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