OF Fairest Face and Midnight Hair

When tempted by an evil
bearing legendary fruit
did hunger conquer innocence,
can history refute

this tale of human weakness that
has passed from ancient times.
Is this a song of simple truth
or fodder for our rhymes?

Evicted from her garden by
a knowledge never sought,
was she villain, then, or victim
in a play that time forgot?

A woman, real, or issue of
imaginary birth--
of fairest face and midnight hair--
did Snow White grace the Earth??

© Copyright 2005 Dean Neighbors

The Snail and the Sports Car

A tiny sports car sputtered in,
a snail was at the wheel.
The gas attendant, with a grin,
said, "Snail, are you for real?

I 'preciate your right to cruise
and that red color's swell...
and naturally I can't refuse
to serve you here at 'Shell'...

but, I must say it's odd enough
now, snail, you must confess...
for such as you to drive and stuff...
say, why'd you paint that 'S'

there on the door, the driver's side,
in glowing shades of blue?"
The snail rose up with stately pride
and said, "Hey you would too...

I'm tired of hearing people say
'there goes that lowly snail'...
and night by night and sunny day
you know, they'd never fail...

to laugh at me, my lack of speed,
until I bought this car,
but, see me now, my soul's been freed,
I'm pretty near a star!

They teased and snorted; mocked my pace,
my life was filled with woe...
but now, they shout, as by I race...
look at that S car go!!!"

© 2004 Dean Neighbors 

Owed to Bureaucracy

~Inspired by a bad day at work~


What tedium comes with bureaucracy,
what great waste of time is entailed,
intrinsically fraught with hypocrisy,
before you begin you have failed.

In heaven they process efficiently,
“perfection” and “timely” are norms,
to handle your transfer proficiently--
just die and then fill out these forms.

Interval

~ Interval ~ 3/10/02. This grew out of a discussion with my wife about the linearity of time. I was trying to convince her that I was her first love even if I wasn't because time does not run in a straight line in hours and minutes....but by the importance of the event...therefore, the first thing that happened in the history of time....the most important... was our first kiss. Makes sense right??? Well, it does to me.

 

I see the truth unfolding in my dreams,
that love exists as interwoven time...
and time is just as simple as it seems,
as basic as the meter in a rhyme.

Our time together doesn't have to play
into the universe as now defined,
for time's a mere division of the day,
to universal pendulums confined...

but, linear, kinetic, all askew,
arrayed in any manner that may be,
no matter how defined, my love for you
exists in every moment granted me.

And only God himself could grant us this...
the universe begins with our first kiss.


~ © 2002 By: W.D.Neighbors ~

Albert

A patent clerk of Bern, in early morn,

would catch the crowded trolley and would go

to work and back. But, like no other born,

he thought of things no common mind could know.

He saw that as the trolley moved along

the working folks onboard would then perceive

the next preceding lamp post (“am I wrong?”)

before a man afoot. “I do believe,

said Albert to himself, “reflected light,

since we are moving to the lamp,

would be arriving early to our sight”.

He mopped his brow, it being rather damp.

No magic but the magic that you make,

enfolded by the thought of what must be

divided by the trolley that you take

and factored by what Albert knew as “E”

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.

Lullaby

In yesterday’s clutches she trembled,
recalling her previous role.
The feelings, recaptured, resembled
a wind stirring leaves in her soul.

In soft ocean breezes of hindsight
our hearts chose a course of release
and love 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 my memory kissed her
as clouds tumbled by single file.

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 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 as truth.
The rest will fade, as distant storms,
as does the flush of youth.

Circle Circle

Oh why, dear muse, has this pen been forsaken?
Does verse not slake your ego when you thirst?
Perhaps your taste in wine I have mistaken,
a sour grape for muse? I have rehearsed
the motions of the quill I made before
but little seems to flow. The verses should
be pooling on the paper, not the floor
like blood or urine. If one only could
turn on and off the muse through force of will,
extract the feelings deep within the heart,
I’d wick the fear and love from pot to quill
and scratch them on a page. If I could start

perhaps then, muse, you would restore my knack
and let the magic circle, circle back.

Mother's MIlk (symbiosis)

Our first addiction is to mother's milk,
a flow that, every mother knows, must cease.
And never is a weaning smooth as silk--
and ever does the child fear his release.

As you are being weaned from perfect meals,
consuming as you are, yourself, consumed,
you learn, to some degree, how dying feels
and realize that paradise is doomed.

