Oregon Trip Oct 08

Pictures from trip to Oregon to visit Jean and Walt Oct 08

Thanksgiving 2008

Holiday (3 weeks old), Macy and Tam

Holly, Bailey and Baileys

Collage Nov 28 08

My "big sis" Jean at about 3 or 4 years old

Northern CA forest Oct 08

On our trip to Northern CA Oct o8

Oct 08

Jeanie Oct 08

Jeanie (Oct 08) at Jean and Walt's... Brookings Oregon

Sailor Hat

Jeanie October 2008

Dillon and Papa

Me, my niece Linda Gail and my big brother Jim Neighbors about 1950. If I was 2, Linda was 1 and Jim was 18. Now I'm 61, Linda is 60 (wow) and Jim is gone and deeply missed. He seemed 9 feet tall at the time (come to think of it he still does to me).

Coast

Me on Northern CA coast Oct 08

Oct 08 Northern CA

Northern CA October 2008

Ego Eyes

A mirror image piece of mind I seek; a shade of deepest shadow that I might portray the picturesque from pots of bleak; construct the bright of day from dark of night. In hiding from my self-inflicted pain; I tuck away the truth; I would protect the cloth of my umbrella from the rain; my fragile self from trial by retrospect. A self-protective sheath, I realize… a double-cross entrendre, metaphor would o¬nly serve to catch my ego eyes and focus on the pain I would ignore. I seek a way to die yet live in death; a blade to take my life but not my breath. © Copyright 2004 Wayne D. Neighbors

Crystal

Refracted by the lens of time, the memories appear; that eyes may hold them up to view; that hearts may hold them dear. These images of a rainbows lost; of sunshine through the rain; the mind will calculate the cost; the soul will gauge the pain. The beauty of a broken past the heart will hold, in truth… the rest will fade, as distant storms; as does the flush of youth.

Wages

“In timeless magic, lofty trees don blankets made of virgin snow…” This imagery is sewn to please in ways that only poets know. Inquire of nature, “What’s the time?” and watch the day sink into night, but hear the image in a rhyme and see without the need for sight. For life and love and beauty’s sake, at banquets spread in poets minds, of metered sweetness men partake in verses of the many kinds. What then could poet’s wages be but joy and peace… and sanity? .

Another Path to Sundown

Another path to sundown; the cowboy rubbed his back and thought, with love, of rum relief tucked safely in his pack. Thoughts, wistfully, of father tread lightly through his mind; of going home to dash or prove the truth of what he’d find. On reaching the arroyo he reined a weary mount and, from his vest, took out to read his mother’s grim account. Another path to sundown though prudence can advise the prodigal who rules the soul will call with distant eyes. In natures own cathedral, beneath the milky way, he made a vow to reach his home before another day. Another path to sundown; the peace for which he’d yearned; he wasn’t home and yet he was the prodigal returned.

Axle

Time is many wheels, revolving slowly,
along a central spine;
an axle. Is it accident or holy,
this universal line?

The stars exist in circles never-ending,
arrayed in common space.
The paradox? The view of time depending
upon the viewers pace.

The Earth, with her companion, forms an axis;
an ordinary wheel.
Man, and this is where the parallax is,
has pride enough to feel...

that time and space revolve around his need;
the need to understand.
And, strangely, time now seems to be. Indeed…
unfolding as if planned.

Sweet Abyss

That life will run this unrelenting pace
until the final syllable of time
does not, by any trial or judgment, place
an urgency on this bouquet of rhyme
that re-declares my love; that would describe
the sweet abyss that slowly drew me in;
the amber liquid love I yet imbibe;
the kiss of life that dares me, kiss again.

When life with you is over; verses read.
When words no longer form within my soul.
When light has gone and all is dark instead,
my love will yet remain as ever, whole--

as long as lives the power of the quill;
as long as there is verse and longer still.

Nikki in her cool hat.

Bailey and Holly

Isn't is amazing that the most beautiful grandchildren on Earth were born into my family? What are the odds?

