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.

In this Moment

I could live in this moment forever
in the eyes of the Angel called "you",
in the arch of the doorway to heaven
with no more than your face in my view.

If I die in my sleep before morning
I will praise my allotment of time.
I could live in this moment forever,
in this moment I've captured in rhyme.

Sarah

In shadow views of battle yet to be
the final stranger beckons me. I fear
that I must now accept what I forsee;
the moment of my death is drawing near.
Oh sarah, how I want to see your face;
to touch, once more, the softness of your skin.
Though fate is sealed and destiny in place,
I long to hear your gentle voice again.
If it is true that spriits conquer death
then I will yet return to you somehow.
The winds that cool your skin shall be my breath;
my tears the gentle raindrops on your brow.
I pray you, Sarah, do no mourn me dead...
think I am gone to wait for you instead.

This poem was inspired by a letter written by Civil War Major Sullivan Ballou to his wife just days before his death.

Too Soon Ago

Too soon ago I brushed my chomps
with minty, sweetened, paste,
lending to my "J" of "O"
a most unpleasant taste.

Walter Murray

This is about a real cat I knew. The poor thing was de-clawed, fixed and he had a very distinct mark on his head in the shape of a "W"... or an "M", depending upon your perspective.


Murray is a fine cat
Soft with fuzzy ears.
Walter is a strange cat
Filled with silly fears.

Walter  is a smile cat
Murray is a frown.
They are both the same cat
Up and upside down.

Two of them are one cat
Over double lazy.
Murray is the sane cat
Walt would be the crazy
.
Beasley walks her both cat
Daily with a halter.
Often she plays spin cat
Walter-Murray-Walter.

Walter is a night cat
Murray rules the day.
Who's the dusk and dawn cat?
I can't really say.

They are not a clawed cat
Tears are salty water.
And it makes it worse that
They can't have a daughter.

It Follows

My eyes roam skyward, sailing East
and, though a week can seem a moon,
when senses, on such beauty, feast
the night will pass away too soon.

My soul is drawn, when sailing west,
to more than I can, safe, absorb,
I am, by heaven's grace, possessed,
enraptured by an ancient orb.

It follows that a moonlit sky
would call your memory to mind
no matter where my roving eye,
no matter where you are. I find

that, love, the distance can't eclipse,
I feel you heart-- if not your lips.

If One

If you are gone and I am left
or else the other way—
if one is, of a love, bereft
to face the break of day,

then one heart wakes to God’s own light;
the glorious unfurled,
and one, the bitter end of night;
a cold and lonely world.

Which one of us will live alone?
My love, what does it matter?
With one name etched in marble stone
the other’s heart will shatter.

~ © 2006 By: W.D. Neighbors ~

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.

 by: thewebsailor at: 1/15/04 11:56 pm

Tapestry

In tribute to the grace of loving long
I offer this to you in threads of rhyme –
A layered quilt of life, a silk sarong,
our tapestry – eternal, spun from time.

The narrow, cobbled, stony street we saw
where players danced and sang in days of yore
has yet to touch this lovers feet. In awe
I realize that now I love you more.

A piece of steel upon a knap of flint
can strike a spark that will, with luck, ignite,
we came together as if heaven meant
to purge for good the dark abyss of night.

A conscious thought, a choice, or cupid’s call--
you are my only love-- you are my all.

A Well of Hope

I’m crazy for other reasons
but I so love a storm
from here inside my comfort zone,
with coffee, safe and warm.

And I believe in kiss for kiss
instead of tit for tat...
that dreams are love’s reality,
can you imagine that?

Our words are tools of verity
and verse extends our scope;
the heart’s a harbor built for love;
the soul, a well of hope.

All things being equinox

Magical balance in equinox lives,
if spring or the ending of summer.
Autumnal or vernal, the feeling it gives
is antipathetic of bummer.


I’m hating the solstices, bulging at ends,
unequal in daylight and lack of.
I’m loving the spring and the cool autumn winds
that summer just hasn’t the knack of.

Rhythm, circadian, charges in pools
of equally lengthy partitions.
The solsticey seasons appeal to those fools
encumbered by blind inhibitions.

Autmnal and vernal and solstices, props
and sets of the solar position...
to let us know when to be plantin' our crops
and tell us when we should go fishin'.

Dateline

Time Travel from the perspective of a sailor crossing the international 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.

All 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.

Knights of the Breakfast Table

Said the knight to the dragon, "I'll lop off your head
and, foregoing breakfast, eat dragon instead."
Said the dragon, "You dreamer, you haven't a clue
I've hardly been trying, I'm toying with you."

