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.

Home

The stream (all workshops)

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

 

When the Fabric Contrasts

Renaissance sounded good, but Lowell was interesting as it was.
New, or renewed interest in it, was not a necessity
Politics or powerful people having their pockets filled
That’s nothing new in this corrupt world of ours

Factories closing, textiles manufactured outside the country
Production overseas, more proficient for those power mongers
Turning this city into a national historic park seemed a joke
This beat up dirty mill town built by folks with a bottle in their locker?

Was I a mollusk? Who will I become?

Brittle shells --
worn down to the holes
deserted homes,
their owners reborn as gulls.
Or maybe one of those
soft boneless bodies that are gone
was mine.
I can imagine being a mollusk
--sweet and salty glistening muscle.

I walk along the shore line,
look at the sun
through the green glass
broken a few years ago,
sharp corners
smoothened out by time.

TO LOVE A POET

I wanted to love a poet,
Because I thought
Her binoculars tore
Through forests of furs
To capture vision
In her enlightenment,
I supposed deeper than
The well in between her thighs.

I wanted to love a poet,
But the depth of her shallow mind
Bore portholes that got me sinking
In the abyss of this depression.

I wanted to love a poet,
Because I saw
The beauty in her heart,
That was just an art,
As is beauty;
A clothing to dress an act.

The Poem

the poem started with the word
the
it wasn't a good
the;
it didn't sit on the page right
like a head with a bad perm
another poem started with the word
the

the the
had so much integrity;
it floated on the page like a sun drenched cathedral

i can only surmise the magic of a poem has in it the ineffable soul
of the writer
are the good writers nonchalant
talent dripping
or are they secretly fucking
their the's

Return to Night

she said: "The trysting time
is a winter prelude.
this love is our religion."

my mind perceives the jewels of beauty
my soul is an echo - a prisoner within its body
that longs to be free

as a citizen of that distant city
in every thought I long for her
in every action do I reach

in the days past she was called: the Shulamite
a female Solomon
her flesh rended for her loveliness

yesterday is the only happiness
in our youth
when our bodies were pure
before our love was consummated

Mysterious [dedicated to 41st]

It's not a Rubik of six by nine,
some believe it's coded on a line.
It's more like a jigsaw with umpteen pieces,
for folks to figure out it's puzzling faces.

Where to begin is like toss of a coin,
not everyone though gets it fine.
Some give up playing, early in the game
others keep trying, not easy to tame.

No one does have a magic band,
there's nothing here, like the sleight of hand.
It's all about fixing pieces right,
though some are crooked, some with straight side

SINGLE one Liner Poem

submit to me a writ, you shall not compose poetry a bit...

Converted

I am baptized with a wave
and a dry palm leaf
the wind brought from the trail.
I was there with him.

We crossed country roads,
went through the grasses
and mangrove swamps,
waded in rivulets, stomping
and breaking to pieces
darkening mirrors of ponds.

Smoke in the nostrils,
hay in the hair, we shared the air
with widening prairie.
We drank the abundant belated bloom
and finally found the way to the shore.

NEUTERED

oh better not say that
weaving tongue
better not cut my balls off
with malignant algorithm's

better not think lions shredding hyenas
while veiled demons lick assholes for car payments
and boarder children gnash heaping tears of blood
desperate for their parents loving arms
and soft troubled kisses

God looks upon his creation and says
"and it is good"

what will people think
am i a nice person
birthday face
shut eyed stiff
not dangerous, like a gun in the face

The Joy of Doing Nothing

The Winter season has finally come,
Oh, I what a joyful time to idle around.

It’s a good way to relax our nerves too,
Allowing the clouds to carry us through.

Why be conditioned to keep ourselves busy?
When chasing time makes us all crazy.

But doing nothing is a respite,
To clear our mind’s tiredness;
So, after being idle for a little while,
We’re back ready for another life’s bouts.

Pages

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