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