And the battle resumed with sword and with flame;
the combatants concerned more with fortune and fame
than with dodging the heat or avoiding a thrust...
these equals in battle, their skills did they trust.

With a sword made of poems, a shield made of hope
here's a modern day dreamer so far out of scope
as to wish himself thither, to there he'd be willed...
to win a fair maid when the dragon he's killed.

"Don't meddle in the affairs of dragons, for you are crunchy and taste good with ketchup!"

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? The view of time 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.

Beauty in the Beast

She might have seen the beauty in the beast
who prayed for her attention for so long.
She might have heard his pretty words, at least,
if only he had written them in song.

There lived a silent poet underneath
the muted suit of armor that he wore,
but only at its death did love bequeath
the nerve to write what wasn 't said before.

A never-written sonnet is a waste.
To hold the tongue of love is near a sin.
The sweetest words acquire the vilest taste
when seasoned with a love that might have been.

His poetry, his eloquence and light,
is wasted on the cold and lonely night.

Moonlight

From the dish of the gentle breeze
moonlight butters the night.
air as soft as a baby's breath
sweet as a young girls sigh.

Filled

In youth my heart was full of ghosts.
The living space inside of me
was filled with dreams and idle boasts,
what I could do, who I would be.

Now reservoirs of love I've found
and wells of hope have learned to spring.
My bold pronouncements, once profound,
now suddenly don't mean a thing.

I harvest thoughts to fashion rhyme
as old emothions drown in new.
A weary traveller in time,
I'm yet astounded by the view.

An empty vessel at the start,
it's filled with life... this human heart.

Kona Cowboy

Kona Cowboy
Posted: 7/8/01 9:56:17 pm

---

A slightly "different" cowboy poem... seems to be my specialty..

A far away vaquero
one dark Hawaiian night
let artificial heroes
lead him into a fight.

His saddlebags were taken,
his Appaloosa gone,
his lariat forsaken,
he vowed to move along.

His fragile spirit broken,
let down by life again,
his heartbreak left unspoken,
so all alone in pain,

he journeyed over water
to drink his sad away
and met a fallen daughter
from Wiamea Bay.

A thoroughfare to Nada
loomed in the cowboy's sight.
A Unicorn Remuda
trailed this Hawaiian knight.

She promised him forever.
he saddled up to ride.
forever turned to never,
the cowboy in him died.

The Devil's very envoy,
she was his final hope.
Aloha Kona Cowboy...
hanging under his own rope.

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 today.... 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?"

Half of one oh eight

Though some may say I'm fifty-four
to that I can't relate.
I prefer to think that I'm 
one half of one oh eight.

My bones may creak and groan as I
ascend another rung,
my mind, however, stubbornly,
remains forever young.

Six months from now my body may
insist that I recline,
but in my head I'll dance with joy...
one half of one oh nine!

Rush Hour

We hurry out of childhood into youth,
impatiently we spend the coins of time.
So little do we notice time, in truth,
we cannot see the reason for the rhyme.

The second act, our freedom here at last,
the freedom to do only what's expected;
to fight a battle rooted in the past
with images so blurred they aren't reflected.

And so we come upon our middle years,
our goal in sight, our focus to retire.
The "easy life" is music to our ears,
but life's momentum lasts till we expire.

Alas, before we take our final bow,
we take no time to be content with now.

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 WD Neighbors

A Tapestry

In tribute to the grace of loving long
and well, I offer this, a simple rhyme
to spin our lives together as in song,
a tapestry, eternal, spun of time.

The narrow, cobbled, stony street we saw
where players danced and sang in days of yore
has yet to touch this lover’s feet. In awe
I realize that now I love you more.

A piece of steel upon a knap of flint
begets a spark that will, with luck, ignite
We came together as if heaven meant
to purge, for good, the dark abyss of night.

To warm my soul within this surging fire,
to fuel our love is all that I desire.

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.

Now 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.

Shining Moments

Those shining moments in your youth,

they self define us, leave a scar,

emboss us, subtly, with their truth.

They serve to make us who we are.

Those blazing banners in the night,

the golden etchings set in stone.

Forever shining with a light

for other eyes but not our own.

On Leaving

On leaving Christmas presence in the air,
on holiday from work, or maybe not--
the spirit feels, as winter, cold and bare,
the 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. The hearts besot
with cheerfulness with milk and honey, sag
from Christmas dark regret, to new years sulk and drag.

© Copyright 2006 W.D. Neighbors

Of wind

I’ve often set my mind to solve
the riddle of the wind
that gently rocks the sleeping child,
that wills the trees to bend.

The magic of a lover’s touch
I’ve pondered in its turn,
that soothes as gentle, velvet ice,
that sets the soul to burn.

