Lemons in the snow.

Opaque

Opaque, before the light of early dawn, a window pane; a portal to our 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.

Gibberish

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?

Carlos

The old musician spoke to me in rhythms and in voice. The anger that he couldn't see revealed itself as choice; a choice he couldn't see to make, the boy inside the man, as forty years of this mistake electrified his band. With music of the heart designed to light his darkened soul, the sweet guitar sang in his mind and tried to make him whole. But in the end the instrument that opened up his heart was spoken word; a sentence meant to pull his life apart. And there, revealed, the pain he'd kept completely out of sight; the long forgotten boy who'd wept in fear throughout the night. And ever after, knowing now, he thanked the Lord above. And ever after, knowing how, he filled his songs with love.

Chronicle

So, it’s off to omega I go, and as future events I traverse it’s a comforting thing just to know in the end I’ll come back in reverse. My personal universe lives as a chronicle written in rhyme filled with hints that my subconscious gives me of previous travels through time. As I travel time's infinite scope I’m aware that my passage is paid with the tangible substance of hope from which all human wishes are made.

Melody

A never-ending melody
is playing in my mind;
the quintessential poem, yet
without a single rhyme,

a sonnet for eternity
containing not a word,
a lyric never written for
a ballad never heard.

I write a single verse a day
my heart in every line,
a tapestry of ecstasy
my love for you entwined.

My silent muse composes verse
to trepidation’s themes.
I write for you a song of love…
but only in my dreams.

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.

Memory

~ Memory ~ 2/02/02. For Mom. You crossed the boundaries of life to sail in Heaven's sea... and I was left to bridge the gulf between the world and me. You left a child too young to see you didn't choose to go. A child who grew into a man before he came to know... that you left too, a legacy... a memory of love that God himself would be content to be the owner of. ~ © 2002 By: W.D.Neighbors ~

Autumn Apple

The Autumn apple, crisp and tart or spicy crusty warm in pies to please the senses; touch the heart the nose the tongue the hungry eyes.

Summer's End

________________________________________ The clouds, in fury, gather and the wind begins to blow the summer from the land, but summer doesn’t want to go. An angry shout of thunder follows each new flash of pain. The weary earth is set upon by multitudes of rain. The knights of autumn fall on the retreating summer sun, and mists above the mourning tell the world that Fall has won.

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?"

Night and Day « on: Jun 14th, 2002, 12:33am » ________________________________________ Today is never good enough to keep; we long for the unreachable tomorrow. Perfection's in our hands and yet we weep until we've nothing left but perfect sorrow. We set our goals completely out of sight beyond the far horizons of a chance that we will have to step into the light and mount the stage of life to start the dance. For love and for the lack of love we've wept and, blinded by despair, we cannot see the world is filled with love we won't accept because we long for love that cannot be. And while our nights are begging life to stay... our days are busy pushing it away. W.D. Neighbors "And the day came, when the risk it took to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom." - Anais Nin

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?

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.

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 several 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. ~ © 2001 By: 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

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.

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. Interval I see the truth unfolding in my dreams; our love exists as interwoven time. But time is not as simple as it seems, as basic as the meter in a rhyme. Our time together doesn't seem to play into the universe as now defined, for time's no 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 began with our first kiss. ~ © 2002 By: W.D.Neighbors ~

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.

Simply (for Jeanie)

I have scars on my knees
and pain in my hips
but words of endearment
still fall from my lips.

The skin’s a bit wrinkled,
the hair turns to gray,
yet naught touches heart
that the voice will not say.

Its easier said now
and easier done;
a stream will flow smoother
the longer the run.

Simplicity matters
when push comes to shove…
I'm older and wiser...

and simply in love.


...

I Dream

I Dream

I dream in iambic
I mumble in verse
for Will was my teacher
and Em was my nurse.

My quill dips in fountains
of eloquent ink
and beautiful etchings
for Poe was my shrink.

I farmed with my Tennyson
planting the seed,
I studied my Cummings
(old e.e.), indeed…

“anyone lived” is a
poetry force…
and as for my Kipling,
I’ve kipled, of course.

I’ve mingled and mangled
with many a bard,
I will be a poet
it can’t be that hard.

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 a 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 yeas were on the news before us all.
Survivors had to live or die with shame
for not becoming etchings on the wall.

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

Cause 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...
but though I may shout quite obscenely
at least I am staying in shape.

Chocolate Fudge and China Tea

Silent friend sets to her tasks,
strives and works but never asks
what the end result may be...
lost in work or lost at sea?

Life is many things in all
bittersweet in large and small;
work unending building dreams
joy and sadness bursting seams.

Silent friend sets to her tasks
strives and works but never asks
any thing or thought from me...
chocolate fudge and China tea.


...

The Gibson Weeps In memory of my Father-in-law, Bob Blake... In gentle tones you sang the blues... with working hands caressed a chord... and no request would you refuse for nothing more could you afford. You lived within a country song with words and rhythms ill defined. The only tune that wasn't wrong was playing softly in your mind. But near the end, in sweetest voice, the music filled your soul it seems.. and in the end, as if by choice, you left the music to our dreams. And now the mournful music sleeps. In other hands... the Gibson weeps. © Copyright 2002 Wayne Neighbors

The Lady of the Night

Her face is of another world,
the lady of the night,
her beauty framed by Heaven's glow
of alabaster light.

So shyly as she passes by,
behind a veil she slips.
Eternity won't make a face
her beauty can't eclipse.
She smiles at her companion as
she slowly turns away
as if she were a lover lost
with nothing more to say.

She peers into the depths of space
in darkness unafraid
then turns to face the world again,
her monthly penance paid.


© Copyright 2003 Wayne Neighbors

However

A former hero; hero who was dead;
Consumable who was, himself, consumed--
was given second life; a second head;
so, not as nearly dead as once presumed.

Who was it, tell, that had the corpse exhumed?
What damsel altered, once again, his course?
Who led him to the stable, well perfumed,
and sat him, once again, astride his horse?

However raised, the knight was trotted forth.
However doused in drops of bitter rose…
However spurred, he rode his charger north...
to die again as one would well suppose.

Just the One

A single step in time’s immortal height;
I paused to smell the roses wet with dew;
to watch the moon ascend majestic night
and in that moment fell in love with you.

And all our moments grew from just the one;
a solitary portion of an hour--
but, oh my love, that moment was the sun
that gave its light to grow this lovely flower.

In such a moment miracles occur --
when love’s a rose whose fragrance fills the air;
when past recalls how beautiful you were
and present how beloved. Then and there

I chose to give my heart; to stop pretending;
to live within this moment, never ending.


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