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

OF Fairest Face and Midnight Hair

When tempted by an evil
bearing legendary fruit
did hunger conquer innocence,
can history refute

this tale of human weakness that
has passed from ancient times.
Is this a song of simple truth
or fodder for our rhymes?

Evicted from her garden by
a knowledge never sought,
was she villain, then, or victim
in a play that time forgot?

A woman, real, or issue of
imaginary birth--
of fairest face and midnight hair--
did Snow White grace the Earth??

© Copyright 2005 Dean Neighbors

The Snail and the Sports Car

A tiny sports car sputtered in,
a snail was at the wheel.
The gas attendant, with a grin,
said, "Snail, are you for real?

I 'preciate your right to cruise
and that red color's swell...
and naturally I can't refuse
to serve you here at 'Shell'...

but, I must say it's odd enough
now, snail, you must confess...
for such as you to drive and stuff...
say, why'd you paint that 'S'

there on the door, the driver's side,
in glowing shades of blue?"
The snail rose up with stately pride
and said, "Hey you would too...

I'm tired of hearing people say
'there goes that lowly snail'...
and night by night and sunny day
you know, they'd never fail...

to laugh at me, my lack of speed,
until I bought this car,
but, see me now, my soul's been freed,
I'm pretty near a star!

They teased and snorted; mocked my pace,
my life was filled with woe...
but now, they shout, as by I race...
look at that S car go!!!"

© 2004 Dean Neighbors 

Owed to Bureaucracy

~Inspired by a bad day at work~


What tedium comes with bureaucracy,
what great waste of time is entailed,
intrinsically fraught with hypocrisy,
before you begin you have failed.

In heaven they process efficiently,
“perfection” and “timely” are norms,
to handle your transfer proficiently--
just die and then fill out these forms.

Interval

~ Interval ~ 3/10/02. This grew out of a discussion with my wife about the linearity of time. I was trying to convince her that I was her first love even if I wasn't because time does not run in a straight line in hours and minutes....but by the importance of the event...therefore, the first thing that happened in the history of time....the most important... was our first kiss. Makes sense right??? Well, it does to me.

 

I see the truth unfolding in my dreams,
that love exists as interwoven time...
and time is just as simple as it seems,
as basic as the meter in a rhyme.

Our time together doesn't have to play
into the universe as now defined,
for time's a mere division of the day,
to universal pendulums confined...

but, linear, kinetic, all askew,
arrayed in any manner that may be,
no matter how defined, my love for you
exists in every moment granted me.

And only God himself could grant us this...
the universe begins with our first kiss.


~ © 2002 By: W.D.Neighbors ~

Albert

A patent clerk of Bern, in early morn,

would catch the crowded trolley and would go

to work and back. But, like no other born,

he thought of things no common mind could know.

He saw that as the trolley moved along

the working folks onboard would then perceive

the next preceding lamp post (“am I wrong?”)

before a man afoot. “I do believe,

said Albert to himself, “reflected light,

since we are moving to the lamp,

would be arriving early to our sight”.

He mopped his brow, it being rather damp.

No magic but the magic that you make,

enfolded by the thought of what must be

divided by the trolley that you take

and factored by what Albert knew as “E”

Lullaby

In yesterday’s clutches she trembled,
recalling her previous role.
The feelings, recaptured, resembled
a wind stirring leaves in her soul.

In soft ocean breezes of hindsight
our hearts chose a course of release
and love sailed away in the moonlight
embarked in a vessel of peace.

A lullaby sung in a whisper,
a yesterday saved with a smile,
in passing my memory kissed her
as clouds tumbled by single file.

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 urine. If one only 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.

Mother's MIlk (symbiosis)

Our first addiction is to mother's milk,
a flow that, every mother knows, must cease.
And never is a weaning smooth as silk--
and ever does the child fear his release.

As you are being weaned from perfect meals,
consuming as you are, yourself, consumed,
you learn, to some degree, how dying feels
and realize that paradise is doomed.

