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.


Elegy for a Chance Encounter

Who will speak his fond farewell
By those who knew him as I did
From a brief and chance encounter?
While others in attendant rows
He so better known to them,
Speak the first of last and lasting
Memories built from closer, longer,
While my quiet unsaid murmur
Calls to all anonymous others,
Whom this man, this George
Briefly zested with his life,
By his relished erudite flourish
They answer now unheard, unseen
For all our non-eulogized encounters,
For the more than ephemeral effects

An Endless Night!

An Endless Night
How long will that night be?
Can you say?
Kailashna Jee
A night remains young
For a few moments,
Then we all do sleep
Can the whole night
Keep us awake
Without making a mistake!
Except honeymooners two
I think we have passed that age
Both I and you

Still one never knows
When the sun does rise
In the arms of a fresh bride
A living son
In her womb does her arise.

Our Love Story is Tones Travelling Through Space

My beloved
When you were playing on your piano
Your music visited my balcony, and
Tapped my door
The charming tones invited me to join you there
Each movement of your fingers on the keys
Tickled my sensations
A music that took me beyond my thoughts, the moments
I will believe those songs were meant for me

Where Are They Now.

Is my Mother with the angels
in her heavenly seat.
And does she watch over me
with angels at her feet.

When I think of how she lived
I feel like I'm with her again.
Does she know all of my faults
and love me just the same.

I wonder where my Father is
does he stand at heaven’s door.
And does he know, I write poetry
just like he did before.

When my heart is in my poetry
it feels like I’m with him too.
Does his spirit help me to write
the way he’d want me to do.

Simply gifted

Simply gifted…

What gift would you give,
a man hungering to a death.
Would food be enough,
as he finally sucks breath.

And after its given,
proudly you’d stand tall.
Or can you consider,
that its not a gift at all.

To wet the lips of a child,
who’s dying of thirst.
May salve your conscience,
but you wont be the first.

Does that water wash
a single stain of guilt.
Truly we must avoid,
defence, so tardily built.

Speak To The Heart Of A Dying Man

Speak to the heart
Of a dying man
Corroded by the words
Said in gradual

In a strange hour
He will be freed.
The flask of his thoughts
And emptied.

Vow of the Highlander (eddy styx)

Vow Of The Highlander

Howling with frustrated rage you claim personal foul against me.
Snatching up the proverbial gauntlet, you slap my face with the vile stench of your steaming words.

Decrying impropriety of conduct against you, You say you seek me out.

Seek NOT that which you do not understand for you could be so unfortunate as to find me

Mother Brigid told me about monsters like you. What she didn't tell you about; was creatures like me.



Goodness marrying luck makes a name

So much power in it, made it fame

A name is not a game

Games wear many names

Distinct this yet appears as appeal

Behind the name, is a Jonathan

A dove, born into humility’s manger

A portrait speaking unending possibilities

Servant of all, the commander in chief

Beacon of hope, lightening a dark pained past

Shining star, all depressed gaze

Speak the truth, act the same

Promise all, keep the oath

Lead the way, our willingness will follow

She Walks Alone

She is a prisoner of herself.
Her dreams, she dreams are
Not her own. The tears she
Cries are scarlet in color. She
Is not a master of her domain.
No one to talk with, she feels
As though her gullibility has
Been betrayed.

She walks alone upon this earth.
It seems to be so lonely for her.
Clouds float wickedly above her.
The clouds are ready to burst into
Flames. The fiery furnace scorches
All her irony.

This Old Sweater

This old sweater,
White ribbed wool,
With times we’ve spent together,
The patterned puffs ,
And yarn stitched lines,
By myth I’m told.
But tell my friends as true,
Were first used as family signs,
So those Aron sailors
Washed ashore were known.


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