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The stream (all workshops)

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


Persona Non Grata

I suppose I should feel guilty
for feeling the way I feel.
I suppose I should apologize
for feeling.

I suppose
I suppose
that apologies are in order
for feeling like a blimp.
And by blimp I don't mean
in a body - image sort of way.

See, I feel like a zeppelin
straining against the last mooring line
holding it in place
as it bobs into the air.

And you say
how I need a new complaint,
but I'm not moving on
when you never heard the first one.

Terror For The Terrorists...

Moving softly through the night
Whisper quiet in the sand
Eyes seeing in half-light
Bowie in his hand

A gurgle and a sigh
Killer holds him tight
There is a reason why
Killer's here tonight

Silence meets an others' ear
When he asks “Who's there?”
He looks around in abject fear
Not knowing when or where

Wide open eyes and shaking hands
Crawling skin that's dripping sweat
Death is coming through the sands
This one's pants are pissing wet



A memory suddenly appears
like bolts of lightening
before a summer storm
striking the heart
with regret and tears.

joyful recollections from far away
torture wounded hearts
bleeding still
with thoughts of yesterday


awake in the night
the voices real
the heart rush
from the fall
a nocturn moment
full of its characters
and people
the parking lot
lit up like a needle
or purity
silver tipped
to rid the heart
of infection of

FEATHER WALK [in memoriam]

in memoriam

Pink and purple and poodle skirts
black flats and nylons shear
like feathers light flowing in the breeze
they walked together with the wind;
hair of sunset and fields of wheat
shining brigitly in summer heat
laughing whispers fading in the air
My heart sorrows each and every day
like feathers in the breeze
they floated away

Hobie (double ballade workshop)

I found a new and gentle joy
by accident one winter’s day
I saw a man on his new toy
so silent, pedalling away
oh dare I ask? I should, I say..
so what is that? I’d like to know
it looks such fun I want to play
so pedal, paddle, off I go.

A man, a maid, a girl or boy
can drift and dream of life today
this swish of oars, a cunning ploy
so silent, pedalling away
I disappear across the bay
around the bend where lilies grow
and shady spots with banks of clay
so pedal, paddle, off I go

the golden poets

i don't know syllables... as busy as I am

ancient poets had to pass time,
no radio
no tv
no cinema
now Ipod and tripod what not
but one fact still does remain

When fear takes form.

Your ghost haunts me
while the night cradles my hair,
I drift on a moonbeam afar
and this brief history in time


The Sun threatens appearance
clinging to this darkness
I find peace on earth
to be evermore near now,
but the world trembles
as I soak in the silence.

fragments of shrapnel

Jaundiced eyes
reflect the fire,
the lick of a flame
illuminates hate


weathered hands
kneed the grief
of attacking visages,
silently wailing
recklessly hating
unbelievers epiphanies
lie in vengeance


broken cities
shattered bones
exploded innocence, 
turning faith
into fanaticism


Dogs scamper
wafted on the scent,
BOOM one expires
feed for a pack,
brains clear reason
failed sacriments
the seal breaks



Cold stars blaze within the predawn sky
as I exit from my faded ride
and watch my clouded breath drift by
here at a forlorn far roadside.
I try to ignore aching knees.

Two score of years since I was here,
back then a clear cut set in pines.
Gone, the forest I'd held dear,
hardwoods, some draped with muscadines.
Their perfume scented the fall breeze.


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