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.

Editing - polished draft


I cannot remember the color of my mother’s eyes
But I can still see the contour of her nose,
and how her smile suited her face so well
I am grateful for these spare mercies loss affords

Who thinks to sit with a loved one,
to make detailed notes of their appearance?
Blue eyes? Or were they more blue/green?
They’ll always be there, no need to write it down
No one told me how important these details would become

Swamp Hags

Above the swamp, lights wink and wave
“This way,” in eerie glow.
Beware! These false will-o'-the-wisps
Mean Death; he waits below.

I curb my horse . . . . Whoa, stop ol’ nag!
Oh, soon enough . . . too soon,
The swamp hags’ lair will come in view--
I wish for a full moon.

I check my flashlight’s dimming light;
It merely casts a glint.
There is the morass I must cross,
My mare breaks into sprint.

A Restless Night

An endless night in mid-July.
But restful sleep? It’s much too hot;
And then, this constant nightly noise!
When will these fiends find a new spot?

My desert homestead is a hub,
‘round which careening bikers spin,
Much like that planet Saturn’s rings,
Except that bikes make much more din.

The hours are filled with howl and hiss,
Fumes expelled from Triumph, Harley;
Led by their Hexenmeister named . . .
Yes, you guessed it, “Evil Charley”



There was a time when I preferred wolf packs yelping and howling...
Seamus Heaney, from Sweeney Astray’s Last Poem

In the first instance
that sight of this Umwelt sewn
there was the coming along of a youth
around warriors, and being in that booth
up in the close clan of the warrior that held this bit
serving the greater good was best done by fighting for it.

Old Coat

I wake up adorned in the raiment of grief
Like an old coat, worn and threadbare
in all of the usual places

The pockets always seem full
with memories and images of the ones I’ve lost
My familiar acquaintance, sadness, is in there too

These things fade for a bit,
but they are always safely tucked away
avoiding the holes in the fabric time tries to put there

Despite appearances to the contrary,
the coat has been very well made
by all of the tailors no longer here

Conversing with the Moon

Moon, in your silence,
you wander
high above my troubled life.

Wish that I, too,
could hide
behind the clouds,
conceal myself
from all.

Jealously, my eyes
your own untroubled
and I wish that
my own path
should be
as unencumbered
as the one you tread.

He who would travel
must travel light,
you say?
Not with this,
my constant burden.
Here, see the lines
of sorrow on my face?


He dreamt of her
dreaming, they made their way together, thru the vast grey

there were people of all races
someone was with them, walking

them to a bench seat, inside a intimate box
with room to rest, full length

stretched out, and the someone could kneel beside
one hand could just reach, the eyelids

treelimbs shook below with the warm wind
God could be felt, a presence.

The person lying there was sometimes wild eyed
with no movement of arms, or legs

The Tarot Reader

Canto I
“If truth lies in the Tarot cards,
then strength and weakness
will be revealed in such a deck;
with joy should one embrace the signs
that promise guidance through our lives.

Canto II
“Then, let the stars restore our troubled souls,
bring serene quietude and quench
the searing sadness in our hearts;
whatever grief tore them apart,
surely, we will find our peace.”

(The soothsayer lays out the cards)

Family Portrait

My first steps were on egg shells,
Laid by your own self disdain,
Contempt coldly dripping,
On me you projected all your pain.

Instead of slowly simmering,
Embroiled in your own self doubt talk,
You spewed your vile, villainous venom,
On a child who had only just learned to walk.

I tried to make you like me,
Got out the way and my words were few
Didn't know how to eat shit and die,
No matter how many times you told me to.

The Flower

There stands the flower,
growing with the most beauty
in this ugly world.

A world filled with hate,
still isn't enough to kill
the life of nature.

But something can....

There's the bitter cold,
that looms in the horizon.
Killing all beauty.

The flower freezes
in the chilling wind.
It's losing all hope.

But hope is not lost....

The Spring will come soon,
allowing life to regrow
under a new sun.


Subscribe to RSS - Editing - polished draft
(c) No copyright is claimed by Neopoet to original member content.