Our mother lost, we need to love again
and often search, in vain, for a reflection
of mother's love. We choose a mate and then
we imitate the ultimate connection--

the "I-am-you-are-me-is-she-is-we";
I am the milk, the mother's milk is me.

To Touch a Star

Falling through the sky, in scintillation,

refracted starlight strikes a random eye.

Transiting in timeless propagation,

an instant, just, to cast its beauty by.

Light travels the galactic arms that lie,

in ancient paths of stasis strewn afar,

imperfect, insubstantial as a sigh,

yet perfect in the wonder that we are,

incredibly, allowed to touch a star.

To Feel

I, light of foot and dark of thought,
give in before the tide
and clutch the pain I, “sigh”, forgot,
the dread I feel inside.

Embracing fear that’s still around
from heartbreaks out of mind,
I bare my chest. Of truth, I’ve found,
I like the naked kind.

Love is a loss I’ll reinvest,
I’ll wager soul and shirt.
To feel the love, I find it best
to reinstall the hurt.

Bluewater Ink

A deep water Sailor
with far away dreams,
his lover of flowers
and cold mountain streams,
moved nearer to heaven
the closer to be.
Their river of love runs
away from the sea.

Where eagles go wheeling
with power and grace
o’er shimmering aspens
in meadows of lace,
what stars will they reach for,
what thoughts will they think
on high mountain paper
with blue water ink?






Posted by Dean Neighbors at 4/14/2005 09:45:00 PM

Reflections (for Marty)

Having spent time 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.

Jacob's Ladder

“And he dreamed,
and behold, a ladder set up on the earth,
and the top of it reached to heaven;
and behold the Angels of God
ascending and descending on it.”

~Genesis 28:12



An adolescent fool, I made mistakes
and, each time, thought that I was the inventor.
A talent for disaster’s all it takes
to gather damage fore and aft of center.

I suffer with the best. My broken heart
is permanent. With each new scar I crow,
“I hurt, therefore I am”… not quite Descartes,
but accurate enough as slogans go.

I’m older now, and wear my scars with pride,
they represent a mortal Jacob’s ladder.
No Angel, I ascend, eyes open wide
and choose to be the wiser not the sadder.

The sum of all those scars stands, strong, before you.
So, “shrink” me if you must, I’ll just ignore you.


© 2003 W.D. Neighbors

The Music

Poetry's the music
that was playing in my heart
right at the beginning
of the ending from the start,

long, cascading verses
to express a single thought,
freely given secrets for which,
once, I would have fought...

philosophizing, prophesizing,
boldly telling lies,
romantic inspirations
wrapped in wishes sealed with sighs,

memories of miseries,
imaginary love,
wanderings and wonderings
and magic from above,

prejudices, urgent kisses,
honesty and myth,
pain and pretty, joy and ugly
whipped until they're stiff.

Poetry is equal parts of joy
and primal fears,
half completed verses
seen through veils of poets tears,

brightly painted shadows
from the dungeon known as me,
imaginary imagery
that's absolutely free.

Echo

He lives within the shadow of a dream
and hides when a reality comes near.
But shadows aren’t as harmless as they seem
for deep within the darkness lives the fear
that ghosts can be of substance in the soul,
that dreams can turn to nightmares on demand.

To bolster his imaginary role,
with manufactured bravery he'll stand
to shout his sweetest nothings to the wind,
as if to test his non-existent bond.
Although he knows her life will never end,
he’s so afraid his love will not respond...

he shouts “I love you” just for the reply
and hopes the echo doesn’t reckon why.

WIllows

I hope this isn't too cryptic for everyone but me.... When first I conjured magic with my tongue, for Wednesday morning rain and afternoon, I tried to save their innocence. But, young, the words confused as ears were out of tune. I warned of hidden dangers and, in truth, I preached from under trepidation’s veil, that blame may get a pardon while in youth then, older, serve a term in private hell. The worst was this, my crystal, clear and true, would prove to be a seer lagging none. And, yet, with final curtain now in view my truths seem little matter, lacking one, as sure as willows bow in troubled wind… I've loved my children well from end to end.