Angie, 1974

Bailey and Holley

Drink of Life

My planned spontaneity doesn’t surprise; my rose colored glasses don’t cover my eyes but all of that matters so little. It’s true because of the fortunate presence of you. We’ve matching insanities, perfectly synched we stare and we stare then together we blink Compatible vices, no reasons to hide with hearts on our sleeves we will stumble in stride. When life gives me lemons, I know what to make, I’ve gallons and gallons, I’m filling a lake. And wasn’t it fortunate, nearly a sin that I should meet one to whom life would give Gin.

Walter Murray

Murray is a fine cat Soft with fuzzy ears. Walter is a strange cat Filled with silly fears. Walter is a smile cat Murray is a frown. They are both the same cat Up and upside down. Two of them are one cat Over double lazy. Murray is the sane cat Walt would be the crazy. Beasley walks her both cat Daily with a halter. Often she plays spin cat Walter-Murray-Walter. Walter is a night cat Murray rules the day. Who's the dusk and dawn cat? I can't really say. They are not a clawed cat Tears are salty water. And it makes it worse that They can't have a daughter. SO...Murray had a mark on his head; shaped like a "W" or an "M" depending on your perspective.....or was his real name "Walter"... I honestly don't remember.

The Oldest of One

I’m the youngest of seven, the oldest of one,
a paradox past understanding;
the oldest of five that I wed on the run
while fleeing the market street landing.
I’m naked, inside, as the eyes of a clown
and cannot believe what I've told you…
but such as this can’t keep the tongue in me down
my ignorance needs to enfold you.

© Copyright 2006 W.D. Neighbors

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.

Echo

He lives within the shadow of a dream and hides when a reality comes near. But shadows aren’t as harmless as they seem for deep within the darkness lives the fear that ghosts can be of substance in the soul; that dreams can turn to nightmares on demand. To bolster his imaginary role, with manufactured bravery, he’ll stand and throw his sweetest nothings to the wind as if to test loves non-existent bond. Although he knows her life will never end he's so afraid his love will not respond, he shouts “I love you” just for the reply... and prays the echo doesn’t reckon why.

Lost and Foggy Blues

As lost and foggy is to sailor eyes so is the siren’s call to sailor hearts. Though one should know enough to realize that nymphs appeal to other sailor parts. A sailor’s vessel wanders off the chart but he ignores the risk. Does the allure, the magnet of desire recall Descartes; “I think, therefore I am.” Or, does the cure encapsulate the illness; infinite azure. The sirens of the infinite azure lay low beneath the heavens, wonder laced in beauty that the eye could scarce endure; in memory that time has not erased. The moments of forever, so embraced are embers dim in winters waning light, aglow beneath the conscious. Markers placed that they may be forever called to sight; celebrated memories-- yesterdays delight. © 2006 W.D.Neighbors

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

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

The Eyes of Time

When first we met at heaven’s door; when all was endless night, I fell in love, by touch, before the Lord invented light. A lyric of the universe, our song is sung by choice; a syncopated line of verse in every Angel’s voice. I look into the eyes of time and see myself with you from eons past and out of mind to futures not in view. When death may come to clam his prize; when dark and light resign, the darkest Angel we’ll surprise; as your heart beats does mine. © copyright 2004 W.D.Neighbors

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

Sewing Circle

They don’t require, nor have they kept a penny for their tender task. The comfort sewn as tears are wept; a finer wage they couldn’t ask. As mothers wait and pray aloud that hope may live forever thus the quiet artists, shy and proud construct of cloth a loving truss. To help support the cause of hope, their time is spent; compassions sewn to soothe the ones who have to cope with fear that most have never known. From in the heart and high above; from nothing asked; a quilt of good— a sewing circle made of love; of universal motherhood. © copyright 2002 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

