Join the Neopoet online poetry workshop and community to improve as a writer, meet fellow poets, and showcase your work. Sign up, submit your poetry, and get started.


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.


Campaign Signs

Down on dirty street
swept around, filthy whore.
You're really something huh?
Campaign of litter.

Street-side rivals
stand above tossed cans,
ciggy butts and broken nip glass.
Disgusted - oil rotted grass.
Clean up the leftovers, ass!

Run, I do too,
right over you
red white and blue
hypocrite true.

Pictures look so sane.
Behind all lies
come stormy skies.
Never fooling anyone,
dread down the road
by the millions
we scream;
fungus toed junkie!


There was a time I used to wonder
why is it old folks move slow.
I thought of this but didn't ponder,
but after years and years I finally know.

Those frail folks who take each step with care
know that old bones carry a heavy load
a burden which young can not share.
They're too short of years upon the road.

Each time a loved one leaves this plane
my shoulders haunch a little more
they leave me with memories and pain
which only my old soul can store.

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
You know who inspires me to write its you my fam on Neo poetry.
An excellent collaboration of voices that work with each other.
The influences of our peers can take us far in this life.
Hearts are tender and warm when they are surrounded by great people that love each other.

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?"


(c) No copyright is claimed by Neopoet to original member content.