Join the Neopoet online poetry workshop and community to improve as a writer, meet fellow poets, and showcase your work. Sign up, submit your poetry, and get started.


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.

Sonnet to my Therapist

Today a sonnet I set out to write;
My goal? Perhaps to exercise my mind,
And therefore, nothing clever, something light;
So, don’t expect to read the serious kind.
Let’s talk about my home massage a bit;
The therapist showed up at 9 o’clock;
How I now wish that she had quit and split
Before she put me in a hammerlock,
Then twisted, jarred those tender vertebrae
And turned me into one odd pretzel form
Until I hollered “That’s enough today!”
But one more thing she needed to perform:

Defining a Trump

Old fart, that lingers uninvited

Spontaneously silent

Ravaging my taste buds

Whilst I eat my Sunday roast

Dropping the mother of all bombs

Appetite now gone.

A Winter Morn ~ An Epitaph

Let no one any sadness feel
It's just another day.
The sun arose this winter morn
And drubbed the night away.
The wind swirled round about the land
To rustle through the trees,
To bear the frosted ground a chill
And cause the earth to freeze.

Away, away, on yonder crag
Is where I used to tread;
And gazing round about the land
The music filled my head.
Where kestrels flew and hovered still,
Where curlews shrilled and smiled;
A booming bittern in the marsh
Would leave me quite beguiled.

Getting My Undesirable Visitor to "The Other Side"

Yes, that’s right; I live in Arizona,
Just on the other side of Old Sedona . . .
But listen: Let me help you figure out
How you might find the safest, shortest route.

That runoff?— It looks just like a clearance,
Somewhat strange and risky in appearance,
But right there, on top there is a highway—
Or at least a very pretty byway—

Ignore those crumbling boulders at the edge;
Drive straight ahead; keep hugging that steep ledge . . . .
And if you go the merest inch too far—
You'll surely reach THE OTHER SIDE by car.

Soon I'll Sleep Again

Soon I’ll sleep again,
And I will feel no pain,
For a little time,
Peace will be all mine,
My mind will seek
Freedom from the past,
And I’ll be carefree,
Although it will not last.


Memories Of Father

Love of a father of his child and mother
hard earned wages stuck in paper pages
He toiled they soiled he loved gave warmth
they thought was his duty

but as years passed by
rains came there was no umbrella
he bent over his young ones
covered them with his coat
let himself remain in a wet moat
still none realized the doings in silence
of that wise lovely man

A Silent Thought

I just know I'm going to die young
I don't know why
I've always had that feeling
When my day is over, it's done

I want to do everything
Before I go
I want to be with my son
And see his children grow

It makes people feel quite faint
But, not I
I'm happy to be on this earth
Happy to leave and say goodbye

I often wonder how it would be
I hope it's soft with dignity?

I don't want my family sad
I want them to know, I'm very glad

The Poetic Life of a Walter Mitty

Oft a poet might leave his readers
with the impression that his work is
based on true occurrences.

If the reader were to, unquestioningly,
accept words from babbling tongues
of inventive poets—like this one—then

such creator of great lines should be declared
a wizard. But that he isn’t; only an entertainer,
and as such he might be a somebody or nobody—

who transforms himself at the drop of the pen
into someone he is not— In short, he'd be a magician
who puts on the no-wash-no-ironing sheet metal suit

An Actor Arrives at the Bristol Old Vic

I remember the grey slithers of rain,
The jocular driver,
As I boarded the bus
At Temple Meads,
And the friendly lady who told me
When we had arrived at the city centre,
I remember the pub on King Street,
With its quiet maritime atmosphere…

I remember tramping to the little cottage
Where I had decided to stay
Between rehearsals
Along Park Street,
Whiteladies Road and Blackboy Hill,
My arms and hands
Aching from my bags,
I remember the grey slithers of rain…

That Girl

Look at her so beautiful and tall​
long hair the color of fall​

she walks long stride after stride​
and on her face is a look of pride​

I look in the mirror at that ugly girl​
the one who's hair doesn't curl​

when I walk it's without confidence​
I walk in fear and in defense​

My shoulders slump, my head falls low​
my stride is also kinda slow​

where did that pretty girl go?​
we look around but she won't show​


(c) No copyright is claimed by Neopoet to original member content.