Friday, December 20, 2013

Said Spring To Winter by BJ Neblett

Hello and happy holidays! I'll be enjoying my birthday on the 24th (yes, a Christmas baby, better than a sack of coal!) with a quiet night, perhaps with a couple of friends. Hopefully yours will be a bit more exciting. In the mean time enjoy this new and very special poem written for a very special person. And then follow the link at the right over to my writer's blog for a short story.
Peace and love for a new year.

Said Spring To Winter
by BJ Neblett
© 2013

                           Said Spring to Winter            Said Winter to Spring
                              In silence we meet              Don’t ask me my name
                          Specter of my dreams                   I am just a man
                         The future in your eyes            Do not seek tomorrow
                             Uncertain but true                   And it will be yours
                            How am I to know                  Ask me no questions
                         What truths will I find                 I’ll tell you no lies
                                Your gift to me                          Take all I offer
                                 Afraid to open                        As long as it lasts
                             The longings inside            Don’t question your heart
                          Untouched and frozen              And love will be ours

Sunday, December 8, 2013

A Couple of Very Special Poems by BJ Neblett

Hi again and thanks for visiting. Here are a few recently inspired poems and musings. Enjoy and be sure to 'like' 'link' and comment. Also, I have two new stories published on Short Story Me. The link is below. Thanks.
Short Story Me: Short Story Me
© 2013

If I had kissed you
Tell me what would you have done
Kiss me back or run

                                             Loving you is like walking between raindrops

                   Specter of my dreams
                   She comes to me in the night
                   Love I'll never know

Though we never kissed
Of all my loves come and gone
I miss you the most

                                   Would you hold gently
                                   If I reached to take your hand
                                   Would you understand

Monday, November 25, 2013

Guest Poet CA Griffin

Happy Thanksgiving Everyone!
I know it has been a while and I apologize. But what I have for you today will more than make up for the gap in posting. CA Griffin is someone I recently met and a very talented writer and poetess. I was so impressed by her work I have decided to post one of her works here, along with a link to her blog. You can find some of her stories along side of my own at: Enjoy and be sure to link and comment, both here and on Ms Griffin’s sites.
CA Griffin Blog:

Private Storm
by CA Griffin
© 2011

I was in my quiet existence
Reveling in the calm from within
Then I felt the wind pickup, baby
And I knew your love storm was about to begin
I felt the slightest tremble in my legs
As my heart confirmed it was true love that I found
That’s when I saw your approach and I started to lose ground
I was swept up in the wind of your embrace so I held on fast
But as you sent a rain of sweet kisses all over me
I gave in and let go of the hurt from my past

You’ve become my private storm
Sweeping away all the debris
Removing all the wreckage I held close
Foolishly thinking that it could protect me

Ooh ooh stop right there right there.
I don’t think I’ve much longer to last
Baby you shake my walls
And make my breath come so fast
Ravage my body, seduce and take hold of my heart
It’s no use I can’t fight it my resistance is breaking apart

You’ve become my private storm
Sweeping away all the debris
Removing all the wreckage I held close
Foolishly thinking that it could protect me.

Baby if you haven’t fallen already
I’m gonna do everything to get you to do so….
And if you tell me you are feelin me too
Then I’m gonna work you deeper inside until you go…

You’ve become my private storm
Sweeping away all the debris
Removing all the wreckage I held close
Foolishly thinking that it could protect me.

Let your storm come baby bring the rain
Wash away my hurt my heart is yours to claim
Let your storm come baby bring the rain
Wash away my hurt my heart is yours to claim

Sunday, September 15, 2013

Mi Amor Es Tuyo by BJ Neblett

It's been a long crazy summer... then again, isn't that what summers are for: dreamers, lovers and fools?
Here's a new poem inspired by summer loves past and present, forlorn and forgotten.
Enjoy. BJ

Mi Amor Es Tuyo
by BJ Neblett
© 2013

Whatever you do wherever you go
You will always know
My love is yours

Though near though far I’ll be by your side
A heart to abide
My love is yours

Thru space and thru time although we’re apart
You stay in my heart
My love is yours

From valley below to rainbow on high
I’ll shout and I’ll sigh
My love is yours

            As tender as a kiss
            My empty arms enfold you
            And as strong as a tear
            My empty heart longs for you

