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The stream (all workshops)

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


We are sacred land

Come here
I will not bite
well, I might
but I will only bite what needs biting
the skin you wear that needs to be shred, that needs to bleed
so it can know what healing feels like
it feels like coming alive
like a river flowing

hat trick eh

My Mom's Smiles
she left to me
all in smiles
poetry wise...

Next came autumnal one
no intended pun
I too ran
also partly won

Now they say
for Red Wagon* run
I wonder whether to shun
beg your pardon

I am now an old shot gun
to be kept in a mortuary,
sorry, may be I'd meant
an Archery
what should say yee
should I attempt a
now too

*I have been ....on a RED wagon once

Sand Hill

My empty school down the road
shimmered in the heat waves,
window-glare filtered through grass
not worth bothering to cut.

It won't be long before we're gone,
so let the grass weave between the split rails,
decorate the driveway canyons,
and tickle at our wrists.

Let it hide us and the cracked vinyl siding,
bleached with RoundUp and sun,
from the eyes of Mr. Bass Pro Shop
and his wife Susan.

Health Scare:

Pharmacy refills
Along with medical bills
Aiding doctors tills

A Soliquoy :The Triumphant Spy

My unbroken resolve has killed their patience.
They've shed my blood with their fists and blades,
only to be disappointed by my stubborn silence
which threw all of them into a fit of rage.

I've leaked their secrets to the Allied Forces
and I've sabotaged their airplanes.
I've struck them from within, reducing their numbers
and I've become a real pain.

Collective Unconsciousness

yet there are voices with choices
life can make you think
through the notion of a sphere
let's its member draw near
for I shed a single tear to numb the inner pain
yet still dig deeper then ever before
a challenge to be free is a quest of time
still we must all come together
a shoulder to cry as your draw nearer
no one thinks hard anymore no one has a voice


Plastered to my soft underbelly
Attached firmly, suction-cup-lips
Riding me, (your gravy train)
A most unwilling host
Itching to shed
The you of


In the seven thousand languages
Each has a word for tree and cloud.
But what of the shadows from the leaves
That make an intricate pattern on our path,
Or the fantastic creatures we invent
As the clouds shape shift before us,
Or the clusters of stars that haunt the sky
With the faces of our ancestors?

X, Y, Z.

Someone once told me I struggle with titles;
this person their persona they share with me.

As if such a thing could ever have mattered
when in this sea of pink-tinged flesh,
this cacophony of bodies all bustling for first
that surround us,
become us,
that is us,
at heart,
or so, seemingly, they'd like to jest.

For the youth have been showered in rose-petal graveyards,
and today, that youth, is me.

So our souls, we hold, like faux-precious stones
to the sun
to see if they'll glimmer.

Emotions pass them off

You appreciate poetry
all is mostly imagery
we all know it
and shall always create
some more similar ones

not only about sadness
but not gloom alone
also of happiness
we all need to survive today
to face a tomorrow
that will come our way
only as another today

so be happy poetry
is just an emotion
we pass our time mainly
and we entertain mostly

autumn has now set in
it soon will be history


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