1-8-04

Watermarks

this is what happens to me when I am having trouble coming up with things to write about...... I get all crazy and turn out stuff like this...

So blocked you are again a fool,
personifying down.
A graduate of nothing school;
a makeup without clown.

So write what down inside you lives,
though hard it is to do.
Write verses your behind you gives,
a little past of you.

If share you do your broken dreams,
a healing you will know.
Much better pain not hidden seems,
be not afraid to show.

Release emotions from your head,
like pistons from a steam.
Escape they will if held instead,
like poets from a scream.

Write backwards if it calms the rage,
face gallantry with fears.
The watermarks upon this page,
they be the poet's tears.

Dateline

The Scholars made a circle out of time,

divided it in pieces like a pie.

Assigned to it a rhythm (not a rhyme)

and threw it, like a net, around the sky.

But Earth does not a perfect circle make.

Imaginary lines do not lie true

so pieces of our lives we must forsake

to hold it all together as we do.

For time will push against a Sailor's bow

when heading from tomorrow on his way...

and when he sails the other way, somehow,

it steals from him a piece of his today.

Lost my Nerve

Lost my nerve though she seemed willing when I kissed her on the cheek. Even so I found it thrilling, I was giddy for a week.
Our next date I acted distant, thought that I could be reserved, But her kiss was so insistent,
...once again I lost my nerve.

Epitaph

The poems form a universe
within the writer's mind,
totality in metered verse,
infinity defined.

The 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
he may have found in me,
of broken hearts and Angel's wings
I've lost and found at sea...

of parenthood and common sense,
of brothers on "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.

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 they drop behind.


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

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

© Copyright 2002 W.D. Neighbors 

Gibberish (read it quick before I come to my senses and toss it)

Some of the people who live in my head
are dirt loving tree hugging freaks.
Then there are those who drive battleship cars
that smell of petroleum leaks.

Christian-like beings in radical veils
made of conservative shroud
woven in ignorance spun on a loom
with no thread of reason allowed

coexist madly with liberal hacks
consuming with plasticized spades
the ugliness flowing from factory farms
while wearing their rose colored shades.

How is it possible reason prevails
and lucid thoughts flow from my pen?
Could it be this is just gibberish and
I’ve thoroughly fooled me again?

When

When all our anger’s overturned
and innocents are free at last
from bloody sword and hellish burn,
when war’s a relic of the past,

when Man’s uncertain enmity
presents, in breach, from evil’s womb
and love becomes our legacy
as Mars is sealed in Satan’s tomb,

a marble, gilded monument,
inscription etched with golden rhyme,
will sing the dirge, the grim lament
to chronicle, to rue the time

when eyes beheld what souls abhor,
when children slept in arms of war.

Ego Eyes

A mirror image piece of mind I seek;
a shade of deepest shadow that I might
portray the picturesque from pots of bleak;
construct the bright of day from dark of night.

In hiding from my self-inflicted pain;
I tuck away the truth; I would protect
the cloth of my umbrella from the rain;
my fragile self from trial by retrospect.

A self-protective sheath, I realize…
a double-cross entrendre, metaphor
would only serve to catch my ego eyes
and focus on the pain I would ignore.

I seek a way to die yet live in death;
a blade to take my life but not my breath.

© Copyright 2004 W. D. Neighbors

Etchings

What was it took the babies off to war…
the adolescent wonder-fools, at best,
who’d yet to learn the fo'c'sle from the floor,
who 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.

34

The first ship I served aboard in the U.S. Navy was an Essex class aircraft carrier (USS Oriskany). We (the ex crewmen) tried to save her as a museum, not enough money. She narrowly avoided the scrap heap several times.

