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The stream (all workshops)

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

 

When will I be found* (*here means discovered )O Lord

There s no permanency in life
what say you of love

Cancerians are born effeminate
women like and kind
they love and expect
in return much more

but life long remain unsure
were they so loved

He was a maestro
a loving husband
read one of his poems
where-in he expresses himself
so beautifully

''IF YOU LOVE me less
I will also slowly love you
less and lesser.....''

FOR THIS CAUSE

MERCY AND FERRY, SHUN THE TEARY LANE
HAND IN HAND BOARD THE JOYOUS TRAIN
SIDE BY SIDE FIGHT THE UNSEEN FIGHT
TOGETHER WITH YOU MAKES THE JOURNEY EASY

DEAR! HOW PLEASANT IT IS
TO TREAD THIS SCARY LIFE WITH EASE
YOU HAVE BEEN BLESSED WITH PEACE
TO HAVE THE PIECE THAT COMPLETE YOUR BEING

The Lake's Mistress

Below the surface she sways,
a pale Aphrodite, amphibious before me.
Engulfing her infinite, spectral limbs,
the lake falls in love
appointing me the jealous voyeur.
I endure as he laps at her every pore--
the sensual rocking of a paramour.
They slow dance, and I hear the harmonics:
rock-a-bye-baby ...
gone are her come-to-bed smiles
and cherry-o kisses (reserved for me)
I read her treacherous thoughts that plead
between baby-skin temples:

Underwater breath!
Platinum scales!
Mermaid fins!

Vault

Vault.

I can feel you
rolling over me,
testing the resistance.
Your words pouring down,
looking for a crack,
to pry and break
and prove.
Well, I want to give you a clue:
make three turns to the right,
stop at kindness.
That’s all I ever wanted you to do.

Aunt Nell (y)

Aunt Nell is a hundred,
telegram from the queen,
bit of a do
in a local pub,
half filled glasses of warm fizz
and she's a jolly good fellow.

Aunt Nell wasn't always Nell.
She was Nelly growing up
but she married well.
Good bone structure
opens a lot of doors,
gave her choices.

She chose an accountant no less
and became the doyen
of middle class suburbia.
Nice semi, in a good area,
just the right sort of people.
Bingo was replaced by bridge.

A new season is upon me

Even if this is a godless universe
or predetermined path applied
a new season is upon me,
it is flamed haired
and fire eyed

A new season is upon me, radiant and true
turning all the blue haze of the old world
into a red pulse renewed

I stride the streets, straddle the days
watch the noon tides braid the hill
but never knew what dark lustre lay
in dormant creeping shadows distilled

A new season is upon me, one scarce divined
frail in her beauty, it touched on me
lavishing wild in her worldly mind

Disappointment

Disappointment

I have learned a lesson or two
First one is
never to expect
Second one is
never to ask
and
hope from your fellows and friends
who will give what
how much
for your venture
to avoid disappointment alone
you shall have to endeavour

They all take you for granted
now why bank on us
do say
we can't even give you a dollar today
come what may
part we may
Good bye
for today

Voices In My Head...

My mother's voice on the telephone
“Happy Birthday son”
“I just wanted to call you
and wish you Happy Birthday”

Thanks Mom, How's it going?
“It was so nice to have you all
at my house for brunch on Mother's Day
Sonia made all that nice breakfast.”

I know; the girls and David
take such good care of you
“Yes, they are good kids
I wish I could help them more”

tryposphaze

hazy nocturnia
coil of simmering
life the boil
eons of ion
compunctions clock
the magic in its tin
ticking in the soft pocket
Neons hot prowl
pulse clicking digital
quartz
maps of Beyond
free sounding
keys glimmering
swinging in
the cracks and streetcar
valleys
ribbons
arteries
the hustle shuffle
needy and greedy
glass eyes examine
flaunted flanks
torn chrome sidepanel
junction
pay it no mind driver
drive on
drive on

Free

Here it is.

Free
A story in blank verse.

This is a story of Free as you knew him,
ere came the tale of the Mountain of List.
A tale of a pie and a wise little girl
of the sort we have seldom to know of.

Free walked in a wood (of which Stan often speaks
In his poems which have since turned to song).
A pastoral wood in which blooming’s begun
(as we know Stan would tell were he here).

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