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Neopoet Weekly 09/29/24 to 10/05/24 Winner!

This Week’s winner is  Twizzle48

 

WHISPERING WOODS

 

WHISPERING WOODS

Perhaps the rustling leaves are telling the tree’s tale
Whispering, such that only those listening may hear
Only when it is in tune, may the message be clear
Yet unless easily understood, it will be of little avail

The breeze is a medium, but other connections too
To share, an underground root network also serves
It’s communication via a kind of complex of nerves
No myths or stories, as all that’s shared will be true

Summer is a competition for sunlight, as if in a duel
In autumn it is time for the farewell to falling leaves
Yet the first snow of winter is as an axe that cleaves
But next spring, it’s the buzz of growth and renewal

The style of the telling is not random, but planned
Facts the trees near and far, eventually get to know
But its sending and receipt is effective, even if slow
Nature’s sagas few of us will ever get to understand

September 2024 Contest Winners!

September 2024 Contest Winners

 

Congratulations to all our contest winners

 

The Winner of the What is Life? Is Alex Tanner

 

Life Is What You Are

 

There's a time to go back to live life again,
Let the boy who was fearless be reborn just the same;
Command the old man who grumbles and moans
Of the aches and the pains that torment his old bones.

Ride his bike one more time, no brakes, hands free,
Skate winter's froze pond where he knows not to be,
Go down to the river for frogs, newts, dragonfly,
Climb gnarled oaks so tall they caress azure sky.

Boot footballs, play rugby in fields full of mud.
Wash knees in ice water to clean off the blood
From kicks and from falls but never no pain
Just laughter as into the fray once again.

No laptops, no mobiles perhaps no tv,
But they were not wanted this boy he was free.
Free from an age of want yet to come
To go where he pleases till hungry then home.

From dawn until dusk he was out all around,
With his numerous pals no trouble was found,
Nor was it sought, just laughter and fun
Or maybe some girls as adolescence begun.

The old man sits straight and a smile lights his face
He'll do what he can and if he seems a disgrace?
A silly old sod who ought to know better,
By God! life's for living, he'll show he's no quitter.

 

The winner of the 09/24 The Bully is Tawny023

 

Encroach and Invade

 

Mold is an inconspicuous bully
Decomposes reds, yellows, oranges
Blues, and even lime greens
Does not matter its outer shape
Covets the wetness deep inside
Feeds and declares dominance
Nest and festers, spreads
Like vermin and vectors
Permeates and inhibits
Its host hold on to structure
While degrading its bonds
In order to have its way with
Just about any old living thing
A temperamental nuisance
But it’s grotesque mold juice
caught the eye of Dr. Fleming
Its usefulness is no other
Than the holy grail
called Penicillin
Which fights viruses that would
Otherwise make human’s
procreation unviable and
Their deaths excruciating

 

The winner of the 09/24 Bon Fire is RoseBlack

 

Bon Fire

 

Moon high; middle of the night.
Drums thumping; bumping in hypnotic flight.
Cloaked hoods fall to the ground,
scattered chants mix with the eerie sound.

Candle wax burns at the fingertips;
Hecate's breath embraces swaying hips.
Shadows dance amongst the flames,
linking spirits to our world without shame.

'Tis our season, witches take hold,
The magic runs hot and bold.
Our veil is thinning, hear the roar of the thunder,
when the living and the dead are no longer asunder.

 

The winner of the 09/24 Under the boardwalk is  Lavender

 

Along The Windy Shore

 

I remember you
and your lit-up smile
under the salty boardwalk.
You were seventeen
with your tousled hair
along the windy shore.

Such a time we had
'neath the summer sun
under the salty boardwalk.
With our hands entwined
we would race the waves
along the windy shore.

We never made promises
we couldn't keep.
No promises were broken.

So in the silver moonlight
there on the beach,
few words were ever spoken.

I remember soon
summer days grew short
under the salty boardwalk.
I was seventeen
when we said goodbye
along the windy shore.

Do you remember me
with my deep brown eyes
under the salty boardwalk?
Part of me remains
racing with the waves
along the windy shore.

I'm there along the shore.

 

The Winner of the 09/24 Homecoming is Tawny023

 

Did you know?

 

Golden Shovel after Victoria Chang’s, ‘Homecoming”

Pieces of us still exist from as far back
As diapers and Similac, even before bedtime stories.
Our DNA hangs around in their
Bloodstream like butterfly wings,
As if the contractions remember
Something of us swimming in nothing,
But a secret tunnel and we were and are
Umbilical cord joined until cut, but the bond is never
Broken— our Mother’s DNA still holds our knowledge

 

 

 

 

 

 

Neopoet Weekly 09/22/24 to 09/28/24 Winner!

   This Week’s winner is Jokerface82

 

THE WRATHFUL SEA

 

Her salted bludgeoning maw
swallowed vessels and galleys
with its green saline gullet of
ulcers
barnacles, and a throat full of oily
spots of acne sticky limpets

Treasures guarded by a circle
of sharks in an ocean restaurant
pinching crabs,
and swaying seaweed keeping naval
secrets.

