Frijole Horses

So, awkwardly, astraddle of
the brown horse on the end
I follow smelly asses where
the river seems to bend

then, down among some spotted trees
a camp without a floor;
a place of fleas and noisy frogs
along the river shore. 

I lay out clean pajamas as they
romp where they may choose…

I’m startled by the clanking noise

as they remove their shoes.

I man the tool that opens cans,

I am a cook of means.

The horses, (frowns with puzzled looks),

at last eat all their beans.

They have to drink their coffee cold,

the guide, he plumb forgot

to tell me where to find an AC

outlet for the pot.

I loose my belt and scratch the critters
hidden out of sight;
all over in my under wear
amazing how they bite!

Against the sky stand ancient hills
in ghostly silhouette;
the massive guards of nature’s camp
eternal, posted yet

to house the seeds of what’s to be,
to cause the stream to bend…
to echo with the constant sound
of horses breaking wind.

Away

 

Away ~ Away ~ 1/27/02...I was a real Sailor once...and the very last time I went to sea on an extended voyage, I left a wife and two small children at home. I loved being at sea...but I loved my family so much. I can remember vividly (it was November, 1979) the moment I said my final goodbye and turned away from my family to go aboard the ship. My heart broke in that moment and the scar still exists....and so, when I came back from that cruise, I stopped being a sailor. The Navy chaplain aboard that ship was a friend of mine...and he told me that, in his experience, those leaving to go to sea for an extended period, and those left behind, all go through the stages that people normally go through when they lose a loved one to death... grief, denial, anger, and acceptance ... leaving your loved ones (or being left) and going to sea was like a little death... and the joy of going to sea is a little like intoxication .... is coming home from sea a little like resurrection? Perhaps. It can be a bit awkward coming back from the dead. But 0h, how I loved the "sweet intoxication" of going to sea! Aweigh the anchor, underway tonight! With changing tides of time, I'm bound to sea, beyond the breakers, past the guiding light, into the depths of sweet eternity. Away to live my purpose, I depart again to wield the compass and the scroll. Away to feel God's presence in my heart. Away to know His touch upon my soul. Soft is the push of life's embracing wind, so like a lover's touch, a velvet hand. Oh, grant me Lord, calm seas to journey's end, and grant my love a way to understand this drunkenness that seaward Sailors know... this sweet intoxication as I go. ~ © 2002 By: W.D.Neighbors ~

Audacity in Blue

It was “haze gray and underway”,

a mantra from my youth,

that turned me to this retrospect,

to lessons learned, in truth.

I was 19 years and counting when

they first sent me to sea.

I’m lost for words to tell you, mate,

just what it meant to me

to walk that pier and board that ship.

My heart was filled with fear

the first time that I saw her from

the Alameda pier.

Though more than fifty years have passed

I can recall it still

as if it happened yesterday.

It took near all my will

to climb aboard, salute the flag

and face that grizzled Chief

who took my papers, sized me up

and offered no relief.

“Stand fast a minute son", he said,

“does mom know you're about?”

“I’ll call the watch in radio,

we’ll sort this here s*** out.”

“Come down and claim his a**”, he said

into the duty phone,

“Ya better hurry, mate, he's much

to young to be alone.”

That chief was near to God himself

to this, my younger self,

but I’d survive, report aboard

and find my "rack", a shelf

up near the metal overhead.

With “fondness”, I recall--

I slept in Sailor heaven twixt

a steam pipe and a wall.

A “bulkhead”, not a wall, I know,

at least I know it now.

I learned this fact and others but

don’t ask me when or how.

The mists of time hang round my head

in lost and foggy lines...

the dark exotic ports of call,

the taste of foreign wines,

the days at sea, the months and years

of salty sailor lore,

the ports and bars I can’t recall--

or won’t. A distant shore...

a sea of stories heard and told,

of truth and blatant myth,

I've scant recall of ocean's crossed,

of mates that I sailed with.

Across the years the ocean breeze

has filled this sailor's sails

with gratitude and in the end,

in truth, it never fails

to fill me with amazement that

the timid lad I knew

was turned into this salty swab...

audacity in blue.

~Dean Neighbors (USN ret)~

 

The Drinking Gourd

 The Drinking Gourd 

So, I am back from a week camping with 130 sixth graders (I survived). Not much rest up there...but lots of stars. Some explanation for this poem/story:


In the old south, the star, Polaris, became a symbol of freedom to slaves as well as a guide star. As soon as they were old enough to understand, slave children were taught to locate Polaris by using the stars of the Big Dipper. (The two stars at the end of the bowl of the Big Dipper point over to Polaris, the North Star, which is the end of the handle of the Little Dipper.)
Instead of a fancy metal dipper, slaves used a hollowed-out gourd to scoop water out of a bucket to get a drink. So they referred to the Big Dipper as the Drinking Gourd.
Slaves passed the travel instructions from plantation to plantation by song. One of those songs…. a song with many various words and verses, was “the drinking gourd song”.

With some big butterflies and with wide open eyes
he ran off the first chance that he saw
for the freedom that lies under cold northern skies…
there was no time for tellin’ his pa.

With his fears held inside and inherited pride,
when his mamma’s goodbyes had been said…
he would walk as he cried, with a field workers stride
and the drinking gourd song in his head.

“Run to freedom, young man, when the sun comes on back;
when the quails return south in the spring.
You be holdin’ on tight to your old gunny sack
and the thought of what freedom will bring.”