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

John

These stories of his younger days, I’ve heard them all before, but somehow they don’t sound so stale and boring anymore. These memories of small town teams, of playing country ball, of doughboys who went “over there” and lived to “bless ‘em all”, all seem to him like yesterday… a history he knows, of Model Tee’s, depression years and silent picture shows, of one room schools and butter churns and following a plow behind a team of stubborn mules; he still remembers how. I came to look him in the eye, to face our shaky past, to purge my bitter memories and make a peace at last. I came to shake his hand again and take my share of blame, but I grew up a bit too late… he can’t recall my name. ~ © 2001 By: W.D.Neighbors ~ [More:] ~ John ~ 10/27/01. This poem is about my father; John Ledford Neighbors; born March 1907 in Oklahoma with a talent for telling stories that was not always appreciated by his youngest son, and a memory like a colorfully illustrated history text book. This was written after my last visit with him. During the visit he talked, in great detail, with my son and I about a baseball game, in which he had played in a small Oklahoma town back in the 1920's. He remembered individual at bats, pitches, plays, players names etc. At the end of the story he said to me "I know you are a Neighbors boy, but what's your name?" Dad passed away in Dec 2001, just a couple months after my visit and not long after I wrote this. I used it as the "template" for another poem about the coincidence of Dad's passing and the (shortly thereafter) birth of his great grandson, Bailey Michael Neighbors. I like to think they passed each other, and smiled, at the door. I have posted that poem here in this blog (the ballad of John and Bailey)

The Ballad of John.... and Bailey

The Ballad of John ...

John was born a farmers son
and learned to work the lands
in rural Oklahoma where
they made life with their hands.

He learned to tell a story well
and all who listened know
of model T's, depression days
and silent picture shows ...

of wagon trips and cotton crops
and playing country ball ...
of thunder storms and blackjack trees
and harvests in the fall ...

of one room schools and butter churns
and following a plow
behind a team of stubborn mules,
he still remembered how.

The oldest of eleven then
what could the schoolboy do
but read his book behind a plow
and pray his rows were true.

John married young as some men do
and raised a family
of seven children, seven strong,
with quiet dignity.

They moved to Colorado for,
he hoped, a better day.
To make a life without a crop ...
to live another way.

Then out to California
a blue pacific dawn.
The war was recent history,
the grapes of wrath were gone.

They cut some grapes and pulled a mile
of cotton down a row.
They chased some water, pulled a plow
and danced with mister hoe.

They moved their share of sprinkler lines
then moved them all again.
They moved the mighty cotton plant from
row to sack to gin.

John lost his love one dreary day
but kept his stubborn pride
and lived another forty years
though half his heart had died.

And other loves and other crops
and other rows to hoe ...
and other losses other moves
and other pain to know.

Alone at last, yet not alone,
Louisiana bound ...
in southern hospitality
a final home he found.

A restful town, a peaceful life,
tomato plants to tend.
With books to read and tales to tell,
a better way to end.

With honor and integrity,
with unrelenting pride ...
with dignity John lived his life...
with dignity he died.

... And Bailey

Two Neighbors boys at Heavens door
paused there to share a grin ...
then one stepped out to start a life
and one came home again.



~ Wayne D. Neighbors ~

There are a lot of stories buried in this about; John playing country baseball as a youth; about having to quit school after elementary school to help on the family farm; about carrying a favorite book everywhere he went, reading it over and over; buying his first car and learning to drive on the way home; about a trip in a horse drawn wagon that the family took when John was a young boy; about my Mother's death at a relatively young age and my Dad's attempts to deal with that for the rest of his long life; about the moves from Oklahoma to Colorado and on to California and the obvious (in my mind) parallel with the John Stienbeck book "The grapes of wrath" (he didn't like the book -- "makes the Okies look like they were stupid, we weren't stupid".

Bailey at six months old now as I write this, sits on his Dad's lap and seems to watch "Baseball Tonight" on ESPN ... like father, like son like grandfather, like great-grandfather etc. John was a life-long baseball fan... a favorite was, fellow Oklahoman Carl Hubbel. One of the last people Dad met was my son Michael's new wife, Nikki. She was carrying his great grandson (Bailey) at the time. Dad died just days before Bailey was born. I like to think they crossed paths at the threshold.

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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34

The first ship I served aboard in the U.S. Navy was an Essex class aircraft carrier (USS Oriskany). We (the ex crewmen) tried to save her as a museum...not enough money..She narrowly avoided the scrap heap several times.

