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Early Spring Image Prompt contest Winner!

The winning poem of the

Early Spring Image Prompt contest is

 The Visitor by  Mary Beth Magee

Congratulations to Mary Beth Magee on such a fine poem.

Neopoet Weekly 03/17/24 to 03/23/24 Winner!

This week the Neopoem is

 

2:23am by zach

 

Congratulations to zach on such a fine poem.

Early Spring Image Prompt Contest Vote

Early Spring Image Contest Vote

 

Please read the two finalist poems below and click on the vote here link to vote on your favorite poem. Voting ends March 29th 2024.

 

 

The Visitor

By: Mary Beth Magee

You visit for a moment,

Accept a breath of hospitality,

Then dash away again.

You share your company briefly.

 

But in that time, oh,

The magic you bring.

From tiny eggs to instars

To gloriously patterned wing.

 

I watched you hatch and crawl,

Grow, shed and wriggle.

You change your dress. Your

New look makes me giggle.

 

You give me joy and delight

With your aerial ballet.

My royal friend, magician,

Harlequin at play,

 

Dear monarch, share your gift

Of grand, exuberant joy

With all. Give us eyes to

See, and feelings to employ.

 

You set an example

Of living in the moment.

Let us live so our days

Are likewise spent.

 

Dash on, my friend,

Your destiny calls.

Send your children my way

When the milkweed grows tall.

 

Spring Comes

By: Candlewitch

 

Fields of springy clover

beneath my barefoot toes,

dance-happy feet kick up

a delight everyone knows!

 

Green, green all around,

a heart full of joys untold

rolling over and over in

nature's paradise hold!

 

In gardens of my growing hopes

tulips, buttercups and crocus

flourish healthily blossoming,

as Spring comes into focus.

 

 

Vote Here

Neopoet Weekly 03/010/24 to 03/16/24 Winner!

This week the Neopoem is

Dancing In The Dark  by  William Lynn

Congratulations to William Lynn on such a fine poem.

Neopoet Weekly 03/03/24 to 03/09/24 Winner!

This week the Neopoem is

 

THE LAST RING by  Jokerface82

 

Congratulations to Jokerface82 on such a fine poem.

The stream (all workshops)

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

 

Shifted

A rummage of grey clouds smother on high,
threatening dark and dreary.
Boredom fidgets indoors.
pacing carpets weary.

A mottle of melancholy dawdles,
while amble billows shift.
Tedium turns over,
waking the sleeping drift.

Google eyes yawn, retired in fatigue,
weighed by the moribund void.
The dull of stimuli
arrests the cushions toyed.

The clock thumps away the daylight hours,
with the seconds heavy tick.
Striking every hour
to jerk the mosey quick.

SLIGHT

If pain is commensurate with pleaure,
Why do I cry?
If heartache is what I treasure,
Why exacerbate the tries?

If losing is worth
The choosing
Let me not measure
Why I'd be tar- brushed by the feather
That is you!

Pp. 19/10/13

Turning Away

Caught within the crushing grip of grieving,
the preacher told me
“God takes and gives;
it isn’t ours to judge or question.”
Yet when I turned away,
accepting of his creed,
Cernunos took my hand
and tugged me back around
to warming sunrise,
his tails wrapped around my grief,
to whisper echoing,
“Do you wish eternal sadness,
or the spending
of your lifetime
celebrating hers?”

s i n C h a s m i c a

balcony balance
the smooth gooseflesh
ripple wind

updraft all entail gloss
lyric strand thread
undulations in dune
flat flesh
carved
with the lavish winds
tongue

beyond the tip
upturned nose
and hot rose
cigarette
end

behind the teal
iris
are ruins
forfeited and starved
with a hot fever

racing in vanities
mirror
the dark dance
a candle chance
a scandal advance

Sometimes I wonder

And sometimes I wonder
If my words are worth something
More than just phrases
Falling out of my mouth
Curled all around
In a bundle of nothingness
Waiting for someone
To figure them out
And sometimes I wonder
If this is all worth it
Just to end up lying
6 feet under ground
A life full of lies
To make others feel better
Without ever worrying
If you feel better yourself
So look in my eyes
And call me a cynic
But I know better
Than to take any offense

Ghosts

Dark settles on the walls, the street lamp blinks light,
dies, then blinks again. A moth- stuck inside the room-
pares its wings on the glass, falls to the windowsill,
then does it again. My eyelids do the same.    

I imagine his mouth; the ghosts under  
his tongue slide through the cracks of his teeth,  
find mine, stay there. And the birds at the  
backs of our eyes drink too much to leave.    

Aureole Blueing

That corona garland, worn by few
may be brandished by those untainted

Who by some great deed, in memory sewn
thus impressed an angry god,
were then received as canon

Years have passed, and those who are left
to right the skewed halos, burnished above the pews

Grow fewer, and fainter, air deprived inside
the stone facade, that must persist

The brocade of landscape, pastoral, longed for green,
reminiscent: but drying to brown outside

WALLS

"Something there is that does not love a wall."
Judging by the ruins Bob was right.
but there are folks who love them all.
They hide behind them crouched in fright
and there are many kinds of walls.

Some are wood and some are stone.
Some are real and others not.
Those which exist in mind alone
are the ones which never rot.
Redoubts of ignorance seldom fall.

Concrete fences

Looking through a concrete barricade,
of a forever standing fence.
Edifices created to keep me in,
while jailers whip me with the price of wages.
When I am but a dime a dozen
of evil task masters that only see green.
I recognize the means to their grab bag hands.

When I Have Fears (ellipsis)

I balance on the edge of that they call my lyric mind
and leave the bloody, cloven steps of razor’s walk behind.
Depression squeals, the choked muse reels and all I’ve wrought is thought.

We watch the flame the candle makes, but no one sees the wick.
The poet hides the closest parts because those parts are sick.
Nous runs amain, it flees the pain and all I write is naught.

What is this fear of showing self, of giving self away?
Mechanical I demonstrate and all I have to say.
I tell a tale and all bewail, but naught of poignant phrase.

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