Search this Blog

Monday, November 20, 2023

Nermalsquat Thevesoil

Nermalsquat the noisy thief, 
the unsuccessful lout,
He (squeaky) snuck around at night, 
lurked (trippy, fall) about.

Oh woe was him, 
his chosen field, 
was (stumble, bangy) spoiled.
 If only he had (thumpy, thud) 
essentially been oiled.

Friday, January 13, 2023

A Pod of Pelicans




A pod of pelicans paused in a lake…
perhaps, perchance a colony?
Primping their feathers they dared then to take
an overnight flight to Tuolumne.

A herd of asses was eating molasses
and oats in keeping with habits.
The following course was a meat one of course
made entirely of one nest of rabbits.

A gaggle of Geese in Lamia Greece
gave way to a cover a coots,
and a cauldron of bats were keeping the peace...
with a chowder of Cats in cahoots.






Saturday, July 23, 2022

ponder

In solitude I ponder
Why my sweetheart chose to wander
Yes, I know I’ll get beyond her...
But I”ll cry.

and I’ll listen to the verses,
with no arguments or curses,
of the tale that she rehearses,
every lie.

then I’ll move  toward the future
stitch my heart with double suture
and I’ll cheer and clap and root her…..
Sweet goodbye.

Monday, January 3, 2022

Of Love


A feeling of euphoria,

a woman and a rose,

a long, committed, partnership,

of love the husband knows.


A tenuous and abstract thing,

of love he understands,

or thinks he does until they

put a baby in his hands.


A tiny girl in tatted lace

has brought him to his knees,

she grips his heart with fear

at every cough and baby sneeze. 


She calls to him in silent nights,

the deepest sleep defeats.

She holds his breath in hostage ‘till

he knows her heart still beats.


Behold the hulking man of men,

of beastly, manly powers,

who’s brought to tears by tiny fists

with gifts of mangled flowers.


A feeling of euphoria, 

a little girl, a rose…

a dirty face, a messy kiss,

of love the father knows.




~Dean Neighbors~


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. 



~ Dean Neighbors ~





“We loved the earth, but could not stay” ~ Loren Eiseley~ 


This poem was inspired by an article by Loren Eiseley.


Mildly Blue

On a mildly blue day in forever

in a slumber world born of a choice,

past the mountains and molehills of never

where the river meets ocean, a voice


is reciting an often told story

of love, the definitive prize

of a boy in his whimsical glory,

or a girl with her soul in her eyes.


It's a study in secretive glances,

it's a ballad in hesitant rhyme,

of do-over hearts and romances,

unbound by the shackles of time.


Then, deep in the night or the morning,

my, supposedly, untroubled soul

in league with my heart, sounds a warning

that the lease on my life can't control.


Am I mending a heart that was broken?

Am I telling a tale out of school?

Am I Shepherd to wishes unspoken,

or a dreamer exposed as a fool?




~ Dean Neighbors~





Monday, November 22, 2021

Choice

If I could choose to choose anew;
to set the course of life again,
my track would yet be straight to you;
to where we are; to where we’ve been.

The narrow, cobbled, stony street
where actors sang in films before
has yet to touch this sailor’s feet;
I loved you then. I love you more!

The magic does as magic will
as any man would realize
who dares the gamble, dares the thrill,
who sails the tempest of your eyes.

A conscious choice, or cupid’s call….
you are my love-- you are my all.

© 2006 W.D.Neighbors

 

Sunday, November 21, 2021

All your heart ~

 


How much love is "all your heart",
how much can one heart give?
How much before we fall apart,
how much if we're to live?

How much trust is trust complete
how much to ease a mind?
How much of "winning" is defeat,
how much have we been blind?

Of trust we're given what we earn
in any quantity.
And love's a gift we must return...
it's true reward to see.

~ © 2002 By: W.D.Neighbors ~


Monday, October 25, 2021

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. 



~ Dean Neighbors ~





“We loved the earth, but could not stay” ~ Loren Eiseley~ 

This poem was inspired by an article by Loren Eiseley.


Saturday, October 2, 2021

Mildly Blue


On a mildly blue day in forever,
in a slumber world born of a choice,
past the mountains and molehills of never,
where the river meets ocean, a voice…

is reciting an often-told story
of love, the definitive prize,
of a boy in his whimsical glory,
of a girl with her soul in her eyes.

It’s a study in secretive glances,
it's a ballad in hesitant rhyme,
of do-over hearts and romances
unbound by the shackles of time.

Then deep in the night or the morning
my, supposedly, untroubled soul
in league with my heart, sounds a warning
that the lease on my life can’t control.

Am I mending a heart that was broken?
Am I telling a tale out of School?
Am I shepherd to wishes unspoken...
or a dreamer exposed as a fool?



~ Dean Neighbors ~



Of Love



A feeling of euphoria,
a woman and a rose,
a long, committed partnership,
of love the husband knows.