Our mother lost, we need to love again
and often search, in vain, for a reflection
of mother's love. We choose a mate and then
we imitate the ultimate connection--

the "I-am-you-are-me-is-she-is-we";
I am the milk, the mother's milk is me.

To Touch a Star

Falling through the sky, in scintillation,

refracted starlight strikes a random eye.

Transiting in timeless propagation,

an instant, just, to cast its beauty by.

Light travels the galactic arms that lie,

in ancient paths of stasis strewn afar,

imperfect, insubstantial as a sigh,

yet perfect in the wonder that we are,

incredibly, allowed to touch a star.

From the Glass

A chilly evenin’ wind was blowin’
down the Texas street.
He hadn’t thought of what to say,
not knowin’ they would meet.

He touched his hat and touched her heart
with memories of “when”.
With sadness in her eyes she led
him down that path again...

her how and why, her need to grow
beyond their childhood vow,
to move along another path,
but still he wondered how…

just how it was that hurtin’ him
could come to mean she grew,
and why did growin’ sow the seeds
of findin’ someone new.

“I’m leavin’ this town anyway
so it don’t matter, girl—
I thought I’d give Vaquero life
in Mexico a whirl.”

He searched her face for any sign
and saw the bitter end,
the dampness in her eyes, he thought,
is only from the wind.

She offered up a hand to him,
he felt a little lost,
then smiled and tipped his hat as if
he understood the cost.

The cowboy walked away at last,
her prisoner no more,
reflecting ever smaller in a
distant plate-glass door.

Reflections held her tears until
she’d watched the moment pass,
he reached the corner, turned and stepped
forever from the glass.

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.

Bluewater Ink

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 will they reach for,
what thoughts will they think
on high mountain paper
with blue water ink?






Posted by Dean Neighbors at 4/14/2005 09:45:00 PM

Reflections (for Marty)

Having spent time with my "rock hound/UFOlogist" brother in law and his family...

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In darkened desert peaks
imagination seeks
to find the ancient faces in the stone…

and “want to see it eyes”
search water-mirrored skies,
in wonder, for reflections never shown.

An object in the lake,
in helpless double take,
escapes from unidentified to known...

the visitors from space,
in alabaster lace,
are beams the moon has spilled for you alone.

Pieces of Thought

I build them with pieces of thought that I’ve found without much revealing the meaning. While formless appearing they’re really quite round so I seldom send them for cleaning. They’re aren’t any chalk lines defining my field so I always swing for the bleachers. In spite or redemption, I harvest my yield, the finest I brew for my teachers. They stumble, my sonnets, my ballads take trips, my "ambics" have too many digits. While some are off honing with diamond tips I’m home building whatzits and widgets… with meaningless phrases and bits strung along... like old Dr. Seuss wrote a Bob Dylan song.

Jacob's Ladder

“And he dreamed,
and behold, a ladder set up on the earth,
and the top of it reached to heaven;
and behold the Angels of God
ascending and descending on it.”

~Genesis 28:12



An adolescent fool, I made mistakes
and, each time, thought that I was the inventor.
A talent for disaster’s all it takes
to gather damage fore and aft of center.

I suffer with the best. My broken heart
is permanent. With each new scar I crow,
“I hurt, therefore I am”… not quite Descartes,
but accurate enough as slogans go.

I’m older now, and wear my scars with pride,
they represent a mortal Jacob’s ladder.
No Angel, I ascend, eyes open wide
and choose to be the wiser not the sadder.

The sum of all those scars stands, strong, before you.
So, “shrink” me if you must, I’ll just ignore you.


© 2003 W.D. Neighbors

The Music

Poetry's the music
that was playing in my heart
right at the beginning
of the ending from the start,

long, cascading verses
to express a single thought,
freely given secrets for which,
once, I would have fought...

philosophizing, prophesizing,
boldly telling lies,
romantic inspirations
wrapped in wishes sealed with sighs,

memories of miseries,
imaginary love,
wanderings and wonderings
and magic from above,

prejudices, urgent kisses,
honesty and myth,
pain and pretty, joy and ugly
whipped until they're stiff.

Poetry is equal parts of joy
and primal fears,
half completed verses
seen through veils of poets tears,

brightly painted shadows
from the dungeon known as me,
imaginary imagery
that's absolutely free.

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
to shout his sweetest nothings to the wind,
as if to test his 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 hopes the echo doesn’t reckon why.

I Dream

I dream in iambic
I mumble in verse
for Will was my teacher
and Em was my nurse.

My quill dips in fountains
of eloquent ink
and beautiful etchings
for Poe was my shrink.