But, after a long and valiant battle to stay alive, she was to have an ending fitting to the american naval hero that she is; a burial at sea. She was sunk as an artificial reef, with an appropriate monument nearby etc. The final deployment of Ex-USS Oriskany CV/CVA-34 was completed on May 17th 2006. Despite early concerns that she had landed on her starboard side, she was found to be sitting perfectly upright in 212' of water, with the flight deck around 135', and the top of the structure at 69' in the Gulf of Mexico, 22.5 miles offshore from the Naval Air Station at Pensacola, FL, Coordinates - N30:02.542 W87:00.374

For more see the MBT (Maximum bottom time) divers website at mbtdivers.com

34

A call has come we can’t ignore;
the bells of glory chime…
to gather o­n a distant shore
a crew from out of time.

We come to grieve the many dead;
the shipmates lost back then...
and as we hear the tributes read
our thoughts return again…

to ports of call in foreign lands
a distant, brighter day;
when life was held in younger hands,
ashore and underway.

We listen to the bugles call
and wipe away the tears,
as names and faces, we recall,
across the many years.

And as the circle draws an end,
forgive the tears we weep
to see our gray and weathered friend,
committed to the deep.

~ © 2005 By: W.D. Neighbors ~


"I wish to have no connection with any ship that does not sail fast for I intend to go In Harm’s Way."

John Paul Jones to M. de Chaumont on 16 November 1778.

And in Your Eyes

I know, at last, why my heart sings,
though in your prison I remain;
it’s borne aloft on Angel’s wings.

Love’s prisoner by free will’s choice
I serve my time, I don’t complain;
in custody do I rejoice—

for I know, well, that true love lies
within the freedom of my chains---
and in your heart; and in your eyes.

© copyright 2006 W.D. Neighbors



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Poetry and Magic

I, obviously, read too much about King Arthur as a child.

I dreamed you were a maiden and
I was a mighty king.
In dreams I can go anywhere,
accomplish anything.

I dreamed us to a place and time
of castles in the sky.
A magic land of poetry
where wishes learn to fly.

The king was sired by fantasy,
an orphan child of rhyme.
He’s Arthur, late of Camelot,
an image out of time.

The maid was born of sorcery,
a magic portrait of
Queen Guinevere of fondest dreams,
the picture of my love.

Awake! Oh sweet reality,
my dreams have all come true.
The poetry lives in my heart…
the magic lives in you.

© 2002 W,D, Neighbors

Rekindling Glory

By day it was merely a line; the bottom in ocean, the top in the sky; a giant appearing benign when seen through a distant and innocent eye. The keeper, with cloth and with rod, on legs made of granite, his weary brow damp; ascended like Jacob to God; rekindling glory with labor and lamp. The mariners, weary and wise, returning from ports in the Orient found, when stars had been lost to their eyes, a magical beacon for those homeward bound; A sentinel searching the night; a modern descendent, to honor the name, of Pharos; the island of light; antiquity's wonder of welcoming flame. © 2003 W.D. Neighbors

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.

Sunset

She isn't, yet, the lady of my youth
who taught the virgin boy to slake his thirst
with water from the sea of life but, truth
be told she will forever be the first--

the first to find the man within the boy;
to challenge him to gamble; to explore;
the first to turn a sorrow to a joy;
to show my eyes an unfamiliar shore.

I moved from fears to hopes and hopes to fears
to see her make believe; to keep pretending;
this lady, in her gray and dismal years,
who steered away from any thought of ending--

Now, rest ye lady; gently down to sleep
within the ample bosom of the deep.

© 2006 W.D. Neighbors

Jacobs Ladder

An adolescent fool, I made mistakes
and, each time, thought that I was the inventor.
A talent for disaster’s all it takes
to gather damage fore and aft of center.

I suffer with the best. My broken heart
is permanent. With each new scar I crow;
“I hurt, therefore I am”… not quite Descartes,
but accurate enough as slogans go.

I’m older now, and wear my scars with pride.
They represent a mortal Jacob’s ladder.
No Angel, I ascend, eyes open wide
and choose to be the wiser not the sadder.

The sum of all those scars stands, strong, before you.
So, “shrink” me if you must, I’ll just ignore you.