The love that keeps a body warm,
that, appetites’, well please,
can turn about on this and that
and bring you to your knees.

The wind that fuels the raging storm,
that feeds the surging seas
will whirl about in seconds flat
and, blows the gentle breeze.

Of wind and love I ponder, yet
no form or face perceive
but here my heart and there my sail--
of each would I receive.

© Copyright 2004 Dean Neighbors

Well

I’m crazy for other reasons

but I so love a storm

from here inside my comfort zone

with coffee, safe and warm.

And I believe in kiss for kiss

instead of tit for tat,

that dreams are love’s reality;

can you imagine that?

Our words are tools of verity,

and verse extends our scope.

The heart’s a harbor built for love--

the soul, a well of hope.

Epitaph

The poems form a universe

within the writers 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 might 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.

Private Practice

If I should write the splendor of your eyes,
if I describe your elegance and grace,
the readers may conclude the writer lies.
Who would believe the beauty of your face?

What fool will heed my voice in years to come,
so filled with of loving images of you.
They’ll sooner think I worship demon rum,
 then yield my case and pay your charm its due.

I dare not write a play about your smile,
what future actress then could play your part?
My shrine the angry critics would defile
and this brings a great distress into my heart.

I cannot, then, make love to you in verse;
but—if we cannot act, can we rehearse?

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?

Out of Print

Within the book of wasted time
a section must exist
with articles in perfect rhyme
of poets never kissed

by lady luck or fortune’s son;
(the gender matters not),
of loves and favors never won,
of passions never wrought.

My chronicle would grace this page
my love if not for you
as written by some useless sage
for all the world to view.

My dearest love I here exalt
that I am out of print.
The presses, dear, were made to halt
by orders, heaven sent.

Palo Duro Canyon Walls

The Palo Duro canyon walls
still echo with the sounds

of stalking braves and buffalo;
Comanche hunting grounds.

The Cheyenne and Arapaho,
the Kiowa and more,

well stocked with food to last till spring,
lived on the canyon floor.

Then in the moon of yellow leaves,
the blue coats tracked them down

with mercenary Tonkawa
they came without a sound.

Chief Kicking Bird and Lone Wolf led
brave warriors in the fray,

to hold the blue coat charge until
the women got away.

A valiant fight, a gallant stand,
then bloodied warriors fled

too late to gather horses so
they left on foot instead.

The Tule Valley to this day
yet echos with the sounds--

a thousand horses slaughtered on
Comanche holy grounds.

In Chains

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.

English

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

The words surround us like a sea
and, as the dark abyss will peak,
will ebb and swell with mystery,
so does 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 we have wrought,
our common words-- our common thought.

At the Bookstore Coffee Shop

He hangs out in bookstores, all dusty and dim,
or is it the bookstores that hang out in him?
He knows about life in a clinical way
from books he has read and the things people say.

The pants are too short and the face is too long.
The shirt and the bright purple vest are all wrong.
He hides behind glasses with tortoise shell frames
and lives with a cousin whose gold fish have names.

But he can think thoughts that no other can touch,
like Hawking, string theory, genomics and such.
He quotes from Will Shakespeare, and Cicero too
and knows Aristotle "much better than you".

He eats when he’s hungry and lives without time.
He hopes without rhythm and dreams without rhyme,
covertly, in cyberspace rooms where he knows
that he can be anyone, anything goes.

He’s read about life but he hasn’t yet been,
he promised his Mom but he backed out again--
and he’d shed a tear if he knew how to cry;
he’s dying to live while he’s waiting to die.


© Copyright 2004 W.D.Neighbors

Written, in draft at least, at the "Book Passages" bookstore in Corte Madera CA while I was waiting for my wife to finish her lunch. This is an ebellisment on an observation of a real person; a fantasy expansion (mostly in my mind) based on the subject's looks alone. I really like this poem (is it okay to like your own poem?).

Wicked

Of good we need so little sign
accepting what we’re told.
With ease do “evil” we assign
to ugly girls and bold.

Though wicked never was her name,
from in the west she flew.
And Glinda “north” then placed the blame
but, truly, Glinda knew

the Kansas girl of innocence;
of pure and simple thought,
escaped beyond the munchkin fence
with shoes she hadn’t bought.

Oh, evil is as evil does
and wicked’s often seen
in those depicted less than good
upon the silver screen.

Wages

“In timeless magic, lofty trees
don blankets made of virgin snow…”
This imagery is sewn to please
in ways that only poets know.

Inquire of nature, “What’s the time?”
and watch the day sink into night,
but hear the image in a rhyme
and see without the need for sight.

