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