| As lost and foggy is to sailor eyes so is the siren’s call to sailor hearts. Though one should know enough to realize that nymphs appeal to other sailor parts. A sailor’s vessel wanders off the chart but he ignores the risk. Does the allure, the magnet of desire recall Descartes; “I think, therefore I am.” Or, does the cure encapsulate the illness; infinite azure. The sirens of the infinite azure lay low beneath the heavens, wonder laced in beauty that the eye could scarce endure; in memory that time has not erased. The moments of forever, so embraced are embers dim in winters waning light, aglow beneath the conscious. Markers placed that they may be forever called to sight; celebrated memories-- yesterdays delight. © 2006 W.D.Neighbors |
Subscribe To
Posts
All Comments
12/30/2006
Lost and Foggy Blues
12/28/2006
My Heart is What it Was Before
“My heart is what it was before”*
|
Osceola
In eighteen hundred thirty eight a painter, passing by before it would become 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 shone golden amber brown; the face was mirrored dread ‘neath feathered plume and crimson crown. His race was nearly dead. The “trail of tears”, with weary feet, did Osceola stride with Seminoles in sad defeat bereft of hope and pride. The warriors garb belied his pain for life and hope were done he wouldn’t live to fight again as death had nearly won. When Catlin paused, his eye fulfilled, his painting graced a hall to show the world a warrior, killed, could live to haunt us all. © Copyright 2006 W.D. Neighbors |
The Eyes of Time
When first we met at heaven’s door; when all was endless night, I fell in love, by touch, before the Lord invented light. A lyric of the universe, our song is sung by choice; a syncopated line of verse in every Angel’s voice. I look into the eyes of time and see myself with you from eons past and out of mind to futures not in view. When death may come to clam his prize; when dark and light resign, the darkest Angel we’ll surprise; as your heart beats does mine. © copyright 2004 W.D.Neighbors |
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. © copyright 2005 W.D. Neighbors |
Sewing Circle
They don’t require, nor have they kept a penny for their tender task. The comfort sewn as tears are wept; a finer wage they couldn’t ask. As mothers wait and pray aloud that hope may live forever thus the quiet artists, shy and proud construct of cloth a loving truss. To help support the cause of hope, their time is spent; compassions sewn to soothe the ones who have to cope with fear that most have never known. From in the heart and high above; from nothing asked; a quilt of good— a sewing circle made of love; of universal motherhood. © copyright 2002 W.D. Neighbors |
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 |
Poseidon's Breath
An ocean storm, Poseidon’s might; the rigging glows with 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 compliment a Sailor’s feast. He’ll swig and judge the vintage fine, but never swallow in the least. There’s challenge in Poseidon’s rage to those who dare to cross his path. though “heaving to” appeals, this sage will choose to tempt the surging wrath. Poseidon’s breath may bring his end, yet canvas flies! Be damned, the wind! © Copyright 2004 W.D. Neighbors |
John
These stories of his younger days, I’ve heard them all before, but somehow they don’t sound so stale and boring anymore. These memories of small town teams, of playing country ball, of doughboys who went “over there” and lived to “bless ‘em all”, all seem to him like yesterday… a history he knows, of Model Tee’s, depression years and silent picture shows, of one room schools and butter churns and following a plow behind a team of stubborn mules; he still remembers how. I came to look him in the eye, to face our shaky past, to purge my bitter memories and make a peace at last. I came to shake his hand again and take my share of blame, but I grew up a bit too late… he can’t recall my name. ~ © 2001 By: W.D.Neighbors ~ [More:] ~ John ~ 10/27/01. This poem is about my father; John Ledford Neighbors; born March 1907 in Oklahoma with a talent for telling stories that was not always appreciated by his youngest son, and a memory like a colorfully illustrated history text book. This was written after my last visit with him. During the visit he talked, in great detail, with my son and I about a baseball game, in which he had played in a small Oklahoma town back in the 1920's. He remembered individual at bats, pitches, plays, players names etc. At the end of the story he said to me "I know you are a Neighbors boy, but what's your name?" Dad passed away in Dec 2001, just a couple months after my visit and not long after I wrote this. I used it as the "template" for another poem about the coincidence of Dad's passing and the (shortly thereafter) birth of his great grandson, Bailey Michael Neighbors. I like to think they passed each other, and smiled, at the door. I have posted that poem here in this blog (the ballad of John and Bailey) |
The Ballad of John.... and Bailey
The Ballad of John ...
John was born a farmers son
and learned to work the lands
in rural Oklahoma where
they made life with their hands.