By day or by night you’ll never regret
Please never forget
My love is yours

I pledge and I vow the words of my song
To never do wrong
My love is yours

Whatever you do wherever you go
May you always know
My love is yours

Whatever you do wherever you go
So you’ll always know

Mi amor es tuyo

Thursday, July 25, 2013

For Love by BJ Neblett

For Love
by BJ Neblett
© 2013

He killed himself
Little by little

He couldn’t help himself
He couldn’t stop
He was who he was
It couldn’t be any other way

He took his own life
One day at a time
Till there was nothing left

It was suicide

Cause of death: A self-inflicted broken heart

Tuesday, July 2, 2013

July Cool by BJ Neblett

Hello again and thanks for all the support! Summertime is here again and for some of us with a vengeance! Enjoy your holidays safely. Here is a re-post to get you in the mood, aptly titled July Cool. And once again, as always, for Amy wherever she may be.

July Cool
by BJ Neblett
© 2008, 2013

Burning July
sidewalks as hot as
the tip of the smoldering punk
clenched tightly between
teeth and gum
like some fancy cigar
because we were cool
in red hi-tops
and white T shirts
sleeves rolled
with empty Marlboro packs
like the older dudes
because it was cool
cool as the locking blade
knife ordered
from the last page of
a Green Lantern comic book
it bounced in the back pocket
of our torn
and faded jeans
stained with rainbow badges
proclaiming our cool
bloody nose red
and fishing hook green
and the wide dirt brown stripe
from sliding into home

Torturous July
stealthy pendulum
hovering between youth and tomorrow
when we were cool
and not yet cool
like the tarnished silver ring
that spent July sleeping
in that cool little pocket in my jeans
I bought it from Woolworths
to give to Amy Johnson
in the flickering coolness
of a Saturday matinee
it felt warm
and full of promises
but I didn’t give it to her
because I was too cool
or not cool enough
and Chris called me
a coward
and he was right
so I bought popcorn
with my last four bits
just to hear Amy’s
freckled laughter
and taste her hazel eyes
that made my stomach bubble

Enchanted July
when days exploded
with sunshine
and dandelions
and wishes
like the Black Kats
and Lady Fingers
we ignited with the punks
we pretended to smoke
when shy fireflies
sang in Morse code
and bold butterflies kissed
when I got my first pair
of Matador boots
but had to wait
till September
to wear them to school
because they were cool
and they made me cool

Sultry July
of watermelon days
and transistor nights
when one Willie Mays
was worth two Richie Ashburn’s
unless you lived in Philly
that magical July
our clubhouse
in the woods
became the smoking spot
no more un-cool punks
we had Salems
from mom’s purse
and Chesterfields
for twenty five cents a pack
they burned our throats
like the warm Schlitz beer
Timmy stole
from a neighbor’s garage
then the smoking spot
became the drinking spot
the same spot
where I first touched Robin
in that spot
and Amy knew
and killed me
with her hazel eyes
that made my stomach bubble

Ineluctable July
of inky nights
spent hanging out
because we were cool
trouble matured with us
from playground
to bowling alley
to pool hall
we were too old
for the curfews
we ignored
too old and too cool
but too young to drive
except for the cars
I stole
to impress the guys
and to win back
Amy Johnson
who told me
I was just too cool

Too cool for the July
that melted too soon
like the tangerine sun
and the jealous moon
and Amy’s hazel eyes
that made my stomach bubble
that cool July

For Amy, wherever you are thank you

Thursday, June 20, 2013

Amos Fuller Doesn't Speak by BJ Neblett

Amos Fuller Doesn’t Speak
(A winner 2007 Penn American Writing Program)
by BJ Neblett
© 2006, 2013

Amos Fuller doesn’t speak.
He sometimes sits with us when there is room,
His stark dinner tray occupying his private
quarter of the table.

His khakis are always neat and clean,
Wrinkle free, yet strangers to an iron;
His heavy black boots shiny and worn.
He never wears sweats, or sneakers, or
T shirt,
Just the same long sleeved uniform, winter
or summer.

If the salt and pepper are out of reach he
does without.
Sometimes one of us will place them in front
of him.
Then mashed potatoes become snow covered
The single, thin slice of meat an ash laden

Bent in posture yet proud in manner,
Amos Fuller doesn’t speak.
He wears his thinning Afro like a skull cap;
His withered brow reads like the rings of
a southern pine.

He bows his head in prayer, and raises it
in drink,
His vacant eyes prisoners to a different
time, a different place.
Fork clenched tightly in a rough arthritic
The lacking meal is meticulously

           Dry green salad;
           Mean portion of rice or potatoes;
           Two glasses of water.
           Always the same.
           Never dessert.

