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 ~