But, after a long and valiant battle to stay alive, she was to have an ending fitting to the american naval hero that she is. A burial at sea. She was sunk as an artificial reef with an appropriate monument nearby etc. The final deployment of Ex-USS Oriskany CV/CVA-34 was completed on May 17th 2006. Despite early concerns that she had landed on her starboard side, she was found to be sitting perfectly upright in 212' of water, with the flight deck around 135', and the top of the structure at 69' in the Gulf of Mexico, 22.5 miles offshore from the Naval Air Station at Pensacola, FL, Coordinates - N30:02.542 W87:00.374

For more see the MBT (Maximum bottom time) divers website at mbtdiversers.com/

34

A call has come we can’t ignore,
the bells of glory chime…
to gather on a distant shore
a crew from out of time.

We come to grieve the many dead,
the shipmates lost back then...
and as we hear the tributes read
our thoughts return again…

to ports of call in foreign lands
a distant, brighter day,
when life was held in younger hands,
ashore and underway.

We listen to the bugles call
and wipe away the tears
as names and faces we recall
across the many years.

And as the circle draws an end,
forgive the tears we weep
to see our gray and weathered friend
committed to the deep.

~ © 2005 By: W.D. Neighbors ~

"I wish to have no connection with any ship that does not sail fast for I intend to go In Harm’s Way."

John Paul Jones to M. de Chaumont on 16 November 1778.

The Bard

The board has booked the sage
and poetry speaks in the park
to earn a living wage.

The poems speak to all
and yet they wait with bated breath
for other shoes to fall.

The barb has hooked the sage
as bait for all the hungry sharks
he bleeds upon the page.

To Antigone and Beyond

A few years ago I took my first college course (English 102) in 26 years. I was at mid-term and learned that I had a B plus going at mid-term despite the fact of the 26 years and despite the fact that the average age of my classmates was far less than half my own (sorry, I am proud of this)….so I was all giddy and excited sitting in class-- supposed to be taking lecture notes and this is what I wrote.

To Antigone and Beyond


I'm shaking, squirming, out of sorts,
incredibly befuddled.
I'm taking notes in fits and spurts
my concentration muddled.

Antigone was on my mind,
and then, her lovely sister
Ismene, but then I find
she’s wed an anarchist--er.

Approaching writing full of fear,
my inner diction airy,
I start my poem late in March,
I'll end in February.

Statement: Sorry, I didn't say it was any good.

Question: What’s wrong with me?

A Meatloaf Kind of Night

If it’s a meatloaf kind of night,
a gravy laden day.
the green bean of delight,
a fluffy cheese soufflé…
don’t grab a ketchup bottle,
and shake like a beginner…
first none and then a lottle
squirt forth to ruin your dinner.

A Little Boy

Reflecting on the rows of life we've sown
in proper furrows, simple fields of hay,
the mind will turn to troubles that we've known,
to knowledge lost and found along the way.

My life has borne a crop to feed the years,
a bounty for the soul, the food of life--
from joy to discontent, from bitter tears
to children with a strong and loving wife.

The muse begets a lyric, frank and terse,
a harvest of reflection. Rows of time
are gathered to a journal bound with verse
a complicated life in simple rhyme--

from fields of thought to rows of scribbled joy--
an aging man, a youth-- a little boy.

Axle

Time is many wheels revolving slowly
along a central spine...
an axle. Is it accident or holy,
this universal line?

The stars exist in circles, never-ending,
arrayed in common space.
The paradox? One's view of time's depending
upon the viewers pace.

The Earth and her companion form an axis,
an ordinary wheel.
Man, and this is where the parallax is,
has pride enough to feel

that time and space revolve around his need,
the need to understand
and, strangely, time now seems to be, indeed,
unfolding as if planned.

Posiedon's Breath

A storm at sea, Poseidon's might,
in silhouette, Saint Elmo's fire.
Though death may take him in the night
he's "not afraid" or he's a liar!

A storm is like a glass of wine
to complement this Sailor's feast.
He'll swig and judge the vintage fine
but never swallow in the least.

There's challenge in Poseidon's rage
at those who dare to cross his path.
Though "heaving to" appleals, this sage
will choose to tempt the surging wrath.