He learned to tell a story well
and all who listened know
of model T's, depression days
and silent picture shows ...
of wagon trips and cotton crops
and playing country ball ...
of thunder storms and blackjack trees
and harvests in the fall ...
of one room schools and butter churns
and following a plow
behind a team of stubborn mules,
he still remembered how.
The oldest of eleven then
what could the schoolboy do
but read his book behind a plow
and pray his rows were true.
John married young as some men do
and raised a family
of seven children, seven strong,
with quiet dignity.
They moved to Colorado for,
he hoped, a better day.
To make a life without a crop ...
to live another way.
Then out to California
a blue pacific dawn.
The war was recent history,
the grapes of wrath were gone.
They cut some grapes and pulled a mile
of cotton down a row.
They chased some water, pulled a plow
and danced with mister hoe.
They moved their share of sprinkler lines
then moved them all again.
They moved the mighty cotton plant from
row to sack to gin.
John lost his love one dreary day
but kept his stubborn pride
and lived another forty years
though half his heart had died.
And other loves and other crops
and other rows to hoe ...
and other losses other moves
and other pain to know.
Alone at last, yet not alone,
Louisiana bound ...
in southern hospitality
a final home he found.
A restful town, a peaceful life,
tomato plants to tend.
With books to read and tales to tell,
a better way to end.
With honor and integrity,
with unrelenting pride ...
with dignity John lived his life...
with dignity he died.
... And Bailey
Two Neighbors boys at Heavens door
paused there to share a grin ...
then one stepped out to start a life
and one came home again.
~ Wayne D. Neighbors ~
There are a lot of stories buried in this about; John playing country baseball as a youth; about having to quit school after elementary school to help on the family farm; about carrying a favorite book everywhere he went, reading it over and over; buying his first car and learning to drive on the way home; about a trip in a horse drawn wagon that the family took when John was a young boy; about my Mother's death at a relatively young age and my Dad's attempts to deal with that for the rest of his long life; about the moves from Oklahoma to Colorado and on to California and the obvious (in my mind) parallel with the John Stienbeck book "The grapes of wrath" (he didn't like the book -- "makes the Okies look like they were stupid, we weren't stupid".
Bailey at six months old now as I write this, sits on his Dad's lap and seems to watch "Baseball Tonight" on ESPN ... like father, like son like grandfather, like great-grandfather etc. John was a life-long baseball fan... a favorite was, fellow Oklahoman Carl Hubbel. One of the last people Dad met was my son Michael's new wife, Nikki. She was carrying his great grandson (Bailey) at the time. Dad died just days before Bailey was born. I like to think they crossed paths at the threshold.
John was born a farmers son
and learned to work the lands
in rural Oklahoma where
they made life with their hands.
He learned to tell a story well
and all who listened know
of model T's, depression days
and silent picture shows ...
of wagon trips and cotton crops
and playing country ball ...
of thunder storms and blackjack trees
and harvests in the fall ...
of one room schools and butter churns
and following a plow
behind a team of stubborn mules,
he still remembered how.
The oldest of eleven then
what could the schoolboy do
but read his book behind a plow
and pray his rows were true.
John married young as some men do
and raised a family
of seven children, seven strong,
with quiet dignity.
They moved to Colorado for,
he hoped, a better day.
To make a life without a crop ...
to live another way.
Then out to California
a blue pacific dawn.
The war was recent history,
the grapes of wrath were gone.
They cut some grapes and pulled a mile
of cotton down a row.
They chased some water, pulled a plow
and danced with mister hoe.
They moved their share of sprinkler lines
then moved them all again.
They moved the mighty cotton plant from
row to sack to gin.
John lost his love one dreary day
but kept his stubborn pride
and lived another forty years
though half his heart had died.
And other loves and other crops
and other rows to hoe ...
and other losses other moves
and other pain to know.
Alone at last, yet not alone,
Louisiana bound ...
in southern hospitality
a final home he found.
A restful town, a peaceful life,
tomato plants to tend.
With books to read and tales to tell,
a better way to end.
With honor and integrity,
with unrelenting pride ...
with dignity John lived his life...
with dignity he died.
... And Bailey
Two Neighbors boys at Heavens door
paused there to share a grin ...
then one stepped out to start a life
and one came home again.
~ Wayne D. Neighbors ~
There are a lot of stories buried in this about; John playing country baseball as a youth; about having to quit school after elementary school to help on the family farm; about carrying a favorite book everywhere he went, reading it over and over; buying his first car and learning to drive on the way home; about a trip in a horse drawn wagon that the family took when John was a young boy; about my Mother's death at a relatively young age and my Dad's attempts to deal with that for the rest of his long life; about the moves from Oklahoma to Colorado and on to California and the obvious (in my mind) parallel with the John Stienbeck book "The grapes of wrath" (he didn't like the book -- "makes the Okies look like they were stupid, we weren't stupid".