© 2003 W.D. Neighbors


“And he dreamed,
and behold, a ladder set up on the earth,
and the top of it reached to heaven;
and behold the Angels of God
ascending and descending on it.”

Genesis 28:12



Name: Jacob

Title: Jacob's Ladder

Creation date: 2003

comments:




Created at 11/22/2006 13:05 by PUBLIC27\wdneighbors
Last modified at 11/24/2006 11:24 by PUBLIC27\wdneighbors

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.

Memories

memories of memories …imperfect and surreal copies made of copies of …a loss that I should feel photographs and traces of …the one who was my world black and white reminders of ... a pretty little girl questions ask me questions ...but answers don't reply the echoes of a silent heart ...can never tell me why the gray and faded image ... the mother she became what do we have in common .. beyond our common name a tattered family bible ... a note made by her hand pieces of a strangers past ... that I don't understand if l ask the questions . ... will answers that I find restore the faded image in ... the bottom of my mind memories of memories …imperfect and surreal copies made of copies of ... a loss I’ll always feel © Copyright 2004 Wayne D. Neighbors

Orange is the color of pain

Blue cats and chartreuse kittens are careening through my mind. My ears have seen the truth and now my nose is going blind. I sense yellow p’s and purple fives and bitter smelling sounds. I’m hearing colors, tasting shapes, perception’s out of bounds. I have oval Thursdays, orange pain and brain lobes with no fences. I taste your voice and see your scent, I’m multiplexing senses. It’s half past square, and sounding cold, this wind’s a dreadful hue. I’d paint your questions for you but I’m feeling rather blue.

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 ~

Nikki, horsewoman

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.

Of Love

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I wrote this about a young friend of mine who was about to become a first time father... he's not exactly a "poetry reading type"... Police Officer, Harley rider, Hunter etc."... but, I knew him when he was a little boy...and the little boy is still in there... He didn't have a clue what this new little girl was gonna do to him. Never did show him the poem...



A feeling of euphoria;
a woman and a rose;
a long, committed partnership;
of love the husband knows.

A tenuous and abstract thing
of love he understands…
or thought he did until they
put a baby in his hands.

A tiny girl in tatted lace
has brought him to his knees;
she grips his heart with fear at
every cough and baby sneeze.

She calls to him in silent nights;
the deepest sleep defeats--
she hold his breath in hostage till
he knows her heart still beats.

Behold, the hulking man of men
of beastly, manly powers--
who’s brought to tears by tiny fists
with gifts of mangled flowers.

A feeling of euphoria;
a little girl, a rose;
a dirty face, a sloppy kiss;
of love the father knows.

In a Hand Basket

________________________________________ The bike is coasting down the lane the wheels go round and round, why am I in this basket and where is it that I’m bound? I take my chance, a leap of faith, then quickly to the farm. To jump into her arms, again I’m safe from further harm. Then off to walk the yellow road, adventures are in store. I think it’s safe to say we aren’t in Kansas anymore. This was inspired by a bumper sticker I saw today.... it read, "Why am I in this hand basket, and where am I going?" and it just wouldn't go away until I wrote it. "If happy little bluebirds fly Beyond the rainbow, Why oh why can't I?"

It Follows

My eyes roam skyward sailing East
and though each moment seems a moon
when senses on such beauty feast
the night will pass away too soon.

My soul is drawn when sailing west
to more than one can safe absorb.
I am by heaven's grace possessed;
enraptured by an ancient orb.

It follows that a moonlit sky
will call your beauty to my mind.
No matter where my roving eye;
no matter where you are I find
a glow that distance can't eclipse;
I feel your love-- if not your lips.

Old Salt

"'O God the sea is so great and my boat is so small.'" ~ John F. Kennedy ~

Man hoists a sail to fly upon the wind,
through spray and storm; to scale the mountain sea.
And though it’s just, it feels as good as sin
and moves us near to heaven; ecstacy
that fires the human spirit. God’s decree
was that our salt should match the sea, and this
has charged the very blood that flows in thee.

A sailor bleeds of nature’s dark abyss
and lives to taste her tears; her deep primeval kiss.




