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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.

Winters Cold Hand

The Cold icles hung as decorations
reflecting all as in a mirror bright

Moon shines down upon new fallen snow
it glistens with a million fallen stars

Deer feed under the canopy of trees
unaware of my never ending gaze

Picture postcard pefect
but winter rests her cold hand
upon my shoulder
reminding me
warmth will be had



Who knew that the little he-goat will grow up
to rape his mother,
And even make children with his grandmother?
Ande, don't follow me down memory lane,
This rugged path will prick your feet.
This naked pictures of tattered childhood,
This view is not good for you.


Alone on this December day
in the woods where I belong
as dawn breaks in a frosted way
listening to some silent song.

Forest stirs slowly into life;
thrushes rustling in the duff.
Before long all birds run rife.
Jay call out both loud and gruff.

A pair of squirrels in the tree tops
chase each other seeking love
in that ancient dance that never stops.
Sun hits the canopy above.

The Sad Old Man

The old man stared at the mirror in disbelief
As he dabbed on a little of his favourite fragrance:
‘Le Male’ by Jean-Paul Gaultier.
Was that really him, that saggy-faced creature?
He plucked out an intruding grey hair,
An intruder in his masculine, black, bushy eyebrows;
He had hoped his boyish good looks were still there,
Although a little frayed, a little worn by time.


Wayfaring alone in moorland's domain,
Walking along with the dead of the night;
Trekking, safely, a well-trodden pathway,
Suddenly spotting a beckoning light.

A warm and welcoming distant beacon,
A clear, bright feature to guide me ahead;
I followed the pharos with cheery delight
Allowing to let myself to be lead.

But then, alas, I met jack-o'-lantern
Impishly, carelessly leading astray,
Steering my footway nearer a quagmire
Fogged in the haze of the mist of the day.


I breath with faze,
moving my feeble soul around
making me fidgety.
Fumbling every time my mouth move,
My words turning equivocal.
My face is dark with rage,
Laying my head on my pillow at night
and the hurricane in it lits up.
Hoping to eradicate my tears,
Wearing my smiling mask,
Bunging my legs on the floor
asking how does happiness taste,
A conundrum question.
Raising my hands to sky
hoping to pray.
Invisible tears flowing like river.
But I keep fighting to stay alive.

The Fulcrum.

Turning to the weather.


How easy an evasion from awkwardness

Once was this

Talk of the elemental?


What ticks the downpipe brings,

Inundated with flaring rain

And the trick of glass shuddering winds

This is the mourned at,

Longed for,

Tasmanian Spring.


In matters of fact

Summer: as here described,

Is envied by eyes, in that ash fulcrum:

Across the dark straight divide

Where firestorms fight fear,

Fragments of home



I am wholeheartedly in favour
Of feminism, it's so great.
Women's rights are so important in this world
After all they comprise over fifty percent
Of the human race
And they do the washing up real good.
I just wish some of the more militant bitches
Would stop bleeding all over
The toilet seat:
It's fucking unhygienic.

Cursed ones

We are an image of a god that
has been smeared and battered with mud
We are the fallen,
Descended from grace
to be kept in a place of turmoil

anyị ahọrọghị ụzọ a,
akara aka dugara anyị

The gods played a prank on us,
They gave us a beautiful lie called Life
Our lives are a puzzle
We try to unravel each day

anyị ahọrọghị ụzọ a,
akara aka dugara anyị

We are jinxed!
The rays of hope is dimmed
With our sufferings,
We can only bask in agony each day

To My Dearest Son

If you win, if you lose,
In success and in fail,
It is You whom I choose
In my heart to prevail

You're the heart, you're the soul,
You're the air I inhale
You and I ? We're a whole
dearly held in peace and pain.


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