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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.

The Angel

THE ANGLE

The Angel reached out toward my face and said
"Dear child be free"

I turned and said "I can't I'm lost, my path
I cannot see"

"I do not know which way to turn
to stop the pain inside,
an empty spot lays in my heart
from tears that I have cried"

"I feel wore down and weak right now
from years of being strong.
Now that it's time to help myself
I'm doing it all wrong"

Ode To The Dude That Made The Road

On land that once
Was rightly famed
For forests lush
And fields untamed
Lakes or mountains
Or swamps unnamed
Nature bursting
Unrestrained

There came a man
To blaze a trail
With key to open
The jungly jail
Over hill and
Down the vale
He forged a path
With frame unfrail

So we can get
From here to there
The house’s stoop
To market square
We’re not like birds
Through open air
But ground starts covered
With snag and snare

it was a Hard Landing

I am
a
swan diving
after a
squirrel climbing,
feeling
like
the golden eagle
in
all its glory
for
a few moments,
then
I land hard.

AT SIX SCORE AND FOUR

Through these years I've become weary
as ever upward wound my trail
until at last my sight and eyes are bleary
and my tiring muscles fail.

But I have this final hill to top
so I slowly stumble on
knowing that I dare not stop
striving toward the place I'm drawn.

I know that before very long
my feet will get me to the summit,
to that place where my soul belongs.
I can almost now envision it.

INTIMATE

There across the street from me
a window, curtains seldom closed
living room displayed for all to see
all within fully exposed.

An old couple living their lives there.
They have company...maybe once a week.
Her head is white, his almost bare.
Though no voyeur I sometimes peek.

Their T.V. by chance faces the street,
their chairs and sofa in plain view
through that picture window clean and neat
showing all, in that room, they might do.

ON AN EVENING WALK

I, unsteady, walk a hardwood ridge
in a cool early autumn wind
which has helped decreasing sunlight
begin to paint worn summer leaves.

As has become reality these days
I am alone while on this trek
as I search and slowly scout
for coming season and other things.

For a moment a retreating cloud,
a last remnant of last night's rain,
darkens both the woods and mood
but soon it releases the sun
but not my brood.

BRIDGES

I go now to repair a bridge
it serves the road which runs the ridge.
Just a few boards need replacing
on the floor and in the bracing.

I'll do it while the branch is shallow
now when the far side field is fallow.
My old truck will take me there.
I won't get stuck if I take care.

The land is rugged on this side,
on the other, flat and wide
where crops grow in deep dark soil
which makes this bridge worth all the toil.

NOR'WESTER

Comes a winter shingle shaker
blow off the leaves, blow off the hats!
Bring a gust, an old limb breaker,
turn you breath to an ice maker,
send to rest the flitting bats.

Roar throughout the night and day,
build the whitecaps on the lakes
invite the winter here to stay
and usher autumn on its way.
Lift the tents up from their stakes.

Bring snow clouds to skies of blue,
put sleepy gophers in the ground,
freeze to frost the morning dew
bring the jack frost into view.
Send the last geese southward bound.

SHEPHERD

When storms wrack me in my life
you bring back gentle breeze.
When cold acts cut me like a knife
we walk to set my soul at ease.

During times of pain and doubt
I feel you right here at my side.
As my journey takes me all about
like earth, I know you will abide.

The church where I prefer to go,
hand made by time and sun and rain,
Mere chemistry won't make it grow
or let it heal a tired man's pain.

APPROPRIATE BIRDS

Do birds still sing at Gettysburg
in fields where Pickett made his charge
or is the weight of history there
.............too large?

I can't imagine cheerful quail
or scornful mocking birds
are tolerated at that place
where brave men screamed their final words.

And meadow larks don't belong there
where crows still silently fly by
recalling souls carried to elsewhere
by their forebears with tired sigh.

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