"I really don't know why it is that all of us are so committed to the sea, except I think it's because in addition to the fact that the sea changes, and the light changes, and ships change, it's because we all came from the sea. And it is an interesting biological fact that all of us have, in our veins the exact same percentage of salt in our blood that exists in the ocean, and therefore, we have salt in our blood, in our sweat, in our tears. We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea--whether it is to sail or to watch it--we are going back from whence we came."

~ John F. Kennedy ~ Remarks in Newport at the Australian Ambassador's Dinner for the America's Cup Crews, September 14, 1962, Public Papers of the Presidents: 1962, p. 684.

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 Swelling Tide

Swelling with tide from a heavenly moon
the sailor or soul of a sailor, the sea,
knowing the sun’s at antithesis noon -
lost for the interim - sets his love free;
opening depths that are wonders to see,
mirroring light from the deepest abyss,
fondling beams from his lover to be.
Moon answers sweetly, be certain of this;
she is waning away but she blows him a kiss.

On Leaving

On leaving Christmas presence in the air,
on holiday from work, or maybe not...
the spirit feels, as winter, cold and bare,
the 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. The hearts besot*
with cheerfulness; with milk and honey, sag
from Christmas dark regret; to new years sulk and drag.

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.

Circle Circles

The circle circles roundabout
and finds a way to, neatly, close
without a pause or any doubt.
You’re smiling Mother, I suppose
for, now, it’s mine to hold the hand
to soothe the ego, slightly bruised;
to wipe away the tear drops and
repeat the phrases often used…

“My little one, ignore the pain--
tomorrow brings another dawn.
No rose can grow without the rain.
Until the fear and pain are gone

I’ll hold you thus; encircle you
as circles must”-- as fathers do.

How (v 3.0)

How like a flame in fickle wind;
how fragile love, if old or new,
that with a breath comes to an end;
that with another glows anew.

How turn the cycles of the tides,
in waves, toward a distant shore.
How love erodes as earth abides;
each grain of sand as those before.

How can I live if love will die;
why does love come, if it must go
How bittersweet was your goodbye
and how, my love, was I to know

that you could go and yet remain
the glow of love's eternal flame?

September Rain (From Summer Rain v2)

The patent ambiguity of time,
Sepember rain to January snow;
the meanings hidden deep within a rhyme
for hearts alone, that minds will barely know;
are miracles alive beyond the ken
of common man and woman; out of touch
realities where flesh has never been;
a paradise for dreamers. Out of such
I know a place where wrong is never right,
where all the many miseries of man
are vanishing or vanished out of sight;
like sorrows in the Neverland of Pan;

below the far horizon, yet above—
the world of your extraordinary love.

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.

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.

How (v2.0)

How like a flame in fickle wind;
how fragile, love, if old or new
that, with a breath, comes to an end;
that, with another, glows anew.

How turn the cycles of the tides,
in waves, toward a battered shore.
How love erodes, how earth abides;
each grain of sand as those before.

How can we live if love can die;
why does love come, if it must go
How bittersweet was our goodbye
and how, my love, was I to know

that you could go and yet remain
the glow of love's eternal flame?"

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."

To Feel

I, light of foot and dark of thought,
give in before the tide
and clutch the pain I, “sigh”, forgot;
the dread I feel inside.

Embracing fear that’s still around
from heartbreaks out of mind,
I bare my chest. Of truth, I’ve found,
I like the naked kind.

Love is a loss I’ll reinvest;
I’ll wager soul and shirt.
To feel the love, I find it best
to reinstall the hurt.

Rekindling Glory

By day it was merely a line;
the bottom in ocean, the top in the sky;
a giant appearing benign
when seen through a distant and innocent eye.

The keeper, with cloth and with rod,
on legs made of granite, his weary brow damp;
ascended like Jacob to God;
rekindling glory with labor and lamp.

The mariners, weary and wise,
returning from ports in the Orient found,
when stars had been lost to their eyes,
a magical beacon for those homeward bound;

A sentinel searching the night;
a modern descendent, who honors the name,
of Pharos; the island of light;
antiquity's wonder of welcoming flame.

