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.


...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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.

Osceola

In eighteen hundred thirty eight
a painter, passing by
before it was 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 of golden amber brown;
the face of mirrored dread
A feathered plume, a crimson crown
A race so nearly dead.

The “trail of tears” with weary feet
did Osceola stride
his 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 ceased, his eye fulfilled,
his painting graced a hall
to show the world a warrior, killed,
could live to haunt us all.


A link to the George Catlin Portrait of Osceola.

A link to the Story of Osceola and the story behind the painting of the portrait.

El Alma Del Caballo (the soul of the Horse)

The old Vaquero rolled a smoke
and spoke of unseen forces;
the awful toll that wars require
of soldiers and their horses…

how some believe that war cures war;
of lessons known and told;
why men can’t learn a truth their heart
has not the shape to hold.

“Caballo hearts, old soldiers know,
reflect the hearts of men.
This fact was known when Moses fled
and Pharaoh learned to swim.”

“The horse and soldier share a bond”,
the old hand told the young,
“for Horse, like Man, enjoys the taste
of war upon his tongue.”

“None but a man who’s gone to war
and felt its mighty force,
while clinging to a saddle, truly
understands the horse.”

A mount was shot from under me
in battle near the sea
and death revealed the nature of
the horse’s soul to me."

“All horses share a common soul.
I’ve seen this thing, it’s true…
if you know one, a single horse,
then all are known to you."

The old man tossed his cigarette
and filled his coffee cup…
and as he did another there,
a Gringo boy, spoke up.

"If what you say is true, old man,
when Horse and Man are gone,
the soul of Horse will perish too,
what point in staying on?"

The old man laughed, “You are so young
my cowboy friend but try
to open up your heart and mind
and I will tell you why

these words you speak, they make no sense,
I tell you here and now.
No horses in the world? This thing
our God would not allow."