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The stream (all workshops)

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


All her love...

She found me...
out along the path.

I was barely clinging to life...
stuck between the cracks.

Her soft hands so gentle...
as she carried me here.

She set me in fresh soil...
now many years have passed.

She waters me still.

Occasionally she sings to me ...
turning my pot on the sill.

Often she turns the blinds...
that I may bask in the sun.

But would she ever believe?
that I could one day bloom...

I wonder if she ever thinks...
that there's beauty inside of me?

Pando ( the tale of a Thanksgiving rooster)

Everyone is sleeping
as light slowly breaks
welcoming this Thanksgiving day.

I'm careful, stepping softly,
tiptoeing if you will...
hens nestled upon thier batch.

Into the coop I go, like a slueth,
beneath my feet the leaves and twigs snap.

This mornings' chill is warmer still
than the farmers axe upon my neck
and my tired eyes begin to close...

I whisper "farewell" to that old fence post, witholding my final call, I refuse to perch...
extra sleep my gift to all.

I Quit Smoking Last Week...Again

The moon grows full, as the night grows long and my cigarette grows short
Another 11 minutes shaved off my life
Like a boy scout whittling a stick to a fine point
With no point other than the beauty of the motion

I take another sip from my woody-dark-chocolate-mocha cig
I remember I used to hate the acrid sour stench that now fills my lungs
But my love of all things bitter keeps growing


You make one feel
like a young woman indeed
roaming in the Garden of Victoria
on an evening wintry cold nude absolutely

no fear of Adam’s spear
he was meant to sow without fear

seasonal youth has since evaded
we have been with snow loaded

leaves buds and petals
have all suddenly withered away
comes autumn now our way
smearing all fragrance astray

colorful hues go away whom, does autumn bare
as if she was another one
of her lovely womanly ware

Christmas -ish. Haiku -ish.

A coddling of eggs,
emptying of Santas sack,
an old bird well stuffed.



I wish that Santa was still real,
Grandma and Gramps would be here
and Dad and my sister Anne,
Pal too my beagle hound.
They all taught me what loving is.

I wish Santa was still real.
The trip to Grammy’s and Pa’s
was a thing to wait for each year.
The entire family there,
all nine uncles and aunts,
and my cousins.
A potpourri the result of love.


I'm done with this! " as I hit the snooze once more..

tired of the daily grind.

Proposals,, meetings, and impossible deadlines...

" I'm tired of Mr. Brigg!"

Investors, portfolios, airports, even the hotels.

Not one more fancy dinner with a gold digging gal...

or wingtips and sport coats or black tie events.

"Tonight is the night !"

I'm going exit this penthouse
and turn out the lights....

back down that lonely road
far from this crazy life.


When I was a kid I remember feeling different then my folks,
You could say my egg had a different kind of yolk.

I was angry, rude, hyper and high-strung,
I spoke how I felt never held my tongue.

I was constantly getting into fights,
My mom would ground me she tried to set me right.

I always felt like there was something wrong with me,
I was loud, causing trouble never low key.

As I grew older the problem got bigger,
Cocked and loaded finger on the trigger.

When lights go out come again

When lights go out come again
think of me

a lonely bird flying sky high
am I the eagle you are in search

come to me when the lights go off
comfort me more than yourself

many told me today
they read me I'm good

but they leave no comments
lest I burst

they know not the time of travel
to the invisible universe

Seasons of the past... ( Mind storm )

Opening like a flower
only to catch the rain
that falls like tears
from blood soaked eyes
releasing swells of pain

Sorrow fills the callouses
the cracking and crumbling grasp
as outstretched hands surrender innocence
from fingertips to the wrist

Reflecting an unbearable image
back through the window pane
in a valiant attempt to resist himself
he curses his own name

New hope briefly birthed
like a sprout and a bloom
only to give way to thirst
overwhelmed by impending doom


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