Poseidon's breath may bring his end...
yet canvas flies. Be damned the wind!

On Easter

Enchanted by an island princess fair,
we sailed to Easter riding winds of light
and, soft, before the the people were aware,
removed her to our dark abyss of night.

Thereafter, from a time that's out of mind,
a sentry stands in place upon the shore
as drawn by Rapa Nui rendered blind
to life but for the sacred task they bore.

His stony face forever to the sea;
his charge to stand until we have released her
as bid by the forgotten race to be,
eternal shall he look away from Easter...

to leagues and leagues away and yet beyond
with all his stony brethern of the bond.

Star Sailors

I've looked into the future, looked
as far as dreams can see
at unimagined wonders and
the magic that will be.

The stars are filled with sailing ships
the clippers of the skies...
all captained by cephalopods
with deep vermilion eyes.

They navigate the galaxies
and fly the steller winds
from Canopus to Betelguese
to where the matter ends...

They utilize another math
and octants made of ice
for human sums and instruments,
of course, will not suffice

to chase the moons and comet tails
to ports of call unknown;
to worlds inside a universe
where light has never shone.

Running

I do all my running in circles
when screaming and throwing a fit
and mostly I huff without puffing
whilst stomping away in a snit

And I do my exercise nightly,
I’m walking at lunch without fail.
I cut iceberg lettuce in pieces
to carry to work in a pail.

I may lose my temper routinely,
and screech like a Barbary ape...
although I may shout quite obscenely
at least I am staying in shape.

How

How like a flame in fickle wind,
how fragile, love, when old or new
that, with a breath, comes to an end,
that, with another, glows anew.

How turn the cycles of the tides,
in waves, toward a battered shore.
How love erodes, how earth abides,
each grain of sand as those before.

How can I live if love can die,
why does love come, if it must go
How bittersweet was our goodbye
and how, my love, was I to know

that you could go and yet remain
the glow of love's eternal flame?

When Rhyme has Passed

I think I’ll think outside the bag
and write between the verses.
I’ll stiff them when they call for sag
and act while they rehearses.

I know I’ll live outside the land
of rules and lengthy speeches.
I’ll, findng rhythm, tune my hand
when free is what they preaches.

I’m anti-poet, since you asked,
inside the lines I’ll not.
And chances are, when rhyme has passed,
my verse they’ll long forgot.

On Leaving Christmas

From  Christmas 2005 (but still true). On leaving Christmas presence in the air, on holiday from work, or maybe not... our spirit feels, as winter, cold and bare, our body, now a temple sense forgot. The reasons for the Christmas presents bought are gone, like bows and papers, in a bag somewhere behind a fence. Our hearts besot with cheerfulness; with milk and honey, sag from Christmas dark regret; to new years sulk and drag.

© 2005 W.D.Neighbors

Knightly

Without a thought or ounce of will

for certain, not as planned,

the beauty of another thrill

is making its demand.

How can I fall in love again

my heart has run this course?

And who would bet an also-ran,

a gray, uncertain horse?

A dirty trick for hopeless fools

is this October wind

that blows the sails and all the rules

but how can I pretend.

The evidence is plain to see,

I fall for you each night,

and when it’s dark-- and in between

those periods of light.

It's Time

Who, then, is this eternal fool
who takes himself to taste
each one of us as though he has
all of himself to waste.

And all the helpless mortals who
fall victim to his schemes
must, calmly, mark the him until
they die to serve his dreams.

A few may wish to put him off,
deny his right to pass.
Impede him, yet, he’ll pour regret
and stain your soul like glass.

In him he’ll come, you must accept,
to claim your metered soul…
but, in the end, the jokes on him
for whom the bell must toll.

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.

We're 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?"

The Pulse

The pulse of life began at last-- a boy,
and mother felt the rhythm of the beat,
but deep within her heart, unfettered joy,
was muted by a taste of bittersweet.

The life within her soon would be alone,
she knew as sure as certainty could be—
and through her love, with inner beauty sewn,
she made a vow that no one else could see.