Bailey at six months old now as I write this, sits on his Dad's lap and seems to watch "Baseball Tonight" on ESPN ... like father, like son like grandfather, like great-grandfather etc. John was a life-long baseball fan... a favorite was, fellow Oklahoman Carl Hubbel. One of the last people Dad met was my son Michael's new wife, Nikki. She was carrying his great grandson (Bailey) at the time. Dad died just days before Bailey was born. I like to think they crossed paths at the threshold.
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 Mill Valley 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?). |
On Leaving Christmas
| From last Christmas (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
12/26/2006
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. Anon, it flew galactic arms to die, down ancient paths of stasis 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. © 2006 W.D.Neighbors |
12/24/2006
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
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
12/21/2006
Words
Inspired by “The Story of English” by Robert McCrum, William Cran and Robert MacNeil.
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
v5 11/25/2006 8:14
PUBLIC27\wdneighbors 20.5 KB
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
v5 11/25/2006 8:14
PUBLIC27\wdneighbors 20.5 KB
12/20/2006
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 mbtdivers.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.
12/19/2006
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.
© copyright 2006 W.D. Neighbors
v1 11/24/2006 14:51
PUBLIC27\wdneighbors 19.5 KB
12/18/2006
Poetry and Magic
I, obviously, read too much about King Arthur as a child.
I dreamed you were a maiden and
I was a mighty king.
In dreams I can go anywhere,
accomplish anything.
I dreamed us to a place and time
of castles in the sky.
A magic land of poetry
where wishes learn to fly.
The king was sired by fantasy,
an orphan child of rhyme.
He’s Arthur, late of Camelot,
an image out of time.
The maid was born of sorcery,
a magic portrait of
Queen Guinevere of fondest dreams,
the picture of my love.
Awake! Oh sweet reality,
my dreams have all come true.
The poetry lives in my heart…
the magic lives in you.
© 2002 W,D, Neighbors
I dreamed you were a maiden and
I was a mighty king.
In dreams I can go anywhere,
accomplish anything.
I dreamed us to a place and time
of castles in the sky.
A magic land of poetry
where wishes learn to fly.
The king was sired by fantasy,
an orphan child of rhyme.
He’s Arthur, late of Camelot,
an image out of time.
The maid was born of sorcery,
a magic portrait of
Queen Guinevere of fondest dreams,
the picture of my love.
Awake! Oh sweet reality,
my dreams have all come true.
The poetry lives in my heart…
the magic lives in you.
© 2002 W,D, Neighbors
11/28/2006
Rekindling Glory
| By day it was merely a line; the bottom in ocean, the top in the sky; a giant appearing benign when seen through a distant and innocent eye. The keeper, with cloth and with rod, on legs made of granite, his weary brow damp; ascended like Jacob to God; rekindling glory with labor and lamp. The mariners, weary and wise, returning from ports in the Orient found, when stars had been lost to their eyes, a magical beacon for those homeward bound; A sentinel searching the night; a modern descendent, to honor the name, of Pharos; the island of light; antiquity's wonder of welcoming flame. © 2003 W.D. Neighbors |
Poetry
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.
11/27/2006
Sunset
She isn't, yet, the lady of my youth
who taught the virgin boy to slake his thirst
with water from the sea of life but, truth
be told she will forever be the first--
the first to find the man within the boy;
to challenge him to gamble; to explore;
the first to turn a sorrow to a joy;
to show my eyes an unfamiliar shore.
I moved from fears to hopes and hopes to fears
to see her make believe; to keep pretending;
this lady, in her gray and dismal years,
who steered away from any thought of ending--
Now, rest ye lady; gently down to sleep
within the ample bosom of the deep.
© 2006 W.D. Neighbors
11/24/2006
Jacobs Ladder
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
“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
Name: Jacob
Title: Jacob's Ladder
Creation date: 2003
comments:
Created at 11/22/2006 13:05 by PUBLIC27\wdneighbors
Last modified at 11/24/2006 11:24 by PUBLIC27\wdneighbors
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
“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
Name: Jacob
Title: Jacob's Ladder
Creation date: 2003
comments:
Created at 11/22/2006 13:05 by PUBLIC27\wdneighbors
Last modified at 11/24/2006 11:24 by PUBLIC27\wdneighbors
11/20/2006
| I build them with pieces of thought that I’ve found without much revealing the meaning. While formless appearing they’re really quite round so I never send them for cleaning. They’re aren’t any chalk lines defining my field so I never swing for the bleachers. In spite or redemption, I harvest my yield; the finest I brew for my teachers. They stumble, my sonnets, my ballads take trips; my "ambic" have too many digits. While some are off honing with diamond tips I’m home building whatzits and widgets… with meaningless phrases and bits strung along like old Dr. Seuss wrote a Bob Dylan song. |
10/30/2006
Memories
memories of memories …imperfect and surreal copies made of copies of …a loss that I should 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 don't reply the echoes of a silent heart ...can never tell me why the gray and faded image ... the mother she became what do we have in common .. beyond our common name a tattered family bible ... a note made by her hand pieces of a strangers past ... that I don't understand if l ask 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 ... a loss I’ll always feel © Copyright 2004 Wayne D. Neighbors |
9/28/2006
Orange is the color of pain
|
8/27/2006
No Roses
No crosses mark the ocean waves;
no monuments of stone.
