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 ~

~ Little Hands ~ 4/12/2001.

Little hands are making messes. Little voices making noise. Dirty shirts and dirty dresses. Little fingers breaking toys. Papa pay us some attention. Little patience from the start. Papa, don't forget to mention, Little hands that hold your heart. ~ © Copyright 2001 By: W.D.Neighbors ~