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Immersing the Reader Via Imagery Part 2 workshop

This shows the poems in just one one workshop. To see all the poems on Neopoet, go to the stream. Or go to the workshop page itself, where you can find out more about the syllabus.

Titles workshop...

The garden grows from seeds and time
with water and hard toil
with sun and sweat from his brow
as he works this tired soil

Vegetables and flowers bloom
as the season marches on
And he will reap the rewards
and a bounty will be won

The air is clean, the breezes blow
the work is good for him
His muscles grow with the crops
he goes from fat to thin

So, work away in the dirt
keep your body lean
Eat your veggies, staying healthy
make sure you eat your greens

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

A rewrite of Geezer's poem (imagery Workshop 2)

Like a newly coined cent
sun rises in the yellowish sky
I know why, the Japanese have lent
Godhead to the angry eye

It sizzles, burns the dulling brain
to a spot
In the sleeping forest it rains
on the islands of the Nippon

Glorious warmth now is born
spreads a shy timid-light
night now has fled
leaves damp tracks on the lawn

The taste of green is folded
wrapped in scented leaves
Steamed in the light of teacup
while shadows are fearful thieves

Predator: imagery workshop

i seek new moons mirrored in a blood-filled bog
fog, thick and thirsty, encloses the woods
where new roses shrivel and wither to black
then back again in spring white, red and pink
new petals to be plucked by the hand of the dead
even the fog yearns to be tinged red
no white now and pink has gone
to feed in the land where dead hearts carry on
the petals once open never ended their quest
to be blessed with maturity and fertility
and tender young thorns cannot protect
a flower's sweet virginity

in a forest near as still as death
as i walk beside a frozen bog
the first month of the new year
when heavy frosts greet every day
brings memories from far away
where i sit to rest a while
after hiking a mere quarter mile
how many winters have i left
both behind and yet to come
one day i'll leave these woods bereft
then head back to where i had begun

my version:

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