Rivers of Time

Dinosaurs waiting for stone to erode,
their skeletons covered, uncovered again;
iron that's forgotten the blood where it flowed
and phosphorous leached from a primitive brain;

Delicate sabers of soft-stepping cats
enshrouded in shimmering oceans of sand;
Strata of relative sediment that's
concealing the bones of the earliest man.

Visible traces of numerous beasts;
the sum of Earth's creatures forever enshrined.
Signs of their passing won't slow in the least
the rivers and runnels of ongoing time.

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 I’ve had
is black as any crow that’s ever flown
and speaks in the vernacular of sad--

as if the eyes of God were unforgiving;
as if my soul had died and left me living.

~

bluewater Ink

bluewater
Originally uploaded by websaior.

A deep water Sailor
with far away dreams;
his lover of flowers
and cold mountain streams,
moved nearer to heaven
the closer to be.
Their river of love runs
away from the sea.

Where eagles go wheeling
with power and grace
o’er shimmering aspens
in meadows of lace,
what stars they will reach for,
what thoughts they will think
on high mountain paper
with blue water ink.

Tapestry

In tribute to the grace of loving long
I offer this, to you, in threads of rhyme –
A layered quilt of life, a silk sarong,
our tapestry – eternal, spun from time.

The narrow, cobbled, stony street we saw
where players danced and sang in days of yore
has yet to touch this lover’s feet. In awe
I realize that now I love you more.

A piece of steel upon a knap of flint
can strike a spark that will, with luck, ignite
We came together as if heaven meant
to purge, for good, the dark abyss of night.

To warm my soul within this surging fire;
to fuel our love is all that I desire.

Lullaby

In yesterday’s clutches she trembled,
replaying a previous role.
The feeling, recaptured, resembled
a wind stirring leaves in her soul.

In soft ocean breezes of hindsight
her heart chose a course of release
and life sailed away in the moonlight
embarked in a vessel of peace.

A lullaby sung in a whisper;
a yesterday saved with a smile;
in passing the memories kissed her
as clouds tumbled by single file.


© Copyright 2004 W.D. Neighbors

South of Clarity

'A constantly revolving parallax,'
perhaps describes the nature of my brain,
unpolished precious stone with tiny cracks
where logic begs emotion to refrain
from taking over processes of thought;
where feelings beg of logic, 'take a chance',
in both directions all of this for naught,
which serves to fuel insanity's advance.

I've given all the time I care to give
to finding what my friends would call 'a cure',
and frankly it is comforting to live
within the northern border of obscure.


The beauty lies in this: that beauty lies
in vain they'll search the babble for the wise."

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.

Hourglass

The lessons learned are clearly there for memory to touch; unlikely, though, for one to share; there’s no controlling such. Tomorrow is a puzzle piece embedded in a rhyme; will love and truth renew the lease or die before their time? An hourglass that’s running low will, surely, turn once more… to when and where, in time we'll know; today or days before? ~ Copyright 2004 By: W.D.Neighbors ~

Unfinished

It's not exactly therapy I guess
although these words, I find,
are more than just the way that I express
the storms within my mind.



The poems are a lifetime set to rhyme;
the scripting of a role;
a simple heart attempting to define
a complicated soul.



The poetry is meant to shout above...
more often, though, it sighs
in sweetly whispered welcomes to a love
or bittersweet goodbyes.



The verses sail the seas of age and youth...
they wander where they will.
The poems wrote the poet and, in truth,
they're working on him still.

It Sometimes Does

~ It sometimes does ~ 2/8/02. I played with this for the longest time trying to write a serious poem... but it insisted on being silly....as it sometimes does. Somewhere near the end of adolescence I first encountered this thing known as love. Out beneath that orb of luminescence I tasted sweet romance and pain thereof. My first love was a thing of fragile beauty and I was captivated from the start. A Guinevere of Camelot, a cutie, who gave me my initial broken heart. With age and time I really did no better, my heart became a home for broken dreams, my life a country lyric to the letter, disaster the result of all my schemes. Then came the day I fell in love with you... you think it can't get worse and then it do. ~ © 2002 By: W.D.Neighbors ~