No roses grow on Sailor's graves;
a Sailor rests alone.
His tributes are the Seagulls sweeps;
forever wild and free...
and teardrops that a sweetheart weeps
to mingle with the sea.
~ © 2000 By: W.D. Neighbors ~
6/13/2006
3/11/2006
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.
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.
1/31/2006
Of Love
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I wrote this about a young friend of mine who was about to become a first time father... he's not exactly a "poetry reading type"... Police Officer, Harley rider, Hunter etc."... but, I knew him when he was a little boy...and the little boy is still in there... He didn't have a clue what this new little girl was gonna do to him. Never did show him the poem...
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 thought he did 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 hold 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 dirty face, a sloppy kiss;
of love the father knows.
I wrote this about a young friend of mine who was about to become a first time father... he's not exactly a "poetry reading type"... Police Officer, Harley rider, Hunter etc."... but, I knew him when he was a little boy...and the little boy is still in there... He didn't have a clue what this new little girl was gonna do to him. Never did show him the poem...
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 thought he did 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 hold 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 dirty face, a sloppy kiss;
of love the father knows.
1/28/2006
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?" |
1/26/2006
It Follows
My eyes roam skyward sailing East
and though each moment seems 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 one can safe absorb.
I am by heaven's grace possessed;
enraptured by an ancient orb.
It follows that a moonlit sky
will call your beauty to my mind.
No matter where my roving eye;
no matter where you are I find
a glow that distance can't eclipse;
I feel your love-- if not your lips.
and though each moment seems 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 one can safe absorb.
I am by heaven's grace possessed;
enraptured by an ancient orb.
It follows that a moonlit sky
will call your beauty to my mind.
No matter where my roving eye;
no matter where you are I find
a glow that distance can't eclipse;
I feel your love-- if not your lips.
1/01/2006
Old Salt
"'O God the sea is so great and my boat is so small.'" ~ John F. Kennedy ~
Man hoists a sail to fly upon the wind,
through spray and storm; to scale the mountain sea.
And though it’s just, it feels as good as sin
and moves us near to heaven; ecstacy
that fires the human spirit. God’s decree
was that our salt should match the sea, and this
has charged the very blood that flows in thee.
A sailor bleeds of nature’s dark abyss
and lives to taste her tears; her deep primeval kiss.
"I really don't know why it is that all of us are so committed to the sea, except I think it's because in addition to the fact that the sea changes, and the light changes, and ships change, it's because we all came from the sea. And it is an interesting biological fact that all of us have, in our veins the exact same percentage of salt in our blood that exists in the ocean, and therefore, we have salt in our blood, in our sweat, in our tears. We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea--whether it is to sail or to watch it--we are going back from whence we came."
~ John F. Kennedy ~ Remarks in Newport at the Australian Ambassador's Dinner for the America's Cup Crews, September 14, 1962, Public Papers of the Presidents: 1962, p. 684.
Man hoists a sail to fly upon the wind,
through spray and storm; to scale the mountain sea.
And though it’s just, it feels as good as sin
and moves us near to heaven; ecstacy
that fires the human spirit. God’s decree
was that our salt should match the sea, and this
has charged the very blood that flows in thee.
A sailor bleeds of nature’s dark abyss
and lives to taste her tears; her deep primeval kiss.
"I really don't know why it is that all of us are so committed to the sea, except I think it's because in addition to the fact that the sea changes, and the light changes, and ships change, it's because we all came from the sea. And it is an interesting biological fact that all of us have, in our veins the exact same percentage of salt in our blood that exists in the ocean, and therefore, we have salt in our blood, in our sweat, in our tears. We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea--whether it is to sail or to watch it--we are going back from whence we came."
~ John F. Kennedy ~ Remarks in Newport at the Australian Ambassador's Dinner for the America's Cup Crews, September 14, 1962, Public Papers of the Presidents: 1962, p. 684.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