I farmed with my Tennyson
planting the seed,
I studied my Cummings
(old e.e.), indeed…

“anyone lived” is a
poetry force…
and as for my Kipling,
I’ve kipled, of course.

I’ve mingled and mangled
with many a bard,
I will be a poet
it can’t be that hard.

WIllows

I hope this isn't too cryptic for everyone but me.... When first I conjured magic with my tongue, for Wednesday morning rain and afternoon, I tried to save their innocence. But, young, the words confused as ears were out of tune. I warned of hidden dangers and, in truth, I preached from under trepidation’s veil, that blame may get a pardon while in youth then, older, serve a term in private hell. The worst was this, my crystal, clear and true, would prove to be a seer lagging none. And, yet, with final curtain now in view my truths seem little matter, lacking one, as sure as willows bow in troubled wind… I've loved my children well from end to end.

1-8-04

Watermarks

this is what happens to me when I am having trouble coming up with things to write about...... I get all crazy and turn out stuff like this...

So blocked you are again a fool,
personifying down.
A graduate of nothing school;
a makeup without clown.

So write what down inside you lives,
though hard it is to do.
Write verses your behind you gives,
a little past of you.

If share you do your broken dreams,
a healing you will know.
Much better pain not hidden seems,
be not afraid to show.

Release emotions from your head,
like pistons from a steam.
Escape they will if held instead,
like poets from a scream.

Write backwards if it calms the rage,
face gallantry with fears.
The watermarks upon this page,
they be the poet's tears.

Dateline

The Scholars made a circle out of time,

divided it in pieces like a pie.

Assigned to it a rhythm (not a rhyme)

and threw it, like a net, around the sky.

But Earth does not a perfect circle make.

Imaginary lines do not lie true

so pieces of our lives we must forsake

to hold it all together as we do.

For time will push against a Sailor's bow

when heading from tomorrow on his way...

and when he sails the other way, somehow,

it steals from him a piece of his today.

Tugs At My Heart

I write a manifest, a boatswain's list,
a log of all the promises I've made
to no one but myself. I raise a fist
defiantly to life. But I'm afraid

of weighing anchor, getting underway,
of challenging Posiedon under sail
of running with a squall at break of day
while praying that the rudder doesn't fail.

Yet, I will use the navigator's art
to plot a course through islands of despair,
and I will trust the compass of my heart
to choose a heading caution wouldn't dare.

The promise of a voyage yet to be
will tug the weary sailor out to sea.

Rivers of Time

Dinosuars 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.

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

Lost my Nerve

Lost my nerve though she seemed willing when I kissed her on the cheek. Even so I found it thrilling, I was giddy for a week.
Our next date I acted distant, thought that I could be reserved, But her kiss was so insistent,
...once again I lost my nerve.

Epitaph

The poems form a universe
within the writer's mind,
totality in metered verse,
infinity defined.

The poet gives his soul away
in portions he decides
with thoughts that ebb and flow to play
emotions like the tides.

He writes of love and other things
he may have found in me,
of broken hearts and Angel's wings
I've lost and found at sea...

of parenthood and common sense,
of brothers on "The Wall"...
revisiting their innocence
and other ports of call...

An honest bard, he re-ignites
the glaring torch of truth...
with wells of bitter ink he writes
the epitaph of youth.

Consider

Consider if you will our flying friends,
recipients of nature's greatest grants.
Imagine just how dull Earth might have been
had birds not struck a bargain with the plants.


Consider if you will a simple seed
whose embryo and sustenance combine
to give the feathered traveler his speed
and pay the fare for those they drop behind.


Consider if you will the quest of man,
digging up his world in search of power,
his universal, superficial plans
are clearing skies of birds, and Earth of flowers.

Consider now the miracle of Spring--
suspended from a petal and a wing.

© Copyright 2002 W.D. Neighbors 

The Flow of Time

The flow of time is thick and cruel

like wintertime molasses.

I'm older now and such a fool

I don’t know where my ass is.

Okay..its silly....I don't care...lol..... it is a "draft"....which means it can look silly while I continue to work on it until it either makes sense...or I quietly delete it.

Summers End

The clouds, in fury, gather and the wind begins to blow
the summer from the land, but summer doesn’t want to go.

An angry shout of thunder follows each new flash of pain.
The weary earth is set upon by multitudes of rain.

The knights of autumn fall on the retreating summer sun,
and mists above the mourning tell the world that Fall has won.

