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 ~

~ 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 ~