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The stream (all workshops)

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


Mountain Visit

I might have been around ten or eleven years old,
visiting relatives in their Appalachian Mountain home.
We could not wait until the fireflies began
their summer night’s performance, as I recall.
The view from my reflections returns me there.

Our great-aunt picks up a slow-moving, winged beetle
and shows us how to carefully tie a thread to its back leg
and watch it fly in a tethered circle – GENTLY, GENTLY!


Sometimes I drift..
To a place far but more like home. My past...

Filled with dark holes that once trapped, one never gets out.
I'm becoming older, wiser? Maybe.

Dark Secret

There is a dark secret that I hold

When I think of it, I get so cold

There is no one that I know I can tell

I keep it buried deep inside my well

If anyone ever found out, I would die

So I keep it inside, and I just cry

This dark secret haunts me from past

I know it will haunt me to my last

I see no light; I see no way

I see night; I see no day

Eventually, every secret is found

No matter how deeply buried underground

When my dark secret is discovered and told


hi it is weeney
you can message me on here
i hope you are good

The Protest

C'mon, fellas,
said I,
meaning that the moment
was gone, and it was time
to move along,

wrap our protests
in wilted banners
and homemade signs,
then carry them
up and over the hill,

past the mega-church,
the All-Your-Crap storage units,
the 24-hour pharmacy sitting next to
the deluxe, salty, fat hamburger joint -
all located at the intersection of

Main and Meridian, USA
where Mother Earth
once adorned her bevy of
periwinkle vines,
crimson clover,

The wall

Grinding it out
in your hole in the wall
feeling low down, abandoned and small
nothing to do
but write on that wall
and when days turn to minutes
and minutes to years
your life becomes less
than the heartache and fear
espressed in your writing
that no one will hear!

Poems for all Seasons

In spring, I wake with rosy-fingered dawn,
and pen my lines as dew drops grace the lawn.
By dusk, when blood-red moon begins to bleed,
my sorrow-laden lines I dare not read.

In summer, poems pour out of my soul,
released from county jail - out on parole.
They lie, like lines of laughing liberty,
hysterical to be at last set free!

Autumnal lines may fall, but will not flow.
They rot inside me, then mutate and grow,
until I’m large with child of pregnant prose:
these still-born poems, damned, do decompose.


I grow weary of the pain
Oh, how I long for surcease
For I know that there is only increase
With nothing more to gain.

Responsibility is my only anchor
For I cannot abandon those who depend
By taking the road to an easy end
For me, that cannot be the answer.

These responsibilities upon which I ponder
Accepted them all most lovingly
I find their purpose, lost unwittingly
And know their price is one I’ll honor.


Silently she creeps to the corner of my darkened room,
Picking clean old pockets and the emptiness of gloom.
Her enquiring spark shakes me into bleary-eyed sight,
And pulls me from my bed, to arise in illuminating light.

The gibbous moon her fingers spread, grasping hold of earth,
Within a month she echoes her lifecycle, or a promised birth.
The ebb and flow she holds over nature and upon the tide,
To call a pack of wolves or in women’s blood does she reside?

Rock song

Pen the lines on the back of an envelope
knock out a rock n' roll thrill
killer on the charts
stop the young girls' hearts
trigger some dreams tonight

Chord construction psychic destruction
wrapped up in a haunting beat
feel it smell it cry out wail
sexy swaggering playful intense
angst innocence peace my-god-what-is-this

Swagger strut pull the belly taut
babe is bounding down the lane
bound for good times
looking for a lover
time to break the mold pull the pin and win


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