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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.


Imagine a porch swing,
weathered, all-white,
gazing west as the sun
journeys home.

You, wrapped in linen,
thoughts lost in last light,
caressing the words
of your poem.

There falls your bookmark,
worn thin and blue,
tattered where once
it wore lace.

You, wrapped in dreams,
some of which you outgrew,
softly settle it back
in its place.

Gather the moments
when paper met pen
and your poetry
traveled the page.

What Buddha Says (haiku)

The mind is everything
You become what you think
Why am I still poor

Tannenbaum (O Christmas Tree) ~ Title Shop

Here I grow, a handsome fir tree
Standing upright within my wood;
An innocent, then let me be.

Where now I thrive for all to see,
Strobilus stemmed out of the bud;
Here I grow, a handsome fir tree.

Today I prosper, living free,
As streaming sap spawns my life blood;
An innocent, then let me be.

Forever green and wild are we,
My friends and I'd age if we could;
Here I grow a handsome fir tree.

The gentle breeze may hear my plea
And listen to me as it should;
An innocent, then let me be.



The amount of snapshots I have in my head is too much
Flipping through each to choose something to paint
I will stay here for days every hour
passing leaks out of my brain like honey and flowers
Childhood warm milk, another picture to file
I talk to myself to the beat of the fan above my bed
If my hair was clean the fans breeze would make it sway
I would have liked for that to be in time with my words I say
Fear self importance self loathing broken bathroom windows and body pillows under beds

The Old Sawmill Pond

A narrow stream fed the sawmill pond
a constant supply of fresh water.
Throughout most the year it drove
the whining turbines of the mill—

Oh, I should not imply that their songs
and the crescendo cries of sharp blades
resembled dirges sung for each log
that passed through the mill’s shed,
but tall oaks and pines died to become
coffin lumber at the factory nearby.


One day so long ago,
I fell upon a young girl
who's face was somber still

One day so long ago,
I fell upon a young girl
who's face was silently sad

To whom did she belong?

Her smile desperate
to further up her face
at least for a moment

Maybe just to feel
what it would be like,
to have happiness greet her
with all its colours

Taking away
the simple black and white
from her mind,
if just for a while.

One day not so long ago

I fell upon a girl,



Your heart felt like it stop
Felt like it stop beating
Felt like you are in a hole
A hole you can’t get out of
Feels like you are being watched
Watched by your own fears
Fears that have broke you
You want to get out of that hole
You want to ignore the trauma
But all you can do is panic
Panic about your trauma
Panic about being in this dark hole
Your scared
You break down
You stop breathing
You sweat
You think of the trauma
Trauma that leads you to the dark hole

My River

In the bend of the river,
silent navigation
adrift, you and I,
in yesterday’s whirlpools.
Numbed by shadowy depths
in shared memories,
we’ll scatter
our secrets and fears
on the arcane backwaters
over which we lean.
River of my childhood, my river.

TIT- LESS ...LET'S WAIT..My latest poem

''Awesome poetic blend
of the poet''s expression
flowing like a river
that ultimately unites
in the sea.
Skunk, flunk and hunk
made it even more daring.
Awesome beautifully written.

Admirations and appreciations Sir.''

''The flames of anguish
Burns that was exquisite
Leaving ashes that serve manure
Holy is the soul
Who refrain it whole.
What victory it is
I''m best
You are less......



I had so much to tell you
A while ago away;
And, although our tidings few,
There seemed so much to say.
When you were old ~ whilst I was young,
I might have listened when
A weave of words, together strung,
Were tendered now and then.

But note! the hour has wandered late
And dulls the muse of mind;
Time and tide, for no man wait ~
Ago remains behind.
So words unspoken, not to know,
Are words that time forgot,
They mattered to me then, ago
But now they matter not.



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