You’re smiling, Mother, I suppose

for now it’s mine to hold the hand

to soothe the ego, slightly bruised,

to wipe away the tears drops and

repeat the phrases often used…

“My little one, ignore the pain--

tomorrow brings another dawn.

No rose can grow without the rain.

Until the fear and pain are gone

I’ll hold you close, encircle you

as circles must”-- as fathers do."

Just The One

All our moments grew from just the one,

a solitary portion of an hour--

but, oh my love, this moment was the sun

that gave its light to grow this lovely flower.

A single step in time’s immortal flight,

I paused to shake the roses free of dew,

to watch the moon ascend majestic night

and, in that moment, fell in love with you.

In such a moment miracles occur

when love’s a rose whose fragrance fills the air,

when past recalls how beautiful you were

and present how beloved. Then and there

I chose to give my heart, to stop pretending,

to live within this moment, never ending.

Pandora

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.

Your words are frozen thoughts defined
as they were formed within your past;
your prejudices unrefined...
the thoughts are gone, the words will last.

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




Edited by: thewebsailor at: 9/11/03 1:10 am

Imaginary Friend

I listen to your silence
and try to understand.
I occupy your vacant heart
and hold your empty hand.

You've known me whence and whither,
from mid to either end,
your ever present, very real,
imaginary friend.

Are you the burglar?

Are you the Burglar? (or Bilbo Revisited)

Were you offered an adventure
past the gateway to the lake
for a share of golden treasure?
What decision did you make?

Were you captured by some hungry Trolls
while spying all alone?
Did the magic in the sunlight
turn your enemies to stone?

Did you travel on a pony
through the mountains in the spring,
did you really riddle Gollum,
did you dare to steal his ring?

Do you know the King of Eagles,
were you once his honored guest,
did you travel through the forest
with King Thorin and the rest?

Did you ride the running river
on a barrel made of wood?
Did you really tease a dragon,
did it do you any good?

Do you live in Hobbit comfort
with the money that you made?
Do you boast of how the Goblins
and the spiders fear your blade?

Will you now forsake adventures?
Have you put away your sting?
Are you still the only burglar
for the Wizard and the King?

Were you truly born the only son
of Belladonna Took?
Or are you simply lost in an
extraordinary book?

Opaque

Opaque before the light of early dawn,
a window pane, a portal to my youth,
shows visions out of time. My eyes are drawn
to scenes within. An oracle of truth
embraces me, its chilly arms enfolding
my heart and all my dreams. She loves him yet,
she mourns the distant hand she could be holding,
the touch her mind and body can’t forget.

As dark as any moonless night I’ve known,
and darker still, my heart. What muse that’s left
is black as any crow that’s ever flown,
beyond despair and utterly bereft--

as if the eyes of God were unforgiving,
as if my soul had died and left me living.

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.

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

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

My 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.


Dean Neighbors

Out of Print

Within the book of wasted time
a section must exist
with chapters penned 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.

OF 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 had a chance.

Our writings and our stories manifest
the spiritual and mystic sides 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 seek then so ye shall be told
of miricles and other pots of gold.

~ © 2002 By: W.D.Neighbors ~

He Couldn't Say

My father passed away last Thursday...after a long, full life of 94 years.,,,.. I visited with him in October and wrote a poem about him at that time.... I sort of .."folded" parts of that poem into this one. Dean Neighbors....12/31/2001 Pleasanton, CA

John was born a farmer’s son,
and learned to work the lands,
in rural Oklahoma where
they made life with their hands.

He learned to tell a story well,
and all the family knows
of model Tee’s, depression days,
and silent picture shows...

of wagon trips and cotton crops
and playing country ball,
of dough-boys who went “over there”
and lived to “bless ‘em all”...

of one room schools and butter churns
and following a plow
behind a team of stubborn mules…
he still remembered how.

The oldest of eleven then...
what could the schoolboy do
but read his books behind a plow
and pray his rows were true.

John married young as some men do
and raised a family
of seven children, seven strong
with quiet dignity.

They moved to Colorado
to find a better day.
He learned to raise another crop,
to live another way.

Then out to California
a blue pacific dawn;

the war was recent history,
the grapes of wrath were gone.

John lost his love one dreary day
but kept his stubborn pride
and lived another  forty years,
though half his heart had died.

He didn’t share his hopes for life,
I didn't know his dreams.
I didn’t know I didn’t know
until today it seems.

But I know faith and honesty,
he carried them inside
with dignity, humility
and unrelenting pride.

