Unfinished

 Unfinishe

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. 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.  ~Dean Neighbors~

Pillow Ships

 

Pillow Ships

On winds of sleep, in pillow ships, I sail outside the mind, a voyage to infinity to find what’s there to find. Across the briny sea of dreams, with canvas tightly sewn, beyond the realm of possible I navigate alone ... to harbor on the leeward side of enigmatic thought, where magic lives to show me things reality forgot.  ~Dean Neighbors~

Epitaph

      Epitaph

A poem forms a universe within the reader's mind, totality in metered verse, infinity defined. A poet gives his soul away in portions he decides with thoughts that ebb and flow to play emotions like the tides. He writes of love and other things for all the world to see, of broken hearts and Angel's wings he lost and found at sea, of parenthood and common sense, of brothers at "The Wall", revisiting their innocence and other ports of call. An honest bard, he re-ignites the glaring torch of truth. With wells of bitter ink he writes the epitaph of youth.  ~Dean Neighbors~

Of Love

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 tiny girl in tatted lace has brought him to his knees, she 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 tiny dress, an Angel's face, of love the father knows.  ~Dean Neighbors~

Longer Still

 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, when words no longer form within my soul, when dreams are spent and wonders stay unsaid, 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.  ~Dean Neighbors~

Running

 Running

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  ~Dean Neighbors~

South of clarity

 South of Clarity

"A constantly revolving parallax", perhaps, describes the nature of my brain, unpolished precious stone with tiny cracks where logic begs emotion to refrain from taking over processes of thought, where feelings beg of logic, "take a chance", in both directions all of this for naught, which serves to fuel insanity’s advance. I've given all the time I care to give to finding what my friends would call "a cure" and, frankly, it is comforting to live within the sovereign borders of obscure. The beauty lies in that the beauty lies … in vain they search the babble for the wise.  ~Dean Neighbors~

Echo from a silent heart

 Echo from a silent heart

Memories of memories imperfect and surreal, copies made of copies of a loss that others feel. Photographs and traces of the one who was my world, black and white reminders of a pretty little girl. Questions ask me questions but answers won't reply, the echo from a silent heart has yet to tell me … why? The gray and faded images, the woman she became … what do we have in common now besides our common name? A tattered family bible holds a note penned by her hand, pieces of a Mother's past I'll never understand. If I repeat the questions will answers that I find restore the faded image in the bottom of my mind? Memories of memories imperfect and surreal, copies made of copies of the pain I'll always feel.  ~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 tear drops and repeat the phrases often used … “My little one, ignore the pain, tomorrow brings another dawn. No roses grow without the rain. Until the fear and pain are gone I’ll hold you close, encircle you as circles must, as parents do."  ~Dean Neighbors~

Chronicle

      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.  ~Dean Neighbors~

Orange is the color of pain

 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 turquoise 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 oval, sounding cold, the wind's a dreadful hue. I'd shape some answers for you but I'm feeling rather blue. ~Dean Neighbors~

syn·es·the·sia /ˌsinəsˈTHēZHə/ Learn to  PHYSIOLOGY•PSYCHOLOGY the production of a sense impression relating to one sense or part of the body by stimulation of another sense or part of the body. Definitions from Oxford Languages If you have Synesthesia or are familiar with the symptoms, this poem actually makes sense... I have found a way to write nonsense that isn't. Some of the lines in the poem are from comments made by people who have Synesthesia. "Orange is my default color for pain", said one. Another one says she has "turquoise Thursdays". There are musicians who see musical notes in different colors