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The stream (all workshops)

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


New England Forest

New England forest
in the springtime;
shades of
and grey
trees and granite
leaves and moss

blueberry, fern
and saplings

Each oak grows
in its own direction
with dead branches
and bright green
new growth.

Pine all sizes
grow mostly straight.

Granite boulders
are moss covered
and scattered all over.

there are trails,
and if lucky
there may be a marsh
or even a stream
to follow

Social re-media-tion:

Freedom to express
Hit not by act to repress
By viral access

Dry Ophelia (for Natalie T.)

Dry Ophelia

unformed, anonymous
urgently pinched
in waves of finned dispersion

a distant face streaming
slowly apart
the slumping waves of a forgotten pond
i drown inside as a lost cat

a thin river
dry Ophelia,
unsure where to fade

carrying bouquets neither real
nor artificial
symbiotic petals

christening a sleeping sea
with clear blushes even
you don't understand

dry as the brush you
were painted with
still not knowing

as your cheeks


Free again
to fly
with you
and yet
we fly alone
no longer kites
tied to few
we wish
could just
let go

So glide with me
let's stretch our wings
draft whistling winds
through evergreens
and slipstream
from who we were
to what we could become

Airstreams clear
to breath
with you
and yet
another day
still comes
bird watching
caging where
we're from


Be patient my child,
The world hangs on a thread,
It is a troubled hen standing on a rope,
She jitters as she swaggers in discomfort
Then fly to perch on a firm.

Be patient my child,
Life is a china,
mapped with the rays of thunders
If it trembles it shatters,
Every good thing is fragile.

Be patient my child,
like the seasons that wait for their turn
Seventy years is not forever.

The Drivethru

I pulled up to the order box,
I ordered a whopper of world peace,
a side of love,
and a drink of compassion,
with lots of ketchup.
After I drove home
I found
they forgot the ketchup.

The Land Of Dreams

When you fall asleep at night,
your mind goes into an eerie flight
You can open the gate with the key of thought,
and don't have to do what you've been taught

You sing, and dance, and prance all day
and you act so happy and also gay
You run in circles and run into the trees,
and cut your elbows and scrape your knees

But sometimes you open the wrong gate,
and find yourself facing a terrible fate
There are monsters, ghouls and also grouches,
and then you wish you were on confortable couches

No details that are too small for me

No details
that are too small for me:

sunlight through the orchid petals
on my windowsill,
– my son gave it to me three years ago
and the crazy being keeps blooming –

or a dark blue pebble
from mostly black and white shore.
– I brought the pebble home.
It proudly sits on my table.

MY SELFIE TEACHER (March Contest) Ode to the cellphone

Many years ago I know you
Many miles away we travel
Many times we discuss
Many things I don’t know you teach me
Many friends you unrelated me with
Many songs we sing together
So many we are to do

I call you my closet friend
My partner in technology
My hand to hand walker
You keep me company when am lonely
You expose me to the world
You help me talk to distance people
For you are my selfie teacher

One O’clock Jump

They’re a sorry sort of bird
so I thought when one surfaced
at my window out of nowhere
fluttering ferociously not understanding
glass it can’t get past.
With a hummingbird borrowed identity
It finally landed on the dilapidated sill.
In late March it was lost, just like me,
at the season for weary minds.

There off in the distance I could see them
hopping and flying around a fire bush,
still empty of buds, near dusk on a gloomy Monday.
Sparrows, I thought,
seemingly unremarkable all grayish brown.


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