The Captain

The Captain lifted anchor, daring thunder
and loosed his steam on stationary shaft.
He planned a voyage south-a-ways; down under
in his expensive yacht of shallow draft.

At dinner time he hailed the chef “Luigi”,
“it’s time to drop the pasta in the pot.
I need to build my strength. I hear, in Fiji,
that girth and manly size count for a lot.”

The crew was lazy, leaving work till later—
their sleeping skills and loafing to refine.
Thus, when the yacht approached near the equator,
there was no swabby set to gaff the line.

The equator upon the bow was captured
and through the miles and lonely night was stretched
till, suddenly, as if he’d been enraptured,
the Captain, to the Bering strait, was fetched.

Arising to the call to eggs and bacon
the Captain halted fork enroute to mouth
his eyes beheld the view and he was shaken
for he had traveled north by steaming south.

© copyright 2005 w.d.neighbors

Little Hands

Little hands are making messes.
Little voices making noise.
Dirty shirts and dirty dresses.
Little fingers breaking toys.

Papa pay us some attention.
Little patience from the start.
Papa, don't forget to mention,
Little hands that hold your heart.

Necessary Task

If necessary I will die or kill
within the rules engaged to govern such,
though these may slow my fuse, impede my will
against a foe with no such moral crutch.

If necessary I will go to war;
extend my country’s might beyond the sea,
but when you ask this of me, nay before,
look closely at my face and you will see—

the little babe who suckled at your breast,
who once believed you walked upon the water.
I am the worst of you and all your best;
your own courageous son, your gallant daughter.

My country, in your heart, before you ask,
be certain death’s a necessary task.

© Copyright 2005 W.D.Neighbors

Reflections (for Marty)

Having spent Christmas with my "rock hound/UFOlogist" brother in law and his family...

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In darkened desert peaks
imagination seeks
to find the ancient faces in the stone…

and “want to see it eyes”
search water-mirrored skies,
in wonder, for reflections never shown.

An object in the lake,
in helpless double take,
escapes from unidentified to known...

the visitors from space,
in alabaster lace,
are beams the moon has spilled for you alone.

The Captain

The Captain lifted anchor, daring thunder
and loosed his steam on stationary shaft.
He planned a voyage south-a-ways, down under
in his expensive yacht of shallow draft.

At dinner time he hailed the chef “Luigi”,
“it’s time to drop the pasta in the pot.
I need to build my strength. I hear, in Fiji,
that girth and manly size count for a lot.”

The crew was lazy, leaving work till later—
their sleeping skills and loafing to refine.
Thus, when the yacht approached near the equator,
there was no swabby set to gaff the line.

The equator upon the bow was captured
and through the miles and lonely night was stretched
till, suddenly, as if he’d been enraptured,
the Captain, to the Bering strait, was fetched.

Arising to the call to eggs and bacon
the Captain halted fork enroute to mouth
his eyes beheld the view and he was shaken
for he had traveled north by steaming south.

© copyright 2005 w.d.neighbors

Drink of Life

My planned spontaneity doesn’t surprise;
my 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.

In a hand basket

The bike is coasting down the lane
the wheels go round and round,
why am I in this basket and
where is it that I’m bound?

I take my chance, a leap of faith,
then quickly to the farm
to jump into her arms, again.
I’m safe from further harm.

Then off to walk the yellow road,
adventures are in store.
I think it’s safe to say we aren’t
in Kansas anymore.



This was inspired by a bumper sticker I saw.... it read, "Why am I in this hand basket, and where am I going?"

and it just wouldn't go away until I wrote it.

"If happy little bluebirds fly
Beyond the rainbow,
Why oh why can't I?"

Genetically Speaking

If you take it all for granted that your bones are nice and hard
and cholesterol is, mostly, not a threat,
you may find yourself collapsing, barely conscious, in the yard…
realizing, far too late, you've lost the bet.

So, go running to your doctor to be scanned and classified

have him run a test decoding DNA.
He may find it quite amazing that you haven't up and died
and may simply look you in the eye and say:

"The genetic composition of your body and your mind
is predisposed to give you graying hair.
Looks like osteoporosis and the risk of going blind
are embedded in your genes. Not that I care…

but you're eating cheese and bacon, globbing butter on your bread
and your glass requires a dedicated cow.
You should change your eating habits or we'll likely find you dead;
to save trouble I'd be glad to shoot you now.

You are predisposed to strokes and all your thoughts will soon grow dim
you should buy some life insurance if you can.
Though you look just like woman… brace yourself, the news is grim…
the tests suggest you really are a man!"

My Chart

My chart retains, my helm forgot,
perhaps, or learned to lie;
I want you if the choice is not
to navigate or die.

I’ll sail to there and back again
if seas are calm and fair,
but if you feel a stronger wind,
my heart would wish you there.

I’ll hold the course of love we make
but not if our love flies
to yesterday for habit’s sake,
and not if your heart cries

for other oceans, far and free
in other shades of blue;
I need you, dear, if you need me
and if your course is true.

~ Dean Neighbors ~

Edited by: thewebsailor at: 5/31/04 3:02 pm