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~
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.
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~
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
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 ~
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.
“We loved the earth, but could not stay” ~ Loren Eiseley~
This poem was inspired by an article by Loren Eiseley.
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 ~
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