Away

Aweigh the anchor! Underway tonight.

I ride the changing tides of time to sea,
beyond the breakers, past the guiding light
into the depths of sweet serenity.

Away to find my purpose I depart
this port without a compass or a scroll.
Away to know God's presence in my heart,
to feel His gentle touch upon my soul.

As I embark on life's embracing wind,
so like a lover's touch, a velvet hand,
grant me, oh Lord, calm seas to journey's end
and grant my love a way to understand...

the drunkenness that seaward Sailors know...
this sweet intoxication as I go.

Words

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


Our words engulf 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 card
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

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.

When Life Invented Love

Love is but a state of mind we choose,
or not, depending on a want or need--
a bet we make, a pot we win or lose.
It's not a magic process. Nor indeed
is happiness a right we’ve earned because
we've paid some youthful dues, accruing debt
to be collected under nature's laws,
a charged potential, not extracted yet.

By all that’s right in life, by all above,
be earnest in your choices, humble too.
The best intent can bring the best of love
or bring you back to earth to choose anew.

All such was understood before the time
when life invented love-- and lovers rhyme.

A Tail of Two Sisters

Oh, Cali the dog is a long one

with hindquarters narrow and far,

her nose sniffs around in the pantry

while her tail is out dusting the car.

Her muzzle is noble and wolf-like

she wears four white socks with a smile,

she’ll bark at intruders politely

but “watch dogging” isn’t her style.

Short Boxy, the wonder pup fuzzball,

ferociously growls as she scoots,

the fantasy squirrels all around her

take cover and shake in their boots.

She climbs to her perch on the sofa

and curls in a ball for a nap,

one eye is half open and watchful

for a treat or a welcoming lap.

The girls, of course, aren't truly sisters

although they would challenge that call,

young Cali the big family sweetheart
and “A.K.A. Lucy”, the small.

Circle Circle

Oh why, dear muse, has this pen been forsaken?
Does verse not slake your ego when you thirst?
Perhaps your taste in wine I have mistaken,
a sour grape for muse? I have rehearsed
the motions of the quill I made before
but little seems to flow. The verses should
be pooling on the paper, not the floor
like blood or wine. If only poets could
turn on and off the muse through force of will,
extract the feelings deep within the heart,
I’d wick the fear and love from pot to quill
and scratch them on a page. If I could start

perhaps then, muse, you would restore my knack
and let the magic circle, circle back