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

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

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