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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.

WOLVES

Submitted by Geremia on Fri, 2013-03-22 17:20

WOLVES
[1911: mountain village in the southern Apeninnes]

They came down
from the hills
riding an icy wind
lost in the white and gray
of a winter’s day.
into each village and town
they roamed
looking to feed
looking to kill
driven by hunger’s pain

They smelled the dying
and the dead
scratched at the earth
of the newest tomb
hungered for the flesh
still in a mother’s womb

Game Plan

Submitted by Ross Hamilton Hill on Fri, 2013-03-22 17:04

Nor'easter rough cut blowing;
flaps like a sail against my ear
as I lean out, hoping the torrid trees
will help me out of this white walled,
squared up room.

You can bet on the market, on horses,
on the roll of dice
but my money's on tomorrow:
dawn's dark colours, the ritual of coffee,
the radio with its familiar concerns.

The news takes its place.
The crescendo, as my Mac opens,
seems metallic, cold;
email, Facebook, Twitter,
the scrolling hunt begins.

Predatory

Submitted by BlueDemon77 on Fri, 2013-03-22 16:43

Predatory
-
dim-milled eyes raked filled with flies
there's no guile for death to prize
one open cog is broken
bosses' golden log token
gotta hire by next friday
just a wasted holiday
-
what's-her-name was pretty good
but now she is gone I should
go to her funeral-NAH
body in a box, too raw
ya never know what she did
in May little katydid
-
My arms around her tightened
her shallow breath so frightened
my hands tapped her youth away

Workshop: 
Show And Tell: Intensive Critique Workshop

Ode To A Chip

Submitted by BettyBuff on Fri, 2013-03-22 15:24

It makes me salivate
those golden
crusty
morsels
on a plate

like golden embers
shiny
glistening
basted pleasure
remembered

carbo-licious
tasty treats
like
sticks of
fatty dynamite

crunch crunch
scoff scoff
the pig persona
plays a
Bacchanalian lunch

A chip! A chip!
My round plate
For a Chip!

T R I N K E T

Submitted by Esker on Thu, 2013-03-21 23:15

bleed thin
the snow wafer kisses
falling diluted
a ghost half empty
Chanel Number Five

a cry her hands to
the ceiling eyes drawn
dark beneath the
brash brows
ribs in the lean light

invisible friends sing
this spinning room
tending snowflake
shadows

large eyed mystery
before the light
shadowshow love
empty and tasteless
a feast for the tongue

and perhaps you know not still..tis digital kids

Submitted by loved on Thu, 2013-03-21 22:02

and perhaps you know not still tis digital kids

my brain is made of golden chips
that's why that alone works mostly...
hold one...
will you
and
then some one will say
a diamond one is now on ..
whose
will be news....

the chip will ask a question
is it now on ?
or
diamond slow down
better on than off ...

so digital God gave a hint
one for that
and
zero we can't say
we all know not

hence one and a dot
keep fixing a lot...

Brain functionality

Submitted by Frenchf on Thu, 2013-03-21 18:37

There is a the mind that reads one line and imagines scenes quite vividly
There is the mind that writes the line and describes events graphically
And then there is the mind that takes and changes words phonetically
And the other sort of mind that changes life theoretically
It is this sort i'd do without it plays with words heretically
It shuns the deepest function of our species
that deals with our humanity

The Visitors

Submitted by docmaverick on Thu, 2013-03-21 08:10

A visitor called the other night
I think his name was, “Death”;

there was a hideousness about his eyes,
an icy chill inside his breath.

He spoke to me of a journey
if I’d promise to commit;

where the irritating sounds of life
would fade, and stay unlit.

Then another visitor came along
and I believe her name was, “Life”,

just because of the way she looked at, “Death”…
and made him put away his knife.

While offering some coffee
I showed each to a chair,

Workshop: 
Storytelling in Verse (sempiternal)

A Learning Curve...

Submitted by Roscoe Lane on Thu, 2013-03-21 02:13

A Learning Curve…

What is this great impertinence
we call knowledge,
that we all learn through life,
school or college.
It seems the more I learn
fills me with deepest concern.
Thus, allowing me only
an odd adage.

How can we prove
proof is really proof,
when all our teachers
seem so grand or so aloof.
They hide implied truth away,
saying we’d all be led astray
We must be careful not to shatter
their alleged, glass roof.

...........................fete......................................

Submitted by Esker on Wed, 2013-03-20 22:52

underneath the quiet hiss
a velvet murmer
kiss

violet persona
lands crystal perfection
melting like a tear

pure flake
a jewel ball
to delve

a place of haunt
to dwell

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