A tenuous and abstract thing
of love he understands…
or thinks he does until they
put a baby in his hands.

A tiny girl in tatted lace
has brought him to his knees,
she grips his heart with fear at
every cough and baby sneeze.

She calls to him in silent nights,
the deepest sleep defeats--
she holds his breath in hostage till
he knows her heart still beats.

Behold the hulking man of men,
of beastly, manly powers--
who’s brought to tears by tiny fists
with gifts of mangled flowers.

A feeling of euphoria
a little girl, a rose,
a dirty face, a sloppy kiss
of love the father knows.

~Dean Neighbors~

Thursday, September 16, 2021

John

Here I have posted a long winded explanation to set the tone for the two poems that follow below. If you can manage to get through the explanations the poems are, in my view, worth reading. Let me know if you agree...or not.


The poems are about my late father, John Ledford Neighbors, who was born in March 1907 in Oklahoma territory. Oklahoma was admitted to the Union later that year.


John had  a talent for telling stories that was not always appreciated by his youngest son He had a memory like a colorfully illustrated history book. He had memories of soldiers coming home from WWI. He had memories of working on the family farm back when a tractor was a rare luxury. He grew up knowing more about draft animals than he did motorized vehicles. He had memories of watching and playing town baseball...organized and pickup games in the small towns of Oklahoma. He had an incredible life that spanned the distance from the Wright Brothers to the Space Shuttle.


Under the "occupation" column in the 1930 U.S. Census John is listed as a "body builder". This confused me greatly until I looked at the next column in the census, "Industry: Automotive". He worked in the Ford motor plant in Oklahoma City building automobile bodies.  He had a favorite story about buying his first car. Apparently Ford Motor Co. encouraged all of it's employees to buy a car so John did just that. The fact that he didn't really know how to DRIVE a car apparently didn't worry him. After getting some instruction from a friendly Ford mechanic, he taught himself how to drive on the way home. I'm assured by one of my older brothers that this is, indeed, a true story....more or less.


John was the oldest of 11. He went to school through the 8th grade and then went to work on the family farm. One of his stories was about  carrying a book with him everywhere he went and reading even while plowing the fields (probably not perfectly straight rows) and while riding a horse. Understand, I'm not claiming that all the stories are true ...but they were great stories anyway.



This first poem was written after my last visit with my Dad in the late Fall of 2001. During the visit he talked in great detail, with me and my son Michael, about a baseball game he had played in during the 1920's or 1930's. The game was played in some small Oklahoma town. He remembered individual at bats, pitches, plays, players’ names etc. At the end of the story, after all the great detail, my father said to me, "I know you are Neighbors boys, but what's your name?" I said, "I'm Dean, your youngest son and this is your grandson Michael"...but I'm not sure he understood that.


Dad and I didn't always get along when I was growing up. My mother died far too young and I think by the time he got to the 7th child...he was too tired and I was far too independent, obstinate and stubborn.


John passed away in Dec 2001, just a couple months after our visit and not long after I wrote the following peom. 



~John~


These stories of his younger days,

I’ve heard them all before,

but somehow they don’t seem so stale

and boring anymore.


The 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 T’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 remembered 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

to take my share of blame,

but I grew up a bit too late…

he can’t recall my name.



~Dean Neighbors ~


Also present at that last visit was my daughter in law, Nikki... very pregnant with her first child at the time of this visit.  Dad passed away in late December and, just a few days into January, Nikki gave birth to her and Michael's son, my grandson, John's great grandson, Bailey Neighbors.


My immediate thought was, "John's death and Bailey's birth were so close together, they must have passed each other at the door to heaven...one coming back home, one departing on his journey of life".  The following poem grew as an extension of that thought and folded in parts of the first poem.



The Ballad of John … and Bailey





John was born a farmer's 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 those who listened know

of model T's, depression days

and silent picture shows ...



of wagon trips and cotton crops

and playing country ball ...

of thunderstorms 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 books behind a plow

and trust the 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 picked 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 a thousand 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 seeds to sow,

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,

a garden there 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 Heaven's door

paused there to share a grin ...

then one stepped out to start a life

and one came home again.





~ Dean Neighbors ~



Tuesday, September 7, 2021

One Potato

 One Potato


One potato two potato 

three potato four,

eat a spud before you sleep, 

feel better than before.


Find the covert sugar that

is hiding in your food.

Learn how serotonin works

to even out your mood.


Two potato three potato

four potato five,

heat a spud and eat a spud

and you will feel alive.


Rid yourself of clutter

or your life will go to heck.

Lull yourself to dreamland

with the tryptophan effect.


Three potato four potato

five potato six,

Read the doctor’s book

and you can learn the doctor’s tricks.


Four potato five potato 

six potato, more …

The economy of Idaho 

will, soon, begin to soar!


Keep up with your journal

It can change your life for keeps.

Try to break the habit of

the little yellow peeps.



~Dean Neighbors