Now, it’s been twenty years and his runnin’s long done
yet he hears his Ma’s voice at his leavin’.
“Ride the railroad, my son, flee the whip and the gun,
run away without stoppin’ or grievin’.”

“At the end of the handle, a glorious light;
no book-written map could shine bolder.
“Keep you eyes on the gourd in the far northern night;
let the south wind blow over your shoulder.”



More information on the drinking gourd:

click here 

Edited by: thewebsailor at: 10/6/03 2:19 am

Against the odds

We’d read the script but didn’t know our parts,

two understudies wearing sweet disguise

but hope was grounded firmly in our hearts

and pure and simple love shone in our eyes.

We were too young to know we were too young,

the truth was bitter truth on this account,

as fragile love lay silent on our tongues,

an obstacle that youth could scarce surmount.

The music and the poetry agree,

if voice can set a reason to a rhyme,

if stars can lend their beauty to the sea

then who are we to quibble with the  time.

Our wishes ruled the world and dreams came true...

you’re still in love with me… and me with you.

 

 

 

Another Path To Sundown

Another path to sundown,
the cowboy reins his mount
and, from his shirt, takes out to read
his Mother’s grim account.

With worried mind he sits astride
his one and only friend,
then lets her pick her to find
a shelter from the wind.

Down among the trees there is
a camp they’ve used before,
an Aspen meadow memory
along the river shore.

He stakes the horse and settles in
to contemplate the sight,
the ever changing splendor of
a Rocky Mountain night.

In sweet familiar solitude,
he ponders by and by,
in council with the summer breeze
the mountains and the sky.

He drifts upstream in memory
to where he’s been of late,
then down the stream of time he rides
to contemplate his fate.

Tomorrow's track may bring him to
a rapid or a fall.
He wonders, should he chase his dreams,
or heed his mother's call?.

Against the sky stand ancient peaks

in ghostly silhouette,
the massive guards of nature's realm,
eternal, posted yet...

to host the seeds of what's to come,
the redirect the wind,
to shunt the raging river flow,
and force the stream to bend.

In nature's own cathedral,
underneath the Milky Way
he makes a choice to ride for home
before the break of day.

Another path to sundown, to
the peace for which he's yearned,
he's found his way but isn't yet...
the prodigal returned.



~Dean Neighbors~

08 June, 2021
Denver, Colorado

love this "throwaway" verse...but not sure how it fits in the poem.

Another path to sundown,

though prudence can advise,

the Oracle who rules the soul

can see with God's own eyes.

.

 

 

  

Drink of Life

My planned spontaneity doesn't surprise,

these rose colored glasses don’t cover my eyes

 
but all of that matters so little. It’s true 

because of the fortunate presence of you. 

We’ve matching insanities, perfectly synched 

we stare and we stare then together we blink 

Compatible vices, no reasons to hide

 
with hearts on our sleeves we will stumble in stride. 

When life gives me lemons, I know what to make, 

I’ve gallons and gallons, I’m filling a lake. 

And wasn’t it fortunate, nearly a sin 

that I should meet one to whom life would give Gin. 

~ Dean Neighbors

Words

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

Our words surround 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 word

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

Etchings

What was it lured the babies off to war,

the adolescent wonder fools... at best,

who'd yet to learn the *fo'c'sle from the floor

and couldn't tell the study from the test?

They nursed upon the warrior code of Duke,

a hero of the legendary screens,

but never saw him scared enough to puke,

and never heard him grunt behind the scenes.

The military called them to a man

except the golden children in reserve

whose Daddies knew the secrets of the plan

and all the students grading on the curve.

Opposed were led directly to the blame,

the dead were on the news before us all.

Survivors had to live or die with shame

for not becoming etchings on the wall.

~Dean Neighbors~

2009, Fallon, NV

*Note: for you land lubbers.....Forecastle = fo'c·'sle

/ˈfōksəl/

noun

noun: focsle

1. the forward part of a ship below the deck, traditionally used as the crew's living quarters.

   • HISTORICAL

     a raised deck at the front of a ship.

Drinking from My Saucer, by John Paul Moore

 I love this poem. It's maybe the most understated, subtle  positive thing I've ever read. "I'm drinking from my saucer 'cause my cup has overflowed."

John Moore was a Manx poet and privateer of the late 18th Century. Originally from Camlork, in Braddan, Isle of Man,^[1] Moore later settled in Bride, where he owned an inn. It was here that he came to be known as “John the Tiger” due to his often singing the song describing his time as the privateer on board The Tiger.^[2]

I’ve never made a fortune and it’s probably too late now.

But I don’t worry about that much, I’m happy anyhow.

And as I go along life’s way, I’m reaping better than I sowed.

I’m drinking from my saucer, ‘Cause my cup has overflowed.

I don’t have a lot of riches, and sometimes the going’s tough.

But I’ve got loved ones around me, and that makes me rich enough.

I thank God for his blessings, and the mercies He’s bestowed.

I’m drinking from my saucer, ’Cause my cup has overflowed.

I remember times when things went wrong, my faith wore somewhat thin.

But all at once the dark clouds broke, and the sun peeped through again.

So God, help me not to gripe about the tough rows that I’ve hoed.

I’m drinking from my saucer, ‘Cause my cup has overflowed.

If God gives me strength and courage, when the way grows steep and rough.

I’ll not ask for other blessings, I’m already blessed enough.

And may I never be too busy, to help others bear their loads.

Then I’ll keep drinking from my saucer, ‘Cause my cup has overflowed.

~John Paul Moore ~