Gibberish (read it quick before I come to my senses and toss it)

Some of the people who live in my head
are dirt loving tree hugging freaks.
Then there are those who drive battleship cars
that smell of petroleum leaks.

Christian-like beings in radical veils
made of conservative shroud
woven in ignorance spun on a loom
with no thread of reason allowed

coexist madly with liberal hacks
consuming with plasticized spades
the ugliness flowing from factory farms
while wearing their rose colored shades.

How is it possible reason prevails
and lucid thoughts flow from my pen?
Could it be this is just gibberish and
I’ve thoroughly fooled me again?

When

When all our anger’s overturned
and innocents are free at last
from bloody sword and hellish burn,
when war’s a relic of the past,

when Man’s uncertain enmity
presents, in breach, from evil’s womb
and love becomes our legacy
as Mars is sealed in Satan’s tomb,

a marble, gilded monument,
inscription etched with golden rhyme,
will sing the dirge, the grim lament
to chronicle, to rue the time

when eyes beheld what souls abhor,
when children slept in arms of war.

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 only 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 W. D. Neighbors

Circle Circles

The circle circles roundabout
and finds a way to, neatly, close
without a pause or any doubt.
You’re smiling Mother, I suppose,
for now it’s mine to hold the hand
to soothe the ego, slightly bruised,
to wipe away the tear drops and
repeat the phrases often used…

“My little one, ignore the pain--
tomorrow brings another dawn.
No rose can grow without the rain.
Until the fear and pain are gone

I’ll hold you thus, encircle you
as circles must--- as father's do."

Etchings

What was it took the babies off to war…
the adolescent wonder-fools, at best,
who’d yet to learn the fo'c'sle from the floor,
who couldn’t tell the study from the test?

They nursed upon the warrior code of Duke,
a hero of the legendary screens,
but never saw him scared enough to puke,
and never heard him grunt behind the scenes.

The military called them to a man
except the golden children in reserve
whose Daddies knew the secrets of the plan
and all the students grading on the curve.

Opposed were led directly to the blame,
the dead were on the news before us all.
Survivors had to live or die with shame
for not becoming etchings on the wall.

34

The first ship I served aboard in the U.S. Navy was an Essex class aircraft carrier (USS Oriskany). We (the ex crewmen) tried to save her as a museum, not enough money. She narrowly avoided the scrap heap several times.

But, after a long and valiant battle to stay alive, she was to have an ending fitting to the american naval hero that she is. A burial at sea. She was sunk as an artificial reef with an appropriate monument nearby etc. The final deployment of Ex-USS Oriskany CV/CVA-34 was completed on May 17th 2006. Despite early concerns that she had landed on her starboard side, she was found to be sitting perfectly upright in 212' of water, with the flight deck around 135', and the top of the structure at 69' in the Gulf of Mexico, 22.5 miles offshore from the Naval Air Station at Pensacola, FL, Coordinates - N30:02.542 W87:00.374

For more see the MBT (Maximum bottom time) divers website at mbtdiversers.com/

34

A call has come we can’t ignore,
the bells of glory chime…
to gather on a distant shore
a crew from out of time.

We come to grieve the many dead,
the shipmates lost back then...
and as we hear the tributes read
our thoughts return again…

to ports of call in foreign lands
a distant, brighter day,
when life was held in younger hands,
ashore and underway.

We listen to the bugles call
and wipe away the tears
as names and faces we recall
across the many years.

And as the circle draws an end,
forgive the tears we weep
to see our gray and weathered friend
committed to the deep.

~ © 2005 By: W.D. Neighbors ~

"I wish to have no connection with any ship that does not sail fast for I intend to go In Harm’s Way."

John Paul Jones to M. de Chaumont on 16 November 1778.

The Bard

The board has booked the sage
and poetry speaks in the park
to earn a living wage.

The poems speak to all
and yet they wait with bated breath
for other shoes to fall.

The barb has hooked the sage
as bait for all the hungry sharks
he bleeds upon the page.

To Antigone and Beyond

A few years ago I took my first college course (English 102) in 26 years. I was at mid-term and learned that I had a B plus going at mid-term despite the fact of the 26 years and despite the fact that the average age of my classmates was far less than half my own (sorry, I am proud of this)….so I was all giddy and excited sitting in class-- supposed to be taking lecture notes and this is what I wrote.

To Antigone and Beyond


I'm shaking, squirming, out of sorts,
incredibly befuddled.
I'm taking notes in fits and spurts
my concentration muddled.

Antigone was on my mind,
and then, her lovely sister
Ismene, but then I find
she’s wed an anarchist--er.

