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The stream (all workshops)

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


For the Broken-Hearted

You could be all alone, a face in the crowd;
beating will in a stranger’s face;
Surrounded by moonlight, stardust…

You can hide anywhere you like; lost shadows of 3 a.m.;
nothing is the same. Open books of scribbled poetry
at empty hands; the ghosts are always there…

You could be restless when mornings
are like a runaway of the gypsy sun. Tell me
your name; I’ll be your friend if you need.
Shreds of poems flutter around the empty room…

Burning Love Letters

Burning Love Letters

This present is the autumn storm
before my final winter comes;
and so it’s time to put aside
the coins that Charon will demand
to ferry me across the River Styx.

I told my spouse and son where they
would find my Last Will and Testament,
and such. But about one thing
I would not say a word; you see,
there’s a spot that marred my saintly life;
a secret I must keep from my dear family.

Mental Illness

Mental Illness

True lovers endure pain

True lovers endure pain

Don't make haste
just to waste...

sex and marriage need COMPROMISE.....
at times one is down...
at other times the other......

the opposite one must up- lift the downer ...
and then move on--------
most of you make haste and search another ...

it's really a waste .....
meditate and recoup/regain your love......
all humans need compassion..
both men and women

even men,
though they don't show
are often more emotional..

The Killing

The Killing

If I had a torchlight at my disposal
or even a flickering match
I’d draw a bloodline of coordinates
on this indiscernible map.

I’d show you that there was a possible
in unfamiliar battles ahead;
I’d dress you in heavy armour
and carry the weight of your head.

I would spit on your boots to release
the slime and the grime and the shit;
I'd polish them with my elbow grease
though leave you a bit of the grit.

Lovers' Lighthouse

Lovers' Lighthouse

Not Clever

Allow me to express myself
collect each thought to mind,
reveal the muse, that twisted elf
observing from behind;
secure the secrets of my heart
to guard my weary soul,
infusing joy in ev’ry part
can, maybe make me whole.

Pertaining to my manic muse
(ostensibly a friend),
eternally he will abuse
my mind to his own end.

For me, for now, for ever,
unbridled poet never,
not least, as I’m not clever.

Trumpery and Co....

Fake news wins the day I fear,
our media call it all post truth.
Nuttal finds then wipes a tear,
another creation of his youth.

Blair arrives to call it foul,
heals himself with golden thread.
Boris commits to timely scowl,
both will soon be breaking bread.

If they can argue until May,
Euro laws can call brits to duel.
Judge’s effrontery can save the day,
smith dot co left playing the fool.


and the perilous times are upon us...
Cinnamon bun basks
a toasters work
tis stuck
can I do this she thinks
sipping butter from her lips
french manicured nails
gripped on a butter knife
The left side...sinister
is holding back its treasure
the long spool of hair
falls...the racket is clearly
heard the soft bumps
then the dashing like
a marten caught in
a conibear
'fucking thing!'
the knife clatters
bends her body
hand flat
hair dusted with the

The Appointment

''As my time is nearing
the coast of time
Soon I may also be
non -existent...''

A very young girl
we knew
just went into the ops room
and said

‘’meet you on the other side.’’

We all stand by the side of the river
when the stream will engorge us
no one ever knows

We just look blank
into wilderness
who is calling us from where

She came into my dreams
and said

''friend come over
its fun and folic here
Oh you need not fear..''


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