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The stream (all workshops)

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



Here comes the train
I've so-long/longed for
Pulling into the platform
The captain says
All aboard

It seems there's
No one else here but me

The captain is trying to hurry me on,
(My willingness is cleverly known)

But which carriage do I board
Many to choose from
The choice is broad

Carriage of thoughts,
Guilt, love and desire
(Maybe all carriages will never expire)

The final call
For the cardinal carriages
Come forward

The captain whistles

Myth of the mantis

Praying mantis smiles at me
when she crushes open

Wings of time, and neon rainbows
open skies, it is for Life, She cries

Murmering "murder" singing dark
mantras of Love , woven around
Her deep undying heart

Luscious tones awaken
Her serpentine tongue slithering
From bone, to bone, sliding
across the spinal chord

I am Her prey

Our captain desires

No need for any poet
to justify

some swings creek
if rusted
music ensues

some are oiled
and soft
birds sing
all love
the poetic muse

never change your gait
just coz
I don't like to see you
at my gate

come and swing
in the garden of Paris
and say
Captain swings anywhere
any way

be happy and gay
now let's swing
ance as you may

Travel Blog

Here I sit
Stilted again
Weathered and worn bag
Still heavy in hand

The seat that I sit on
Is comfortably stiff
Many before me have
Sat here, I guess

The view from this seat
Is misty with rain
Through the grey paddocks
My eyes constantly scan

Distance is short
Lived from afar
Oh, now I'm listening hard.
Just as I thought
Here comes the train.


sagging chain link
rusted auto shells
the valley of feral cats

afternoons of haze
climbing hills scorched
into orange
foliage and dry winds
palms sailing tethered
to the curb

ventures to the sea
to bath cavort and
frolic free
carefree ribbed
skinny knees
who cared about
the darkness creeping
like vines
stubble of the cell tower
over view of the glow
blotting out the stars
and the rumble of the
thousand cars

How To Become Honest

I love driving stakes

In the ground

Control, aim, drive,

            She never

Intention, fire, result,

            Even said

Swing up, swing down,


The ground splits

The ping of metal echoes

The Silence of the Troupe (1942, France)

Question: what poetic form would anyone suggest for this piece?

The Silence of the Assassins

(1942, France)


It is not death I fear-
I have, after all, come to terms
With nightly visits to its dreamy sidekick,
Where I have no free will.
My brain concocts a landscape
Of unfamiliar collages, unremembered;
Why should death be any different?

Mirror, Mirror Tell the Truth

Mirror, Mirror Tell the Truth

As I stand here, at last I see my face
in carnival’s unflattering fun house glass,
the mirror that reveals the truth. It unveils
the facade I have used to hide myself within.

These eyes … so insincere! They lack the essence
of a human soul, and though I can conceal
each lying eye behind a shutter lid,
it still sees what it want to see.

Silent Ashes

a swell in my heart
eyes, ears & heart
within silent pain lights the flame of deeper desire
you unlocked a dream to unfold

She dances on a ring of fire
Yet throws off its challenge with a shrug
how great a poet knows
let the truth be told onto a newer episode

Torn illumination
Cascading briars taunt the inner radiance inside
Satanic demons in the wine you had for supper
Alone in a fever pitched aside


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