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The stream (all workshops)

This is the stream - you can see all poems on Neopoet, live, as they are created.

 

Hunger of My Heart

Submitted by Rainy Day on Thu, 2012-04-26 02:02

The hunger of my heart,
Is a warm and sweet dream,
Like strawberries and water,
Like peaches and cream,

The desire that fuels me,
The heated longing I keep,
Deep down inside of me,
Begging to be free,

Like thirst, like starvation,
This is how things are,
In the moist chambers,
The corridors of my heart,

The one thing I would cry for,
From another human being,
My darling is your love,
Like honey to me,

All Roads Would Lead to This

Submitted by washing tears on Wed, 2012-04-25 22:50

You’ve been dragging around my heart for years
And in my dirty, dirty mind, I should decide to let go
You’ve been hanging around in the chasm of my soul in fears
And in my light, some stories, I might decide to let you know

And what was it that you said? “All roads would lead to this”
Or something, so cerebral then, I wouldn’t notice

Tell me all the things that you’d never do
Come on, let me crush you up
Lovely, lovely, lovely

A Brief Passing

Submitted by AnnaNJ on Wed, 2012-04-25 13:49

I saw you today
for only a brief moment as you drove by-
maybe on your way to work,
or to the grocery store,
or to the place you've begun to call home.
Anywhere but to be with me.

I saw you today
and it brought a flood of memories-
of long late night talks,
of walking to the bus stop
on chilly mornings,
of singing My Chemical Romance
at the top of our lungs.

Prose "The Burglar" by Nordic Cloud revised to Poetry (Prose to Poetry Workshop)

Submitted by Barbara Writes on Wed, 2012-04-25 13:38

Final Revision
Prose "The Burglar" by Nordic Cloud revised to Poetry (Prose to Poetry)

A man in old grey dehevelled clothing
Black hair, ruddy face stood by a fence
Walking deliberatly slow along the streets
Perusing a site to commit burglary
He kept rhythm with the fence pailing

A girl peering through net curtains
made a crack in the lace had begun
To observe him as he eyed the houses
Dropped the curtain she stepped back
from the window as she noticed him
Looking in her direction

Workshop: 
FROM PROSE TO POETRY

Cancer party

Submitted by violet on Wed, 2012-04-25 10:21

There was 7 in the packet when we started
7 sticks of pure, cancerous victory

'better lock the door' she said

The old Sod was outside tending his garden
Putting those foul, spindly fingers
to a more appropriate use
Completely unaware of being
locked out of his own house

We sat in his lounge
Watched him from the window
Puffed on his cigarettes
and laughed
and coughed

It was a waste of good smoke
We didn't even inhale
and the taste made us queasy

Providence is a city in Rhode Island

Submitted by Kailashana2 on Wed, 2012-04-25 09:42

i.

Interloper.
I have no idea why that word popped in for an unofficial visitation,
a declaration of immanence
as though it is meant to mean something. Or should.

I Am

Submitted by judyanne on Wed, 2012-04-25 05:17

I AM Being
Oblivious Grace, Eternal Serenity
awareness ebbed
languidly infused
undisturbed, ubiquitous

Thought stirs essence
a seed of need quivers, a fidget
flutters the fabric
irradiates a candle far away
now to be forever perceived

rippling breeze gently brushes substance
a yawn takes space from me
a spark of perception
I own interest

a quest incites energy
born exploding a singularity

colourful bursts of vibrant brilliance
shatter the dark

A Terza Rima...( Three Classic Forms WS)

Submitted by Rula on Wed, 2012-04-25 04:20

Those shadows hanging round my empty room
are hounding dreams that dwelled so long in dark
they dim at times then flash again and loom.

I often dreamt of blessed lands to lark
about and join the birds on trees and fly
up high to leave upon the clouds a mark.

I dreamt of children who shall never cry
but joy their youth and land upon the moon
with laughs to moisture air that once was dry.

Workshop: 
Three classic poetic forms.

P a l l i u m .. C o m a

Submitted by Esker on Wed, 2012-04-25 02:36

sunder the shores
of thunder
taste the fleshy grasp
of shoulders weakness

curve the dark surreal
dream on knifepoint
dead its hour taking
its shape desired
by reckoning
and dread

there are brilliant
spheres of wonder
birthing in helium
heights
in dash wonder
flecked in sights

drowned in sordid
mellow
the petal drenched
l'image only leads
becoming and
sounding in the need

...

Old Miners epitaph, ...My Dad

Submitted by believe on Wed, 2012-04-25 01:26

Angels weep as the sun sets
nature breaths a last long sigh
time for all his children
to listen to god's lullaby.

Willows weep to the water
As the sun bids the day adieu
The angels light their candles
and make the shadows move

all creatures watch the happening
and time is held to account
nature looks on through a mother's eyes
as the old miner's lamp goes out

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