She left the child but never left his heart.
She left the earth but never left his soul.
And when he falls to pieces, comes apart--
her love is there to keep his spirit whole.

Imagine That

~ A tribute to John Lennon ~

He looked at life through polished glass,
refracting every tone and hue.
He took the time for time to pass,
imagining a longer view.

Befitting beauty, flowers die
as they, with early winter, meet.
Though wither comes, the loving eye
imagines blossoms ever sweet.

Eternal lyrical and young,
they must, at last, admire his means.
His sweetest song on every tongue
through all the seasons, all the scenes

will live forever. Though we cried--
imagine that he never died.

Colder

It’s colder now, I know
as time is slipping fast away.
A late October snow
has purged the world of summer things–
but for a single rose
whose beauty speaks of youthful springs.

To Touch a Star

Refracted through an atmospheric prism,
a gem of starlight strikes a human eye.
Product of a an ancient cataclysm,
an instant, just, to cast its beauty by,

the glimmer spans the vast abyss of sky,
a sailor on the aether from afar,
imperfect, insubstantial as a sigh,
yet perfect in the wonder that we are,
a twinkle in our eye, allowed to touch a star.

Draft 2

Refracted through an atmospheric ocean,
a gem of starlight strikes a human eye.
Transiting in timeless propagation,
an instant... just.. to cast its beauty by,

the glimmer spans the vast abyss of sky,
a sailor on the aether from afar,
imperfect, insubstantial as a sigh,
yet perfect in the wonder that we are,
a twinkle in our eye, allowed to touch a star.

Original draft...


Falling through the sky, in scintillation,
refracted starlight strikes a random eye.
Transiting in timeless propagation,
an instant, just, to cast its beauty by...

the starlight spans galactic arms to fly
down static paths of aether from afar,
imperfect, insubstantial as a sigh,
yet perfect in the wonder that we are,
a twinkle in our eye, allowed to touch a star.

Opaque

Opaque before the light of early dawn,
a window pane, a portal to my youth,
plays 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.

Eternal

The tender bud of hope eternal blooms,
reopening its wonder to our eyes.
The loss of hope occurs when one assumes
the blossom is a bramble in disguise.

Hope can spring eternally, it's true,
but nourishment, essential to its term,
must quickly be applied or hope's debut
will wither like an apple with a worm.

True love is the eternal hope of man.
therein he places all his life in trust,
and if you question why he thinks he can
the answer is, of course, because he must.

So we may fear we've lost a love we need
yet trust that there will be another seed.


or

The tender bud of hope eternal blooms,

reopening its wonder to our eyes.

The loss of hope occurs when one assumes

the blossom is a bramble in disguise.

Hope can spring eternally, it's true,

but nourishment, essential to its term,

must quickly be applied or hope's debut

will wither like an apple with a worm.

True love is the eternal hope of man.

for this he'll place his heart and soul in trust,

and if you question why he thinks he can

the answer is, of course, because he must.

Thus we may fear we'll lose a love we need

yet trust that there will be another seed.

A Good Egg

It happened in the kitchen, out in back
I'm sure you've heard this tragic tale before.
His life was ordered, nestled in a rack
until a footman dropped him to the floor.

A piece of broken shell lay near a chair;
a remnant of a meal that might have been.
and scrambled hopes were scattered everywhere,
yet Humpty tried, in vain, to rise again.

And all the horses, all the ruler's men,
the servants of an apathetic king,
dispite the story that's been heard since then,
just stood around and didn't do a thing.

Hump's widow's not the only one who cried
A carton, yes an even dozen, died.




« Last Edit: Sep 1st, 2002, 1:49am by Sailor »

Quirky

I write a bit of poetry
at times it's rather dark.
But mostly it's just fantasy
produced as just a lark...

inspired by drinking raw tequila
shots and getting quirky
while dining at the finest
restaurant in Albuquerque.



Sadie's .. 4th street, Albuquerque, NM.

