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The stream (all workshops)

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


Gaurdian Of The Night

Watching fiercely, and glowing bright,
Mother moon, gaurdian of night.
Goddess of twilight,she protects so well,
There to defend, where dark things dwell.

She catches nightmares,with the power of love
Sweeps them away on the wings of a dove,
Do not fear night, for she is the queen,
Glowing in the sky, proud to be seen.

nirvana's gate

crooked trails
endless highways
trod these weary feet
most often alone --

along the way
lovers known
always thanked
in dreams

harmonicas play
blues tunes unrepentant
born in dark foggy hollows
harmonizing whippoorwill's

forgetting to remember
to forget
moments unnecessary
besetting surreptitious evils

shuddering soul shunts its
way -- scurrying aloft
no taunts left to hear


I’ll pose a question,
and then I’ll answer it at length.
You may laugh, I don’t know
Are women allowed to enjoy sex?

Tradition has it women shouldn’t ,
Even says a woman isn’t built that way.
If that is true, maybe she couldn’t,

Lay back and think of England.
Grin and bare it.
Do it for hubby.

Women who express an interest,
Well they are labelled .
Slag, slut, skank , a hussy.

The funny thing I’ve noticed though ,
When it comes to the male ,
No one is keeping score.

never broken

Now here’s a first. I don’t feel like writing.
Too sad to care or to express the pain.
With my own inner soul I am fighting
wanting to know where and when is the gain.
I fail right now to see reason, purpose.
I sit as a melancholic black cloud
from deep within weaves, wends to the surface
then envelops me like a dark death shroud.
As memory loosens the old bandaid
never to heal, just covering, protecting,
the gaping wound at the exposure made
whispers, at edge of near-understanding:

Hurricane Hugo has it been twenty-years

Hurricane Hugo has it been twenty-years

Has it been twenty-years since Hugo hit
My first child, a son, was three-years, five-months
And my only daughter, at the time, was eight-months
Slept unaware in my bathtub padded with blankets

I knelt before my headboard
Staring out my window
Listening to the howling winds as it sang songs of terror
As the trees swayed in the midnight hours

HOW TO LOSE A LOVER (a 12 step program )

Listen up now all you guys
the following contains no lies
should you wish to live sans lover
here's some hints you can discover :

Miss. Anxiety

Flirting with fate
As she seduces you
With words
That make love
To your ears

Her weapon of choice
An overwhelming
Sense of worthlessness
Bestowed on her

Effortlessly, she rips
Her prey’s confidence
Without any hope
Of regaining it


Another rerun.....

I've got to go on a crash diet
and grow a head of hair
whatever works, well I shall try it
to keep my head from being bare

I need to trim my mustache neat
and shave 'most every day
and, again, watch what I eat
so some of me will go away

Trim the hair in ears and nose
clip nails on fingers and on toes
use drops to allay bloodshot eyes
work out the jiggle in my thighs

levenslang stil

Here within lies
a recollection
of large talons
that tear smooth

creamy flesh

a cadence ricochets
off paint peeled walls
of the clatter as soles
strike dry dirt and stone

blood rushes

two sets of eyes
squint and scan
backs hunched low
only darkness shields

momentary peace

words mumbled
in restless sleep
betray the vessel
of secrets deep

burial crypt

posterity's portal
reveals a clue
gravestone cipher
the silent cue.

poet first

poetry written is for poet first
only person who must be pleased

stretching words thin
tantalizing them to mean
what they mean
beyond what they mean

word play --
not a contact sport
but for firing neurons
skipping electro-chemical light
in darkness of skulls

critics pick and pull
poet's words
stack opinion upon opinion
losing meaning
perhaps only poet knows

poet just keeps writing
for him or herself --

most ruthless of critics.


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