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The stream (all workshops)

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



steam tinge
dank hot hair
beads of wet
lick crawling
glitter in the lights
a ghost dance
witching hours
minute hand
right to left

televisions sweet
low voice
on ivory drab wall
a summer wind
wishing promise of
rains stirs
hesitant wavering
above the eaves
a moon crawls

Whipping Boy

Skies of crashing clouds in hues of grey
Throwing up rolling waves of white tipped spray
Pushed and chased by a hurrying wind
Apprehension recognises there's no rescind
And beneath, silhouetted, against heavy canopied cloud
Of mantled splendor , once endowed
Standing naked, devoid of leaves
The taut bristle fingers of brush topped trees
In deference to the greater power, bowed
Witnessed by the storm's eye of angry cloud
Bending, thrown by the god's annoy
Screaming shrill as the wind's whipping boy

Two ditties fer my infectious Annie !

A surreptitious delightful tryst,
with my honey,
my sebaceous cyst,
she's my pimple,
my wart,
my gumboil consort,
she's the zip in which
my foreskin - got caught.


Wanna scoop your marrow
wanna peel your teeth,
wanna feel you lying bare beneath,
wanna savour sweet
suck - you-lant meat
wanna fillet your soul-

make the we - complete....



I am a poet for all
of society
some like me some don't

I am no Angel
of poetry

Some read me
some smile with me
mostly along with me
IF you don't like
a particular verse
just treat me like a hearse
I ain't here to bore

I am a modern poet
for all gen-ere of all society

The Lighthouse Lament

My task is to protect and warn
An untold oath I've never sworn
Of danger I must silent shout
Illuminate a bright light out

I'm beaten, soaked and ravaged by
Relentless sea and glowering sky
Yet still I firmly stand my ground
And warn of peril all around

A thankless work, I get no praise
I'll stand alone for all my days
They're passing on the horizon line
Their distance kept, they'll stay just fine

With Whatever Time I Have Left

I suppose I have a choice to do
whatever I please
with whatever time I have left.

At this point
I'm not sure how much of it is wasted,
how much of the past.

Donna Greene called me a false prophet.
(I assume among far worse things said in my old church)
My cynical self at one time would have laughed at the ignorance,
but instead I hurt.

And so the saints keep on sainting,
having no idea they are destined for Hell.

Drain The Swamp

Hearts plunged in mass hysteria
Donald Trump
We must rid ourselves from such corruption
Rage against the machine
Evil schemes
They hide behind the false hidden garb of compromise
Can't we see through these lies
The parade of political upheaval
Eyes with tombstone in their heads
Evil minds that plug destruction
There brain washed minds
Viscous fangs that bite
Some one has to do it
Hillary Clinton
Drain the swamp

Invisible Hearts

I’m stroking my way through the arts
stoking bare-ly ripe body parts
and though I’m God-fearing
I’m lecherously leering
these tarts with invisible hearts.

I’m panting my way through the grime
as I gargle in vodka and lime;
there’s no interruption
to quell my eruption
as I have on my side, only time.

I find each image arresting
and though my mind’s manifesting
revulsion addictive
though sadly restrictive
in all that it is suggesting.

Perhaps they are in a social circle
which circumscribes one’s outward demeanor,
rather like the requirement of a hijab.
Perhaps I do not understand what is being shown,
like a monkey peering behind a mirror.
Perhaps it will all be revealed upon marriage,
or the birth of our first male descendant,
or following a blood pact.

So many questions!
“Are you writing a book?”

Somewhere in the Night

I only miss smoking cigarettes
every now and then;
A whimsical yearning
to let something go
when it’s beyond my control.
Silvery ribbons across skin,
rippled silk
somewhere in the moonlight…


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