Reality Forgot

On winds of sleep in pillow ships

we sail beyond the mind,

to leagues outside the world awake,

impossible to find

for any creature not asleep

(within the conscious zone).

A place existing in the id,

that will has never known.

A realm where all is possible,

of anti-matter thought,

where magic lives and shows us things

reality forgot.

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 northern border of obscure.

The beauty lies in that the beauty lies…
in vain they search the babble for the wise.

Embraced

The Angels of the broken wing

had fallen through our hand

and though, in silence, hope would sing

we couldn’t understand.

In tempest was a hidden gift,

bestowed to ease our strife…

the ill- prevailing wind would shift

and change the course of life.

Our Wednesday children, saving graces,

proved the verses wrong;

with little ones of Angel’s faces;

love to pass along.

The early, broken Angels lay

as precious memory

for we know, now, that love can stay

embraced though far away.

And In Your Eyes

I know, at last, why my heart sings,
though in your prison I remain,
it’s borne aloft on Angel’s wings.

Love’s prisoner by free will’s choice
I serve my time, I don’t complain,
in custody do I rejoice—

for I know, well, that true love lies
within the freedom of my chains...
and in your heart; and in your eyes.

Forlorn

I wrote this in 2002 on a flight from Albuquerque to Oakland. I had been travelling for a while (working in New Mexico)...best mexican food (or new mexican food) in my many travels...Sadie's .. 4th street, Albuquerque, NM.

Forlorn

Both arrogance and ignorance aside
and unreturned devotion notwithstanding,
I bow before you now devoid of pride
(apparently) but not without demanding
a measure of consistency from you,
an evenness, a firmness to your scorn
when daily, with a vengeance, you renew
the attitude that's killing me. Forlorn!

Now there's a word of substance and abuse,
a dismal mix of fear and consternation
that SO applies to me. What is the use...
but wait, let's look again at my contention...

a crack has formed in your facade of late.
There's hope! You're inconsistent in your hate.





for·lorn (fr-lôrn, fôr-)
adj.

Appearing sad or lonely because deserted or abandoned.
Forsaken or deprived: forlorn of all hope.
Wretched or pitiful in appearance or condition: forlorn roadside shacks.
Nearly hopeless; desperate. See Synonyms at despondent.

The First Bank of Poetry

---

The wisdom of the world is in a verse.
The mystery of life is in a book,
for poets re-create the universe
in every rhyme. It may be worth a look

into the bank of poetry, the vault
containing all the poems ever born
and all the clever words meant to assault
our muddled brains. For surely verse is torn

directly from the living mind of Man
presented red and dripping (with a smile,
the mask of jesters since this world began)
that men may read these words of wisdom while

they're pulsing with emotion, seeking morals...
or resting, warm and comfy, o­n their laurels.

The Promise

Evicted from her garden by
a knowledge never sought,
was she villain, then, or victim in
a play that time forgot?
When tempted by an evil
bearing legendary fruit
did hunger conquer innocence?
Can history refute
this yarn of human weakness that
has passed from ancient times?
Is this a tale of simple truth
or fodder for our rhymes;
is it myth or could it be
a tapestry we weave
to chronicle the promise-- or
 apocalypse of Eve?

Thief

How carefully I made my way,
my treasure under lock was thrust
that safe my tender heart might stay
from words of lies in tones of trust.

The one to whom my fortress fell;
once comfort, now my greatest grief.
The one I should have known so well
has proved to be the vilest thief.

I see the thief. I recognize
a countenance I hate to love,
for as I look I realize
I view a mirror image of

my source of pain, this knave I see...
this thief reflected back at me.

Versions

Sections of life from the version du jour

in verses to hold all the pieces,

fragments of me from the cutting room floor

the ego/producer releases

to public inspectors, interpretive fools

who read what emotions surround,

attempting to fix me without any tools

by wiring my hot side to ground.

A cloth of intentions they’ve woven from thread

that’s spun from my lines or between.

They’d save me from living or ending up dead

or something they haven’t foreseen.