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workshop

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.

much argue about nothing.

Submitted by godshouldnthave on Sat, 2013-04-06 11:31

The tips of my fingers are the
forging expansions of a
lover’s oily grip on
stubborn tense
shoulders.

Comforting your frame with every
slip and glide grasp they can.
Hints of desired massage
wrapped in self-assuring
tactical brush rituals
of soft touch.

Your floured skin reminds
sardonic stained bones
of textured ether pelts.
Stretched thirsty
upon defeated
armies of dry
confidence.

why does she!

Submitted by loved on Sat, 2013-04-06 10:43

when does a woman give in
when she wants him in..

then she has no inhibitions
of what others think …
she has made her mind
so she thinks
as love flows and only she knows
from within

she has made her choice

now none can stop
love for her becomes a lovely stop
she lets him enter
but never regrets
till she has reason to repent
then tis too late
she can’t relent

Sleeves of the Soul

Submitted by Seren on Sat, 2013-04-06 06:30

our hearts were once joined,

now apart the degrees

of separation are burning,

my wounds are weeping 

there is no other day

 

judgment came yesterday

Autumn leaves began their journey

as my night was laid to rest

the walls started falling down

scattering the Rose of Sharon 

 

a bed of flowers to die in

a place to lay my weary head

I can no longer go walkabout

black smoke is streaming

a signal, all is not well

 

there is only one reality, now

Leaning Over

Submitted by S.G. Blue on Sat, 2013-04-06 02:30

Filling me up until my hands shake on the ends of these thin arms.
Wrap themselves around the body they belong to
in a slow coil like thievery
and untold stories full with sin.

The bones, they bend
so hand over shoulder
ghost white skin
lay on top and weave under;
these bones with a place for my forehead to rest,
these lips mutter prayers as they lean into nest.

Reciprocation

Submitted by brittle light on Fri, 2013-04-05 22:34

I got up
out of bed
got dressed
fed the cats
and myself

turned on the tv
news and weather
looked outside
it was sunny
but cool on the windows

sat, smoked, thought
half a day gone

pointless but true
not all inspirationy
or exciting
but true nonetheless

my life this morning
in a piece for
your boredom relief tonight

a dull poem
for sure
but it took some of your time
away from
nothingness
creeping all over you

The Electric Bordeaux Acid Test

Submitted by Josephus on Fri, 2013-04-05 13:20

The stemmed glass slowly rotates
Held up to the sun
Its contents swirl in easy motion

Carmines plum and ruby
Subtle rainbows tease
My imagination already
Tantalized by too much wine.

How many times
Have momentous thoughts
Random as these
As blurred of focus
Been so confidently
Brought to life

While looking through a
Glass of half gone
Bordeaux

Too many
I'll wager
Too many

To The Peasant

Submitted by Kwabena Agyare on Fri, 2013-04-05 08:46

You are the scarecrow
that watches over the barren fields
That land
that feeds her children with thorns ;

a keeper of ducks
that never return home

You are the breath
that the old sun despises
She slaps you
With a tyrannical stare
of fate

You are the pica
that the terrestrial vulture
craves for
with a cunning tongue
at dawn

You are whom
antediluvian's bewitched face
dance to
with cheetah's feet

When The Jokes Are No Longer Funny

Submitted by William Saint George on Fri, 2013-04-05 08:03

Late into the year,
the excitement of the new
has long faded.

The heat of the day
grows at the slightest
irritation.

Smiles are plastic
and last a little longer.

Idiosyncrasies play
like a broken record,
repeating ad nauseum
to your heightened tension.

Then fun begins to hurt
from the saturation of the heart
and the closet misanthrope begins
to play.

DO NOT DISTURB -update

Submitted by Geremia on Fri, 2013-04-05 04:26

DO NOT DISTURB

It has become a quiet
world
not much spoken
little heard
and I forbear the day
with the silence terror brings,

I am a puppet on a broken string
an incongruous human machine.
I’ve lost control.
I’ve lost my hold
on pride and dignity
and it seems to me
I’ve lost myself
in my own insanity

Useless are the words
the Mind seeks
Painful are the words
the Soul speaks.
Never to be heard
are the whisperings
that silence brings.

DYING DAY

Submitted by Nordic cloud on Thu, 2013-04-04 14:49

A wistful still, 
no wind, 
no song of bird, 
nothing stirs. 

The world seems half asleep, 
no weeping willows here,
just birches, firs and hornbeams 
beaming at the spring to come, 
each of them in their row, 
where thrushes gather in the fall 
to gorge on berries one and all.

It's evening, the time of rest,
when silently the night,
gathers in the light,
spreads an indigo instead.

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