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Community News

Experiment - Stream - Sorted By Creation Date

We're experimenting with sorting the stream by creation date, rather than "last updated" date. For example, a poem created on August 14 will be displayed before a poem created on August 13, even if the August 13 poem was revised on August 16.

July Contest Results

Congratulations to the winner: Sparrow42
This month we have an honorable mention: B9Pat

Thank you to all participants for entering this past contest and all contests.

The stream (all workshops)

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


Listening to the drums (primal poetry)

he heart begins slightly to race
and she is not happy. The steady
thum, thum, thum, is not her taste.

a little boy is being physically bullied,
forced to be subservient to the will
of a more powerful other.

mind then drifts to abstractions
where it picks up the eternals
to bridge the tempora sphere.

Then the beat calls me back, the heart
has accustomed, and I can understand;
after all, we all come out of Africa.


Naming a mountain once more

Naming a mountain.

THERE was a time I came from the north
Slow through the thick wet world
On approach, would see
It’s great hunched shoulders, reared
Against the wind, as the ground below fell
And the world disappeared

There was my beacon, tipped with
A man made broadsword, perched
At the highest point, placed,
When I was small, far, abroad
A great beacon tower to cast
Out the word, to every listening
Wireless blood in the land

Scribbled Ink On Silk....

Scribbled Ink On Silk

Poets get it always, so write,
they peel fruit from the inside.
Fact, fiction, it’s no invite,
a bottle can’t control it’s tide.

Far too busy creating verse.
to care for dollar pound, or yen.
In truth or fable they immerse,
derision no put down for pen.

They can all write of special love.
far too many a broken tryst.
Many fables about a lord above,
happy am I for those he missed.

i don't know

I don't know a part of me wants to be with someone
a part of me is also scared to get close
when is this hurting going to be done
even when its what I want most

I like you but I'm scared and I get nervous with you
I like how we have so much in common its as shock
I guess it's scary knowing someone new
but my heart is on a tight lock

Change of Heart

She tries to relax her back
against a soft bed
of bright white snow.

Her warm breath
a visible vapor
rises cutting through
the crackling cold air.

She desperately desires
the quiet deep sleep
in that dark night sky.

Glistening red
Rosy cheeks
Frozen tears
Nostrils sealed
In thin layers of
Mucous glue

Her eyes glazed with
impaired vision blurred
gazing blankly at those
glittering stars above
light-years away
burning out
their own Time.


I see it yet it isn't there
In fact of this, I'm well aware
Still I hear the sounds foregone
Day before the day I was born
The darkness and the light are clear
So clear and yet there is no fear
For fear is just a state of being
The light of which is not worth seeing
My hopes are but a deed undone
All is lost and can't be won

The Fish

burned treasure from deep inside

The father's Work

Are we sneakily promoting senseless free flowing mischaracterizations by implying blindness concerning the beautifully vibrant tones... and uniqueness of
our black, white, and brown skins?
Even more, quiet demand kow tows to [A] political correctness that only
unmasks the unreachable achiness of what's not possible.
( at any rate ), does our arrogant subconscious context suggest flaws in the father's work, or are we really at times, so easily...………………………

" saw through?"

Double Pugging The Shit...

Double Plugging The Shit...

Plugging their drug they shuffle,
to a double bunked four by eight.
Politician finds feathers to ruffle,
don’t they know it’s far too late.

Picture perfect political perusing,
never will it solve this crime.
Political cretin admits to using,
does the deed avoids the time.

Lets now pretend to get tough,
as I slip into prime election mode.
Weak wailing electorate love my guff,
use, then dump at the side of the road.


I sit here with troubled mind
and worry about what may come.
Most of my years now left behind
yet my rebel heart is not yet numb.

Just behind my home is a steep hill
with oaks that were old when grandpa was young.
It slopes down to a clear cold rill
where remnants of barbed wire are still strung.

I sit in peace but think of battle;
blood spilled which turned rich soil red,
when rifles' fire made hearses rattle.
When young men fell and died and bled.


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