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April 2024 Contest Winners

Congratulations to our April 2024 contest winners!

Spring Fling  was won by Carrie with the poem Spring Fling

04/24 I Was An April Fool was won by Geezer with the poem Fooled Again...

04/24 Waiting In Line was won by  Mary Beth Magee  with the poem The Last Time

04/24 Are We There Yet?  Was won by Rula with the poem We're Almost There For It

04/24 My Favorite Cookie was won by Leslie with the poem After school treat!

Poetry Month 2024 Imagine Contest Vote

Vote for this month’s image prompt contest winner

Voting ends May 6th 2024.

Vote at the end of this newsletter.

 

Backwards

By: Carrie

G
All the things that I wanna write
C
Have been written
G
All the songs that I wanna sing
D
Have been sung,
G
All the things that I wanna say
C
Have been said before
D A Em G
All the things that I wanna do have been done.

G
I wanna fly a kite
A
At night instead of day,
C
I wanna drive a big old truck
D
The opposite way
G
I wanna laugh when I’m sad,
C
And cry when I’m happy and gay
D A
I wanna do what no one’s done
G
Any other day.

G
I wanna wear all my clothes
A
Wear em all inside out,

C
I wanna be real quiet,
D
When everybody else wants to shout
G
I wanna see the stars
C
When everybody else sees the sun
D
I want my day to end
C G
When everybody else’s has begun.

C D
Wouldn’t it be weird, wouldn’t it be funny and strange
A
If everyone thought like this,
G
Slightly deranged.

 

 

Lost Love

By: Alex Tanner

Should I recall those blissful times
When we like climbing flowers entwined;
Our blossoms scented evenings air
As Love and Lust forsook our cares.

Your laugh was soft and gentle,
A butterflies wings in spring,
Dancing on the sunbeams
Enough to make me sing.

Eyes so bright they sparkled
Diamonds on moonlit snow;
Flashing hither and thither
To make my pulse race so.

We held each other gentle
Yet tight so not to break,
Though deep, our love could never last,
Different paths our lives would take.

For fleeting months we tarried,
Each time we met we knew
This may be the last time
For lovers hours are few.

If I love ten thousand women
Tis you I will recall;
You gave yourself so willing,
For your passion I did fall.

On black nights as the wind howls,
As I lie in a bed so cold,
Your soft voice echoes 'cross the years
To warm my lonely soul.

                                                                                                                                         

Vote Here

Thank you for your participation.

This week the Neopoem is

 

 Whistle Stop Grove by Izzi Reinier

 

Let us congratulate Izzi Reinier on his first contest win as a neopoet member.

The stream (all workshops)

This is the stream - you can see all poems on Neopoet, live, as they are created.

 

TWISTED HINT (formerly untitled)

One hot spring day not many years past,
not so many as to have labeled me young,
but enough to have still been steady of pace
I grew restless within abode's walls
and set out on a quest.

So in my old truck I went
(Not my old red one, this one was gold)
down almost every type of road.
Hectic four lane highway, two lane blurry asphalt
through a few small towns
bypassing a sleepy southern city.
Finally a country road
which became gravel.
My kind of road.

Drugs and alcohol

I go to the store to get some Mountain Dew
Mom asks me if I’m high and i tell her I am through
But my Mountain Dew is ‘special’
And my drugs are confidential
And i don't want them to know the truth…
About my torn tattoos
That left a bruise
About my deep ass scares
I almost crashed my car,
I wasn’t that sober.
They ask me “why do you drink your only 13,
You shouldn’t drink you have a family,
But I’m a broken serial code
Only 4 numbers long, they’re unknown
And i'll bring to school my lean

A Tear

A single tear wells
in the corner of an eye,

moves slowly down the cheek,
suspended there, takes light
like a magnificent diamond
before pursuing art to the floor

This tear, this water spot,
this tangible manifestation,
condensed from the intangible
and there to return

Where great King Billy pines

Snake trees inscribed
with lichen tales
trails that lead
to rosewood polished pools

The tangle-foot Fagus
falls from green to gold to red
here, are all the seasons
and rivers fed from way above

Currawong* scrapes his metallic song
along the rusted belt of sky
and through moss and scrub,
light on foot we fly

Bleached white trunks abound
an ancient rare trod ground
and the eyes of wombat holes
stare out the blinking earth

A good article on Benjamin Fondane

Benjamin Fondane : biography

November 14, 1898 - October 2, 1944
RIMBAUD LE VOYOU, ULYSSE AND INTELLECTUAL PROMINENCE

Oak Tree

The tall oak tree stood on hill alone,
Each day the girl would visit,
This hill was home,

She would sit beside the large stone,
It was a comforting pillow,
She was no longer alone,

As she sat, she thought,
Her mind was a ticking bomb,

The oak tree had meaning & tears it brought,

She sobbed till she could no longer cry,
She surrendered to life,
What more could she try,

above the law

If the bees can’t sting
Within their wax
How can they attack outside?
If a snake can’t swallow a dead rat
What about a flying bat?
The lion has shed tears
When a rabbit intruded his territory.

A tilapia had been drank off the ocean
And the sharks are desperate
The hawk has taken away the food
From the eagle and flew freely.

Frustrations

Frustrated with the self,
the conclusion is put on the shelf;
decisions drive the mind insane,
the strain on the brain;
belligerent thoughts pound when they hit,
all of this is just bullshit;
feels like the head is going to explode,
hopelessness tries to slip in the mold;
the wish of being simple minded,
peace of mind? can never find it;
all of the worlds nations,
live in societies frustrations.

Good, greenlight.

Good green light so I floor it. I have to get past the
few blocks of dark, abandoned buildings and
deserted streets that lead me to the highway
home.
After all I insisted to all " I would be okay. "
But from my beloved second home back in
the

18-04-18

18-04-18
Man! – they sure fucked things up!
In less that forty years of trickle-down bullshit
Designed to screw the Working Class
Out of everything they fought for
For almost two centuries
The Middle Classes are now being squeezed
And bled dry!
It costs more than a million dollars
To buy a rundown shack in the former slums
Being gentrified
By absentee owners
Or ripped down
And replaced with hideous condos
They sell in far distant lands

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