For life and love and beauty’s sake,
at banquets spread in poets minds,
of metered sweetness men partake
in verses of the many kinds.

What then could poet’s wages be
but joy and peace-- and sanity?

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.

Out of Print

Within the book of wasted time
a section must exist
with articles in perfect rhyme
of poets never kissed

by lady luck or fortune’s son,
(the gender matters not),
of loves and favors never won,
of passions never wrought.

My chronicle would grace this page
my love, if not for you
as written by some useless sage
for all the world to view.

My dearest love, I here exalt
that I am out of print.
The presses, dear, were made to halt
by orders, heaven sent.

Gifts

Some years ago I dared to ask the Lord

to stop all time, a beauty to preserve.

But life will set what pace it can afford
and time must charge such toll as we deserve.


My wish, though penned in earnest verses true,
was rendered moot as life reviewed the rhyme.
When God decides to dress a beauty new
then He will build the clock and set the time.


And chief among the many things I've learned;
I’m compensated though my wish is wrecked
for beauty has been doubled and returned
and time is truly cause to this effect.

In silence now I watch my gifts unfold...

a wiser man but surely never old.

Unfinished

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.

The poems are a lifetime set to rhyme;
the scripting of a role;
a simple heart attempting to define
a complicated soul.

The 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.

Pandora Dear

Pandora dear, what have you there?
Don't meddle with those fragile locks.
Pandora dear please take a care,
don't open that unopened box.

The box is standing open now,
the words from deep inside have fled.
Pandora's left to wonder how
to render spoken words unsaid.

Our words are frozen thoughts defined
as they are formed within our past.
Our prejudices unrefined,
the thoughts are gone-- the words will last.

Some words and thoughts we shouldn't show.
Just ask Pandora, she would know

Friendly Fire

We mourn the losses, praise the heroes well--
then loose, again, the beast that we control.
We know, of course, the beast was born in hell
but, gentled now, by good’s collective soul.

We tune the awkward monster, hone his sight
to humanize, recalibrate his aim.
But, though we seek to turn him to the right,
at heart, his beastly purpose is the same.

A child, alone, belonging to the earth,
no race, religion, nation understood
is in the path by accident of birth
and innocence won’t do him any good.

For, War, the beast we hone to render mild
cannot be trained to recognize a child.

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

The Gibson

My Father-in-law, Bob Blake, owned and played an old Gibson acoustic guitar for most of his life… from the age of 13 until he was about 60.

While it was still around, in the mid-1960’s the guitar began to show her age. She had a crack in one side that went almost the whole length of the body. It had been played so much that there were deep grooves in the neck. Bob wrote to the Gibson company and asked if they could repair her. They said no, so he lovingly took her all apart and used epoxy to glue her side and filled in the grooves and cleaned and polished her and put her back together. She sounded more beautiful than ever. Bob has been gone for many years now…he, and his music, are missed. I wrote this some time ago…. it was, partly, inspired by another poem (Voices), written by my friend Kathy Earsman. Eventually, when arthritis took its toll on his fingers, Bob gave the Gibson to one of his sons… and somewhere in the shuffle the Gibson was lost.

In gentle tones he sang the blues,
with working hands caressed a chord.
Not one request would he refuse
for nothing more could he afford.

He lived within a country song;
his Gibson and his voice defined
the only tune that wasn’t wrong;
the hidden sweetness in his mind.

And near the end, in sweetest voice,
the music filled his soul it seems…
and in the end, as if by choice,
he left the music to our dreams.

The sweet and mournful music sleeps
in other hands– the Gibson weeps.

Fresh Roasted Peanuts

You know the park and how the scene will go.
You know the girl and boy, you know them all.
You know, by now, the boy should really know
the girl will always snatch away the ball.

You know the house behind the house of brown
You know the baron shot it from behind.
You know the pilot well who rides it down
but even so, you never seem to mind..

While tickling the ivory one night
the quiet boy who wants to be the star
saw that he'd never lead the troupe despite
his talents which, by rights, should take him far.

And maybe now you understand just why
he changed his tune and made the beagle cry.

Sarah

In shadow views of battle yet to be
the final stranger beckons me. I fear
that I must now accept what I forsee;
the moment of my death is drawing near.

Oh sarah, how I want to see your face,
to touch, once more, the softness of your skin.
Though fate is sealed and destiny in place,
I long to hear your gentle voice again.

If it is true that spriits conquer death
then I will yet return to you somehow.
The winds that cool your skin shall be my breath,
my tears the gentle raindrops on your brow.

I pray you, Sarah, do no mourn me dead...
think I am gone to wait for you instead.

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!"