WARM SNOW
The summer I turned six
I spent with Cindy and Debbie
A plastic ocean and horses made of sticks
Chocolate milk from a cricket named Jiminy
White sands that looked like snow
Girls scampering up and over the hill
But I was afraid to go
Shivering like I already had a chill
I'd never been to a beach or even a playground with sand
But I knew what snow was, trust me
Dressed in shorts and sandals and no gloves on my hands
Who wants to play like this in cold country?
I'd never heard of warm snow before
And I'd never seen that flavor of sand
No wonder I was hesitant and unsure
It's hard for a northern boy to understand
Little Debbie was the first one over the hill
"See how brave she is," said her mother
"She's not afraid, you'll have fun, I know you will"
Finally they convinced me with one logic after another
I soon forgot what snow was all about
Cindy, Debbie and I with sand pails
We romped and played and wore ourselves out
When they called us back, we moved like snails
Memories etched in my mind so long ago
Time sails on without us while we wait for the ships
Cindy, Debbie and I had fun in the warm snow
The summer I turned six
In memory of:
Cynthia Jean Kenneally, 1953-2024
and
Debra Kenneally Telles, 1956-2025
© 2026 Brian McNeal
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FLOWERS ARE BETTER THAN BULLETS
Flowers are better in all weather
Bullets fired are undesired
Reasons excused or abused
Four lives halted in the heather
Flowers don't kill, but bullets will
Rights wronged, wrongs never righted
Students unsteady, Guard ever-ready
Four dead, never to tread on the hill
Innocence lost, four paid the cost
Freedom died, parents cried
The nation divided, nevermore united
Lives squashed, a Kent State Holocaust
Forever gone, time marches on
Memories fade, brightness to shade
Battles never won, only done
More war, more horror, pawns in a new dawn
For Sandra and Bill, resting ever-still
The war is over, you were heard
For Jeffrey and Allison, though your days are done
Your voices rang loud, and always will
© 2026 Brian McNeal
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JAN'S GUITAR
(For Janice Claire Sigler 1954-1964)
This little guitar was held in a young girl's hands
It sang to her the happy songs she held dear
And comforted her in times that were sad
This little guitar with notes so bright and clear
This little guitar didn't cost so very much
But it brought more joy than anyone could conceive
"Yes Jesus Loves Me," "This Little Light of Mine" and such
This little guitar that helped a young girl believe
This little guitar that fit her young hands so fine
Lessons learned to help her beyond the music domain
Patience, understanding, perserverance to help a young girl shine
This little guitar made of such soft woodgrain
This little guitar was a friend, treasured by a pretty young girl
A pretty young girl who played it for way too short of a time
A pretty young girl who wasn't able to stay in this world
This little guitar with memories so divine
This little guitar was held in a young girl's hands
It sang to her the happy songs she held dear
And comforted her in times that were sad
This little guitar with notes so bright and clear
This little guitar didn't cost so very much
But it brought more joy than anyone could conceive
"Yes Jesus Loves Me," "This Little Light of Mine" and such
This little guitar that helped a young girl believe
This little guitar that fit her young hands so fine
Lessons learned to help her beyond the music domain
Patience, understanding, perserverance to help a young girl shine
This little guitar made of such soft woodgrain
This little guitar was a friend, treasured by a pretty young girl
A pretty young girl who played it for way too short of a time
A pretty young girl who wasn't able to stay in this world
This little guitar with memories so divine
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DOUG, PHIL, LOUIS AND I
It was Doug, Phil, Louis and I
Doug and Phil were both the intellectual kind
Louis would do anything to get high
I was just a follower, but I wasn't blind
Creativity was Doug's specialization
Phil was philosophical
Louis was screwy - inhaling bus exhaust for fixation
I just wanted to be comical
Doug and I worked after school at the filling station
Phil worked, when he wanted, on his uncle's house
Louis panhandled or sold drugs per the occasion
Always in constant fear we'd end up in Vietnam or Laos
Teenaged lads, friends by circumstance
Divided by wanderlust and graduation
Time waits not for any sort of happenstance
Age brings more distance and separation
Louis was the first to ramble
Then, you know, I flew away
Phil followed the gamble
And only Doug was left to stay
Louis owns the unknown in our equation
Phil's story is a closed, but unfinished book
Doug's journey ended in medical frustration
Now, only I can cheat death and be the rook
And so I drink a toast to you, the friends of my youth
And the memories of our shared yesterday
Treading our way in a world without truth
I'm still following, so leave a road map to help me find my way
© 2026 Brian McNeal
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