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The stream (all workshops)

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

 

SHED NOT

Submitted by SAKTHEEE2007 on Sat, 2012-02-04 02:35

Shed not tears
He is there to invite you
His palace is overwhelming with glee and peace
Come and enjoy in his hands
Fear not
Life is great and enormous
There are a lot of ways and means to travel
Just come forward to reach the peak

One thing for certain... I know

Submitted by loved on Sat, 2012-02-04 02:06

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

Submitted by press on Fri, 2012-02-03 17:29

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

Submitted by IKnowNoBox on Fri, 2012-02-03 14:37

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

Submitted by Kailashana2 on Fri, 2012-02-03 11:47

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.

Submitted by wesley snow on Fri, 2012-02-03 11:36

 

(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

Workshop: 
Storytelling in Verse

Our Missing Piece

Submitted by WonderGolly on Fri, 2012-02-03 11:12

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

Submitted by loved on Fri, 2012-02-03 10:58

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

Submitted by t. reflexion on Thu, 2012-02-02 23:23

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: 
More Meter

You Speak of Everyman

Submitted by loved on Thu, 2012-02-02 21:32

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…

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