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The stream (all workshops)

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



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 very long ago,
I came upon a girl
who’s face was somber still

One day so very long ago,
I came upon a 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 colors,
even if, for just a moment.

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



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 (title workshop)

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.

Titles........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.


Toward the Light

I rub the nub;
is that supposed to happen
in males? Soreness, aching
‘round the nipple?

Let’s find out today,
but shall I die of old age before the hospital
admission process ends?

Finally on the gurney—
Nurse asks:
any removable dentures? contacts?

Nope; I cut off the tight wedding band
just for you
(nurse’s pitying smile says nothing)

Anesthesiologist appears. Hi, I’m Dr. Brdsnuloharin . . . .
My unimpressed reply: hello there, Dr. Sandman

Why are we here?

Bongo Madness

I’m going to win the lottery,

I don’t know when,

I just know I will.

When I do,

I’ll say goodbye

to all the people

that hold me back

and make me miserable.

Those who put me down

taking my hopes and dreams.

I’ll buy a desert island

and have a beautiful little cottage

Just for me.

I’d build the kitchen of my very own dream

with an island of marble and two sinks.

I’ll eat the finest food from the sea,

and maybe even have an extra cabin

for my stilettos.


I remember the nights we slept with fires in our belly,
And how grandma wore agony like a crown.
In my memory,

The hoots of owls remind of sinister
Lurking behind the blanket of darkness,
That spreads over the tint of gory childhood.

Of sandcastles and toys painted on canvas,
Signed by the footprints of departing parents
And the echoes of unforgettable voices.

I'd stand with my shirt billowing in the wind like a kite.
"Grandmother, where is my mother?"
"Who is my father?"


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