Once there were cucumbers on his tray.
Halfway through the meal Amos Fuller
burped, expressionless.
He wiped his puffy brown lips
and continued to eat.

Someone said he murdered his wife and
her lover;
Their splattered mingled blood stained the
Curtains and carpet of the tired motel room.
That was 40 years ago,
The last time anyone heard Amos Fuller

Dinner was silent and tense tonight,
Eyes shifting about like butterflies.
I stood to leave, dropping a wrapped candy
mint on his spent tray.
He raised his blank face to mine,
and rapped his scarred knuckles on the
Amos Fuller doesn’t speak.


Saturday, June 8, 2013

Untitled by BJ Neblett

Here's a poem from a younger and more, shall we say, romantic BJ. Then again, looking at some of my more recent work, I guess not that much has changed... life goes on.

by BJ Neblett
© 1970, 2013

I sat until the old man of the park came by
as he always seemed to do about this time.
Yet dusk arrived early today,
or was it only the clouds that
blocked the sunlight from my eyes,
the same sun we shared often
but never enough.
But there was never enough time and
perhaps that is why I’m alone now,
alone, watching the old man,
the funny old man of the park
you called him,
as we sat and watched him
and the people
and the pigeons,
and the buildings melted into the sky
as we walked through
the thoughts we shared
and the love that grew like
the trees in the park,
the park where we sat
and met
and talked
and loved
and watched the old man,
the poor old man of the park.
And now it’s dark and I’m alone
and the old man is gone.
No, he didn’t come today
as he always did before.
Now he is gone
and so are you.

                                    Broomall, PA

                                    October, 1970

Monday, June 3, 2013

The Trouble With Walls by BJ Neblett

The Trouble With Walls
by BJ Neblett
© 2005, 2013

The trouble with walls is
            They can’t feel
They can’t distinguish between love and hate
They just keep things in as well as out

The trouble with walls is
            They have no eyes
No way to see the loss without
No way to know the soul within

The trouble with walls is
            They cannot taste
Outside the rain is as bitter
As the tears that are shed inside

The trouble with walls is
            They cannot hear
Longings of loved ones echo back into the night
The cries of despair are absorbed deep within

The trouble with walls is
            They have no heart
They know nothing of suffering
Have no capacity to understand

But even the strongest of walls are flawed
For they cannot contain the spirit of man

                                    Boston, MA

                                    June, 2005

Sunday, May 19, 2013

The User by BJ Neblett

The User
by BJ Neblett
© 2013

Once I was a child
Childish games I did play
Ignoring waning days

Once I stood in manhood
Confident strong and blind
Leaving innocence behind

Once I was a lover
Roaming wild and free
Hurting those who loved me

Once I was a pilgrim
My days I did wander
All that life did offer

Once I was a dreamer
Now I just remember
The things that never were

Once I was somebody         
Now I’m just nobody
I never was…

                                                            Seattle, WA
                                                            May, 2013

Saturday, April 20, 2013

The 12th Day Of Never by BJ Neblett

Ok, here it is, my first 'officially' published work, a poem from 1967 that appeared in a national poetry anthology. The Vietnam War was escalating, there were protesters in the streets, Bob Dylan and folk rock were on the radio and the Republicans were about to be in power. I was 17 and in high school and sitting in study hall bored and just wondering what the big deal was about Friday the 13th. Calliope must have been bored that day as well. Enjoy and please feel free to comment.

The 12th Day Of Never
by BJ Neblett
© 1967, 2013

The morning burst into a crisp,
clear gay marriage
of loneliness.
Soon the shadows of night
are forgotten and all around
is a joyful feeling
of sudden death.

It is the 12th day of never.

To the east the burning sun
is slowly climbing the skyward
of hatred and deceit.
In the garden, Alice In Wonderland
type figures have already
landed their forces in
the outer rice paddies.

It is the 12th day of never.

Scheming people turn in fear of
a strange flash of burning black
gone as suddenly as it came.
And the morning air becomes
full of cloudy, dust filled
rings of crazy people in a
crazy world.

It is the 12th day of never.

Now the sun returns to the west;
the frightening flash of total
darkness is about us.
Meanwhile, hidden deep in alleys,
people are drawing conclusions
on the walls and returning to
their coffins ‘till tomorrow.

And what of tomorrow?

Why everyone knows it’s Friday,
The 13th day of never.

                                                            Broomall, PA
                                                            November, 1967