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.
BJ

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

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.
BJ
Short Story Me: Short Story Me
Poems

© 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

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: www.short-story.me Enjoy and be sure to link and comment, both here and on Ms Griffin’s sites.
BJ
CA Griffin Blog: http://justaroundthewaygirl.blogspot.com

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

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

For Love by BJ Neblett

For Love

by BJ Neblett

© 2013

He killed himself

Slowly

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

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.
Peace,
BJ

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

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
mounds,
The single, thin slice of meat an ash laden
shingle.

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
fist,
The lacking meal is meticulously
consumed:

           Dry green salad;
           Mean portion of rice or potatoes;
           Meat.
           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
speak.

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
table.
Amos Fuller doesn’t speak.

                                                      

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.

Enjoy,

BJ

Untitled

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

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

The User by BJ Neblett

The User

by BJ Neblett

© 2013

Once I was a child

Childish games I did play

Carelessly

Ignoring waning days

Once I stood in manhood

Confident strong and blind

Foolishly

Leaving innocence behind

Once I was a lover

Roaming wild and free

Thoughtlessly

Hurting those who loved me

Once I was a pilgrim

My days I did wander

Squandering

All that life did offer

Once I was a dreamer

Now I just remember

Recalling

The things that never were

Once I was somebody         

Now I’m just nobody

Realizing

I never was…

                                                            Seattle, WA

                                                            May, 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.
BJ.

The 12^th 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 12^th 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 12^th 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 12^th 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 13^th day of never.

                                                            Broomall, PA

                                                            November, 1967