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.


The stream (all workshops)

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


Pillow Note #2

your pillow was missing a silken touch
like the bedside vase without flowers
the bed sheet was without a wrinkle
absent of those tell tale marks --

the clock on our wall kept stalking me
with its ticktock all through the night
every hour and half I heard its gong
resounding the beats of my longing

I knew not before what's life without you
now bring home your sunshine warmth
the flowers I brought don't lift my mood
because none has your charming gloss


Once I was a younger guy
not yet thirty years of age
with no appreciation for my youth.
A foolish youth on life's fresh stage.

Fate brought to me a place to hunt.
I now realize how special this place was
though at the time I had no clue
as I consumed life without pause.

There dwelt upon this remote place
a huge buck, Bigfoot was his name
which I sought for many years.
The years went by, he never came,


In the rambling of feathers
Feelings tremble.

In the movements of your faith,
We backstep toward a frame.

We are the sky
We are the moon
We try for you.

Drifting forward we offer
Sparkling glycerol
Constant for your taste,
Brimful for your day.

Weak and immune
The dreams dissolve.
Wavering we stare.

We are the sky
We are the moon
We appear for you.

Thread dyed fragments
Unravel waste,
Welcoming the very same.


just like a sponge that soaks in life around her
she absorbs
a quality that’s bittersweet
constant energy caressing her soul
these days, absorbing more of the bad
realizing she’s growing old


Incredible Rainbow...
Once we were travelling
across the darkness
of the cross country
no lights but lightening
ever so frightening
perhaps wanted to ask
will you catch and bury


flint stone sparks a fire
alabaster form sculptures
I check my wish list -

Colonial Cur:

It lay curled at the feet of its masters
Eagerly barking or biting on cue
No sense of its past or its ancestors
Gorging tiny scraps that were its true due

With the Sun setting on its patronage
Whimpering cur was lost and left behind
It whined and wailed in its sad, lonely stage
Deserted by masters, shunned by its kind

Chicken Farm

hens lay eggs
who await their fate
some get turned to omelettes
others hatch into chicks
either ending up in kitchenettes
or get dressed up then marinate
to queue up to barbecue
or may be end up in a stew
else as lollipops to chew

some masters like their breasts
others love their legs
tender flesh
to feast upon

no one did read their poems
none heard their voice
sadly in their world
there are no human rights

Our Particular Type of Madness

There have been times
we have pushed
we have pulled
and we have braced against
whatever was coming next.

There are days
when you can be thermonuclear.
I've been a hydrogen bomb myself,
a time or two.

And I can't erase you out of my head
I can't patch the hole you left in me.

And certainly, well meaning people
tell me that all healing takes time.
But I don't want the cold numbness
these charlatans call "healing."

Full Like The Sun

The sun does not have
Many faces
It sees all
And never turns away

The moon, however,
Is more like me:

Sometimes I feel
Like only a sliver

Sometimes I am growing
Like a coffee cup, filling

Sometimes I try to
Silently disappear,
Run away

Though a part of me
Still gets caught
In light:
A part

Sometimes I am full
Like the sun

But only for a couple of days


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