My Heart is What it Was Before

“My heart is what it was before”* a bleak and lonely place. "I love what others do abhor,"** my heart belies my face. “I light the lamp and lay the cloth”* I stoke the fire to blaze. I choose to break a solemn troth; my muse has cunning ways. I wick the ink to golden quill; my steed of verse is spurred. Both muse and victim hanging, will intent beget absurd? What follows, then, is apropos said verse is dark and terse. The fount has made foul brook to flow; it's drivel I disperse. ©2006 W.D.Neighbors *Edna St. Vincent Millay....collected lyrics "Alms" ** Shakespeare, sonnet CL

Poseidon's Breath

An ocean storm, Poseidon’s might; the rigging glows with Elmo’s fire. Though death may take him in the night he’s “not afraid” (or he’s a liar)! A storm is like a glass of wine; to compliment a Sailor’s feast. He’ll swig and judge the vintage fine, but never swallow in the least. There’s challenge in Poseidon’s rage to those who dare to cross his path. though “heaving to” appeals, this sage will choose to tempt the surging wrath. Poseidon’s breath may bring his end, yet canvas flies! Be damned, the wind! © Copyright 2004 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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Poetry

Poetry's the music
that was playing in my heart
right at the beginning
of the ending from the start;

long, cascading verses
to express a single thought;
freely given secrets for which,
once, I would have fought;

philosophizing, prophesizing,
boldly telling lies;
romantic inspirations
wrapped in wishes sealed with sighs;

memories of miseries;
imaginary love;
wanderings and wonderings
and magic from above;

prejudices, urgent kisses,
honesty and myth;
pain and pretty, joy and ugly
whipped until they're stiff;

Poetry is equal parts of joy
and primal fears;
half completed verses
seen through veils of poets tears;



brightly painted shadows
from the dungeon known as me;
imaginary imagery
that's absolutely free.

I build them with pieces of thought that I’ve found without much revealing the meaning. While formless appearing they’re really quite round so I never send them for cleaning. They’re aren’t any chalk lines defining my field so I never swing for the bleachers. In spite or redemption, I harvest my yield; the finest I brew for my teachers. They stumble, my sonnets, my ballads take trips; my "ambic" have too many digits. While some are off honing with diamond tips I’m home building whatzits and widgets… with meaningless phrases and bits strung along like old Dr. Seuss wrote a Bob Dylan song.

No Roses

No crosses mark the ocean waves;
no monuments of stone.
No roses grow on Sailor's graves;
a Sailor rests alone.

His tributes are the Seagulls sweeps;
forever wild and free...
and teardrops that a sweetheart weeps
to mingle with the sea.

~ © 2000 By: W.D. Neighbors ~

Circle Circle

Oh why, dear muse, has this pen been forsaken?
Does verse not slake your ego when you thirst?
Perhaps your taste in wine I have mistaken;
a sour grape for muse? I have rehearsed
the motions of the quill I made before
but little seems to flow. The verses should
be pooling on the paper, not the floor
like blood or urine. If one only could
turn on and off the muse through force of will;
extract the feelings deep within the heart,
I’d wick the fear and love from pot to quill
and scratch them on a page. If I could start

perhaps then, muse, you would restore my knack
and let the magic circle, circle back.

Spenserian Pie

My first "spenserian" sonnet.

A poet, or a cook of written word,
with Lingonberry lips from Christmas toast
is staring from my mirror. “It’s absurd”
I hear me tell myself, “you are, at most
an imitation cyber bard. You roast
with cuts of wordy morsels pilfered there
and here about the net. You’re but a ghost
of others baking words. You are, I swear,
chefing written nothings-- but no one seems to care.

A Little Boy

Reflecting on the fields of life I've sown
in proper furrows; ample bales of hay,
I turn my mind to troubles that I've known;
to knowledge lost and found along the way.
The seeds that spawned the crops to feed the years;
in fields of every day; in rows of life--
brought happiness aplenty; bitter tears;
my children and a strong and loving wife.

The years have yielded lyrics, frank and terse.
From meadows of reflection; rows of time
I harvest to a journal bound with verse
this complicated life in simple rhyme--

from fields of thought to rows of scribbled joy--
an aging man, a youth-- a little boy.

Mouse~N~Clicker

I’m a mouser and a clicker, printers hum and poems flicker into life upon a screen that I control. Why I’m sharing this with you I may, later, get to say. If I fondle, ever gentle, plastic keys the time I’ve spent’ll weave the fabric of the cloth that binds my soul. Fabric meant to keep me whole. With a click I charge the printer; in a fancy font I center loving words to touch a heart as bards of yore. Rhythms stolen from the courtesy of Poe. With a glance my muse dismisses master works that drip with kisses; to this well I’ve gone too many times before. Here’s the part you might deplore… So I tune my craft for others, risking ridicule from brothers and expose myself, as Em has put it, “nude”. Emmie D. you may have ventured as to guess. For acceptance from the masters of the internet, disasters from the wilder side of me I would exclude. Kills the risk of being rude. But my ego, getting older, seems more willing to be bolder and will post the oddest verse, to my surprise. I’ll elaborate for you if I knew how. That explains what you are reading, no more guidance you’ll be needing; I’ve explained the words you see before your eyes. As the welcome teapot cries. As I ply my tongue with bacon; as a poet I am takin chances that the words I write will yet offend. My apologies to Edgar Allan Poe. But I hope that this is pleasin’; maybe cerebellum squeezin’ and I thank you all for reading to the end. Yes, at last, you’ve reached the end. Quoth the printer, nevermore.