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Storytelling in Verse (sempiternal) 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.

Sweet Little Sister

Tweetie birds tweet, in the bushes;
it's music to my ear;
sitting outside, the hospital patio,
they called for a mate, loud in my ear.

I'm tired, worn down, trying to work;
I pushed forward through the depression;
I do not know, how to think;
will she get better, or slip away.

Past disappointments, has me bitter;
I'm unwilling to communicate, all my feelings;
like daggers and missiles, my words spewed;
alone in mind and heart, I find it hard to cope;


Pietrus stood in the arena, facing the northern giant
his sword has fallen, his shield was broken into two
but his will ,the unbreakable steel, remained defiant
as he spat out poisoned blood that had turned blue.

Drums were beaten,the crowd roared in excitement.
Twice, the great Pietrus had proven his prowess,
when he dodged the deadly blows of the mortal demon
who had slain so many mighty gladiators.


Here it is.

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).


I've four - yes four - muses. They argue and fight,
each with the other, re what I should write.

And sometimes I'm certain these guys are the ones
declined by the more gifted literary guns.

They all worked together - at least for a while -
until I changed address, and then - you may smile

but, muses, like cats, can become quite deranged.
I found out, the hard way, they don't much like change.

And, as you shall see if you give me your time,
especially prone - those who constantly rhyme.


Only Time Died (Storytelling in verse workshop)

I'd been but ten years in this manifest
when first I knew my destiny was death.
I well remember, when the thought expressed
it blew so cold it took away my breath.
So do we then conclude, cease to exist?
 A fear, a terror wrapped, I did not know.
 As fast as it had come, the thought dismissed,
 ‘twas early yet to question where we go.

If you follow The Creek, from The Pond, to the west,
turn north once you’ve reached the Top Paddock,
by the Mallee-Shrub Maze, you will reach a small crest
(near the home of the kind Sylvi-Rabbits)....

In The Maze, just last weekend, they all had a party
(it developed to a loud, wild affair)
for Will Willy-Wag-Tail's very first birthday.
Everyone knows him as Billy-Do-Dare.

One bright summer's day, when the sun made one blink,
Fred-Belch came to visit his good mate, Fat-Freddy,
who, with his long tongue, which is sticky and pink,
was capturing flies. (Which I think is icky).

Fred-Belch, when he barks, excited and loudly
(which happens quite often when herding the sheep)
has a habit of burping (he does it so proudly)
that gained him the nickname he’d rather not keep.

The Family Sylvilagus Transitionalis
live by the creek before The Scary-Wilderness.
All living on Tyler-Tickletoes Tillings
call them the Sylvi-Rabbits, to help shorten things.

They live in a green house, right by the creek bank -
a mansion really by rabbit-hole rank -
with five bedrooms, three family rooms, two baths
and a neat back garden with four footpaths.

Storytelling in verse prayer “Well Day”

Thank you heavenly farther for this rarity. It's far and few between, but each and every one I'm blessed to receive is like sunrise in my eyes. A daybed is my friend as it's where I live out lonely days, though not bored, working online at Neopoet where all my real friends live around the world. So thanks again Almighty for this rare well-day as more ill-days is sure to come

In these bodies we really are, "stuck".,

it's difficult getting through all the muck !

Mom just died from a stroke,

and was comfortably broke;

so it seems death's a stroke of "good luck"!


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