And I know well integrity,
he lived it every day…
and in the end I came to know
the love he couldn’t say.

September Rain

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?

That words are tools of verity;
that verse extends our scope,

the heart’s a harbor built for love,

the soul, a well of hope.

Ashes to Ashes

Let’s trace our paths back near conception

more precisely, a moment before.

At the start we’re the clay of perfection

to be shaped as we transit life’s door.

God will shape us as homo erectus

but our minds are left blank as a stare.

Apparently, God must expect us

to learn from the world while we’re there,

We begin by distinguishing classes

gaining clues from the creatures most near.

Those who feed us and powder our asses

and the “others”, whose worth is unclear.

Soon, we’ll ponder our ultimate purpose

but, for now, we’re content with our role

until cousins or siblings usurp us,

we rule all our world, on the whole.

Life’s reality tends, then, to shock us

when the self-serving rivals appear

first to poke us, to prod and then mock us

with clandestine kicks to our rear.

If we live through the toddler phases

we, with school’s paradoxes, make war.

We conform, don façades of teen crazes

then we graduate, lost, as before.

Come careers and a marriage and babies,

a child to distort all our own.

Though our mind is of questions and maybes

our disguises are settled in stone.

It’s the clueless now leading the clueless

a parade that is endlessly long.

“Dear, don’t look at the homeless and shoe less,

learn to do as I do to get on.”

We all choose our refuge, our haven,

a bias, religion or chore.

and then, sure as Edgar Poe’s Raven,

we begin to hatch versions of yore.

“If only my parents had taught me

better habits and sticking to goals,

but they loved siblings more and forgot me

thus my life full of questions and holes.”

“More to blame are my teachers and bosses

my government, husband (or wife)

but for them I’d not be counting losses

I’d be warm and content with my life.”

Ah, at last, comes the moment for leaving

and we give up our life with a sigh,

as the relatives count the ones grieving

and your money while faking a cry.

Thus our universe spins to the minute,

once again the primordial ball,,

with a bang, spills the contents within it

and “She” starts reconstructing it all.

Yes, a capital “She”, I must tell you

that the news about God is quite large.

Just before your departure for hell you

should know that Pandora’s in charge.

Wander

My mind will often wander
to how my life was spent
from birth... from morn to evening,
to how I came and went

Then, for a breath, I wonder
before my time is gone
how much was pre-determined…
how much was mine alone?

Unconsciously I measure
my journeys starts and ends
the steps that I have taken
the distance from my friends.


~Dean Neighbors







vital is my journey
each weary measure ends
with steps I might have taken
and distance from my friends.


Unconsciously I measure
my journeys starts and ends
with steps that I have taken
and distance from my friends.



Relentlessly I journey
as It weighs upon my mind
that my wisdom is before me
while my youth is left behind.

Catch the wind...Donovan

Catch the Wind

Donovan

In the chilly hours and minutes
Of uncertainty
I want to be
In the warm hold of your loving mind

To feel you all around me
And to take your hand
Along the sand
Ah, but I may as well try and catch the wind

When sundown pales the sky
I want to hide a while
Behind your smile
And everywhere I'd look, your eyes I'd find

For me to love you now
Would be the sweetest thing
T'would make me sing
Ah, but I may as well try and catch the wind

Diddy di dee dee diddy diddy
Diddy diddy diddy dee dee dee

When rain has hung the leaves with tears
I want you near to kill my fears
To help me to leave all my blues behind

For standin' in your heart
Is where I want to be
And long to be
Ah, but I may as well try and catch the wind

Ah, but I may as well try and catch the wind

Songwriters: Donovan Leitch

Catch the Wind lyrics © Peermusic Publish

Ooze and OZ

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” was but part her name, 'twas from the west she flew. And Glinda wrongly placed the blame, for, surely, Glinda knew no Kansas girl of ”innocence” of “pure and simple thought” would flee 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. Twas Dorothy, of foreign birth, who flattened Wicked’s kin and, proving strong beyond her girth, skipped off to kill again. With water, have you heard the news, she sealed our Wicked’s doom and, not content with stealing shoes, escaped with Wicked’s broom. -------------------------------- The farmer’s daughter turned to bad; this theme I’ll oft repeat. There’s proof, abundant, to be had; It’s there, upon her feet. The Munchkin cops were fat and lax; they toddled, swift, away. Ignoring, clear, house dropping, facts-- they let her get away.

"...and her little dog too". ~ © 2004 By: W.D.Neighbors ~