A wave of wrathfulness, tossing
clubbing, floating ships, drowning
them into the abyss.
stripping seamen Into
skeletons with silent screams.

Supported by a howling killer
of a storm . Ripping, blowing holes
into arthritis wooden decks into oblivion
into the coldest dark depths.

         

 

                                                                     To leave an additional comment on the contest page click here

Nepoet Weekly 09/15/24 to 09/21/24 Winner!

                                                                                      This Week’s winner is Jokerface82

 

Grandiose Majestic Mountain

There stood a majestic
Craggy face with razor blade
Edges of a monstrous
time honoured mountain

Turning its rocky nose up
at anything below him, robust
Jagged and risky, high stabbing
armour with White shark tip
Cut throated fins.

Bald rugged with a silent manner
cold stone as white as marshmallow
steep and strong, bold and old
broad frosted shoulders

With powdered freckles and a storm grey
complexion it wore a white necklace
and a frosted crown, made
by heaven.

 

                                              To leave an additional comment on the contest page click here

 

The stream (all workshops)

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

 

One thing for certain... I know

One thing for certain... I know

That I don't know...
but archives someday will be unearthed
and
when I get the Nobel,
some guy will say
He/She edited it,
so goes my Nobel
As it is.
Archives or none
let's all have some fun.
Humor is the spice of life,
given by God not to critiques
but jokers of a circus
who we all know
are the qualified ones

So am I in the run…

Emptiness is a door to hope

Emptiness is a door to hope Belief is a mentality in the shrugged to cope.
Reality is the deceiver, seducing every dream beyond a reasonable reason. Wishing each wish is hope taking emptiness to a new meaning.
What is left? Is the emptiness of believing?

Finale Me

what bucket must I carry?
to properly contain
all those caring
for my soul?
a soul I am assured
is nothing more
than metaphor
this practice
of asking me
what I believe
only to seek
a strategy of approach
to poke holes
In what others subscribe to
or choose not to devote to
is rather contrived
hold on a minute
does that negate my eternity?
Indeed!
in the Here and Now
I am ready to die
when that moment comes
rest assured I accept Nothing
but DMT

Into the music I allowed

you,
far away,
I think I love you

our dance of separation,
heavy-limbed
and shredded
far
into the melancholy night

no cell phone ringing
no shared riffs of space
no feathered bridges
across

mudra hands enjoining
this wasteland paradise

faded flower stains of your heart
like deep ribbon grief
upon my lips

Comrade in my Arms.

 

(Based on a story idea by Joe Kubert)

It’s Belgium ’44, the world’s at war.

The yuletide came and went, but brought no joy.

The Bulge is still a challenged corridor,

 yet with their progress troops now redeploy.                               4

 

And so the Private finds himself alone.

Awareness has returned and with it pain.

It must be night, he thinks, while lying prone,

for nothing can be seen of all the slain.                                         8

 

But then the man looks to the Prussian skies

Our Missing Piece

We fruitlessly go through life
Scouring our outside
For our missing piece
That for its uniqueness
Defines our very existence.

Our missing piece

We had it all to ourselves
In the dawn of our being
Naïve and frail as we crawled
And giggled and wiggled
At life a gentle fellow.

Our missing piece

One we truly lost
In the noon of our being
When the rushing waves and tides
Came crushing on our solitary shore
We sauntered like insanity’s friend
Trying to make meaning out of meaning itself.

Echo on a Cliff

The horizon is far
yet not distant enough,
We surf our ways across the seas,
we fly over sand dunes
and
surpass all eventualities…

None is brave enough,
to place a boulder
nor a hand upon our shoulder,
to prevent our movement
from darkness to light

I Sing a Song

I sing a song of praise and joy
To Him who makes us all wake up
Each day, from the day we were born
I sing a song, I clap my hands
And dance to the beats of each day
I walk the path laid down by rules
Not to hurt those who come my way
I laugh when no one comes to help
And cry when they mock at my back
They know not that I see them all
In front of me they show their teeth
If air were to be bought by men
I will have no where to buy it
I sing a song of praise and joy
No man can give what they have not

Workshop: 

You Speak of Everyman

But I am told,
I can't comment on workshop poetry,
hence I read slyly…
But now it’s clarified
I can comment easily.

But your Everyman
includes everyman and woman
Hopefully!

When I passed by a garden in Montreal,
I observed a beggar
sleeping on a bench...

Torn shabby dirty apparel
but his inner showed,
as if he had just purchased it
or picked up one ...

He was an
Every –sort –of man
Like just any one…

The Atheist and the End of the World

i.

I suck at being holy.
Can't write poetry worth a damn,
I can't pump sunshine up my blanks
or my blind side. My mileage will
always vary.

Can't help but think the world is no more than a rock
in a hard place,
torpedoing out in space, hurtling to some final destination,
each and every being thinking the answer is
written in pure poetry, holy prophecy or
monetary concurrency.

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