Approaching writing full of fear,
my inner diction airy,
I start my poem late in March,
I'll end in February.

Statement: Sorry, I didn't say it was any good.

Question: What’s wrong with me?

A Meatloaf Kind of Night

If it’s a meatloaf kind of night,
a gravy laden day.
the green bean of delight,
a fluffy cheese soufflé…
don’t grab a ketchup bottle,
and shake like a beginner…
first none and then a lottle
squirt forth to ruin your dinner.

A Little Boy

Reflecting on the rows of life we've sown
in proper furrows, simple fields of hay,
the mind will turn to troubles that we've known,
to knowledge lost and found along the way.

My life has borne a crop to feed the years,
a bounty for the soul, the food of life--
from joy to discontent, from bitter tears
to children with a strong and loving wife.

The muse begets a lyric, frank and terse,
a harvest of reflection. Rows of time
are gathered to a journal bound with verse
a complicated life in simple rhyme--

from fields of thought to rows of scribbled joy--
an aging man, a youth-- a little boy.

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? One's view of time's depending
upon the viewers pace.

The Earth and her companion form 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.

Posiedon's Breath

A storm at sea, Poseidon's might,
in silhouette, Saint 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 complement this Sailor's feast.
He'll swig and judge the vintage fine
but never swallow in the least.

There's challenge in Poseidon's rage
at those who dare to cross his path.
Though "heaving to" appleals, this sage
will choose to tempt the surging wrath.

Poseidon's breath may bring his end...
yet canvas flies. Be damned the wind!

On Easter

Enchanted by an island princess fair,
we sailed to Easter riding winds of light
and, soft, before the the people were aware,
removed her to our dark abyss of night.

Thereafter, from a time that's out of mind,
a sentry stands in place upon the shore
as drawn by Rapa Nui rendered blind
to life but for the sacred task they bore.

His stony face forever to the sea;
his charge to stand until we have released her
as bid by the forgotten race to be,
eternal shall he look away from Easter...

to leagues and leagues away and yet beyond
with all his stony brethern of the bond.

Star Sailors

I've looked into the future, looked
as far as dreams can see
at unimagined wonders and
the magic that will be.

The stars are filled with sailing ships
the clippers of the skies...
all captained by cephalopods
with deep vermilion eyes.

They navigate the galaxies
and fly the steller winds
from Canopus to Betelguese
to where the matter ends...

They utilize another math
and octants made of ice
for human sums and instruments,
of course, will not suffice

to chase the moons and comet tails
to ports of call unknown;
to worlds inside a universe
where light has never shone.

Running

I do all my running in circles
when screaming and throwing a fit
and mostly I huff without puffing
whilst stomping away in a snit

And I do my exercise nightly,
I’m walking at lunch without fail.
I cut iceberg lettuce in pieces
to carry to work in a pail.

I may lose my temper routinely,
and screech like a Barbary ape...
although I may shout quite obscenely
at least I am staying in shape.

Old Salt

"'O God the sea is so great and my boat is so small.'" ~ John F. Kennedy ~

Man hoists a sail to fly upon the wind,
through spray and storm; to scale the mountain sea.
And though it’s just, it feels as good as sin
and moves us near to heaven; ecstacy
that fires the human spirit. God’s decree
was that our salt should match the sea, and this
has charged the very blood that flows in thee.

A sailor bleeds of nature’s dark abyss
and lives to taste her tears; her deep primeval kiss.



"I really don't know why it is that all of us are so committed to the sea, except I think it's because in addition to the fact that the sea changes, and the light changes, and ships change, it's because we all came from the sea. And it is an interesting biological fact that all of us have, in our veins the exact same percentage of salt in our blood that exists in the ocean, and therefore, we have salt in our blood, in our sweat, in our tears. We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea--whether it is to sail or to watch it--we are going back from whence we came."

~ John F. Kennedy ~ Remarks in Newport at the Australian Ambassador's Dinner for the America's Cup Crews, September 14, 1962, Public Papers of the Presidents: 1962, p. 684.

How

How like a flame in fickle wind,
how fragile, love, when 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 I 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?

When Rhyme has Passed

I think I’ll think outside the bag
and write between the verses.
I’ll stiff them when they call for sag
and act while they rehearses.

I know I’ll live outside the land
of rules and lengthy speeches.
I’ll, findng rhythm, tune my hand
when free is what they preaches.

I’m anti-poet, since you asked,
inside the lines I’ll not.
And chances are, when rhyme has passed,
my verse they’ll long forgot.