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The stream (all workshops)

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


I Won't Find the Real God in This Place

I won't find the real God in this place
with woodcuts and paintings,
and crumbling marble.
I won't find Him
in the Egyptian, nor Greek galleries either.

And this should come
as no surprise,
since I never found Him
in a church or temple, for that matter.

I don't know
if that is what
makes the depression drip so thickly from me.

In Every Sip

She watched me.
Eyes closed and shoulders feathered,
Hands cradling my cup
As if I was holding my own soul,

Escaping into the steam
and red clay of the rooibos leaves, traveling
To a place beyond life's troubled horizon
Where the fog begins to clear.

After three sips of tea
I have new ears. And the cinnamon
Has silenced my echoes of worry
Ricocheting off walls

Sugar Cain

Was born a child of nightmare darkling
A demon dog with collar sparkling
My Ma and Pa were Eve and Adam
Preferred their son to me their madam
So when the moon rose red and bloodied
I stalked Abe by the stream when flooded
Then shot him with my gun – a Glock
Was more precise than stone or rock
I dumped him in the flowing water
Then heard old Adam calling, “daughter!”
I then seduced my dear old daddy
At brothel – so he’d be the baddy
I’m Sugar Cain: Love-child of goddess
Ma says I’m such a soulless soddess

Am I late early snow

My nude trees
are now not bare
who will at them
openly stare

autumn has come and gone
today it snowed
my trees are
with silvery white gowns clothed

they are no more nude
but who cares
about Lovedly
who now only
love shares
yet guys and gals
still move about me
as lovely in pairs

Cellar Door (Monster)

Can you hear it?
Beneath the floor,
Knocking on the cellar door?

It's big and hairy, and just a bit scary.
Not short or small,
Breathing right behind the wall.

At night I hear it down below.
Roars and moans
As it's sorrow grows.

So lonely it must be.
For it's all alone you see?
A monster has no friends.

A monster is simply forevermore
Beneath the floor,
And just behind the cellar door.

Signs Of The Time

politicians in drag
Manson is finally dead
robots for men
more claims of sexual misconduct to explain
Beer pongs in college room dorms
Fetty Wap making a comeback
sign of the times
Fat little boy from North Korea
Trump in his ivory tower
why do we even bother
we didn't start the fire


Still falls the rain
The veils of darkness shroud the blackened trees
which contorted by some unseen violence
Shed their tired leaves and bend their boughs towards a grey earth of severed bird wings.

Among the grasses poppies bleed before a gesticulating death
And young rabbits born dead in traps stand motionless
as though guarding the silence that surrounds and threatens to engulf all those that would listen.

Last Decision

This choice will be the Last.
And everything will become the past.
Your passionate kisses will become memories
And your tight hugs will become mare memories.

I have to choose between my life
and the best thing God created.
If I choose my the best under sunlight
Then I will die in the best jet that man created.

The greatest treasure in the Univers
and My most important thing
Are at death risk
and I must decide.

The choice is my Life.
May your soul rest in peace.

Stripping Kipling

a gentleman from the west
considering his culture the best
chronicling what he felt certain
penning The White Man’s Burden
policies provoking native unrest

The Falcon fall

Watching the falcon's wings
At 200 mph
I realize what freedom could be
Attached to nothing
How it would be to swoop
To tilt and invert the earth
To career through
Olive groves
To fly above and out
And beyond any mind


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