| The Gibson Weeps In memory of my Father-in-law, Bob Blake... In gentle tones you sang the blues... with working hands caressed a chord... and no request would you refuse for nothing more could you afford. You lived within a country song with words and rhythms ill defined. The only tune that wasn't wrong was playing softly in your mind. But near the end, in sweetest voice, the music filled your soul it seems.. and in the end, as if by choice, you left the music to our dreams. And now the mournful music sleeps. In other hands... the Gibson weeps. © Copyright 2002 Wayne Neighbors |
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4/26/2009
The Lady of the Night
Her face is of another world,
the lady of the night,
her beauty framed by Heaven's glow
of alabaster light.
So shyly as she passes by,
behind a veil she slips.
Eternity won't make a face
her beauty can't eclipse.
She smiles at her companion as
she slowly turns away
as if she were a lover lost
with nothing more to say.
She peers into the depths of space
in darkness unafraid
then turns to face the world again,
her monthly penance paid.
© Copyright 2003 Wayne Neighbors
the lady of the night,
her beauty framed by Heaven's glow
of alabaster light.
So shyly as she passes by,
behind a veil she slips.
Eternity won't make a face
her beauty can't eclipse.
She smiles at her companion as
she slowly turns away
as if she were a lover lost
with nothing more to say.
She peers into the depths of space
in darkness unafraid
then turns to face the world again,
her monthly penance paid.
© Copyright 2003 Wayne Neighbors
2/15/2009
However
A former hero; hero who was dead;
Consumable who was, himself, consumed--
was given second life; a second head;
so, not as nearly dead as once presumed.
Who was it, tell, that had the corpse exhumed?
What damsel altered, once again, his course?
Who led him to the stable, well perfumed,
and sat him, once again, astride his horse?
However raised, the knight was trotted forth.
However doused in drops of bitter rose…
However spurred, he rode his charger north...
to die again as one would well suppose.
Consumable who was, himself, consumed--
was given second life; a second head;
so, not as nearly dead as once presumed.
Who was it, tell, that had the corpse exhumed?
What damsel altered, once again, his course?
Who led him to the stable, well perfumed,
and sat him, once again, astride his horse?
However raised, the knight was trotted forth.
However doused in drops of bitter rose…
However spurred, he rode his charger north...
to die again as one would well suppose.
1/16/2009
Just the One
A single step in time’s immortal height;
I paused to smell the roses wet with dew;
to watch the moon ascend majestic night
and in that moment fell in love with you.
And all our moments grew from just the one;
a solitary portion of an hour--
but, oh my love, that moment was the sun
that gave its light to grow this lovely flower.
In such a moment miracles occur --
when love’s a rose whose fragrance fills the air;
when past recalls how beautiful you were
and present how beloved. Then and there
I chose to give my heart; to stop pretending;
to live within this moment, never ending.
.
I paused to smell the roses wet with dew;
to watch the moon ascend majestic night
and in that moment fell in love with you.
And all our moments grew from just the one;
a solitary portion of an hour--
but, oh my love, that moment was the sun
that gave its light to grow this lovely flower.
In such a moment miracles occur --
when love’s a rose whose fragrance fills the air;
when past recalls how beautiful you were
and present how beloved. Then and there
I chose to give my heart; to stop pretending;
to live within this moment, never ending.
.
1/08/2009
12/09/2008
I and Pangur Ban my cat
I and Pangur Ban my cat,
‘Tis a like task we are at:
Hunting mice is his delight,
Hunting words I sit all night.
‘Tis a merry thing to see
At our tasks how glad are we,
When at home we sit and find
Entertainment to our mind.
‘Gainst the wall he sets his eye,
Full and fierce and sharp and sly;
“Gainst the wall of knowledge I
All my little wisdom try.
So in peace our task we ply,
Pangur Ban my cat and I;
In our arts we find our bliss,
I have mine and he has his.
Written in the 8th or 9th century, on a 4-page manuscript by an anonymous Irish Benedictine monk who lived in the extant St. Paul's Monastery on Reichenau Island in Lake Constance (Bodensee), where Germany meets with Carinthia, Austria.
12/07/2008
12/06/2008
12/05/2008
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