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The stream (all workshops)

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

 

Apron And Smock

Submitted by brittle light on Thu, 2011-06-02 22:36

a neighbor's chimney smoke
drifts through a stand of jack pine
delivering small billows of fascination
onto my porch

the wide smile warmth of her kitchen
in every inhalation
and almond paste and cinnamon
a busy country oven

seepings of an open paint box and turpentine
sidle in as faint undertone

a unique blend of her, hearth, and home
nothing in the world smells quite like this

my nose becomes a projector
for all associated images
I fall back onto dog musty wicker
and watch

From The Corner Of My Eye (rewrite)

Submitted by greeneyes on Thu, 2011-06-02 20:49

From the corner of my eye,
Your love I feel so strong,
When I stare straight ahead,
I know that I am wrong.

From the corner of my eye,
Your kiss is soft and real,
When I stare straight ahead,
It's for someone else to feel.

From the corner of my eye,
Your heart belongs to me,
When I stare straight ahead,
That devotion is for her to see.

From the corner of my eye,
You whisper softly in my ear,
When I stare straight ahead,
It's just for her to hear.

My Pen

Submitted by Apostolos "Paul... on Thu, 2011-06-02 19:24

At the sound
Of her voice
Agony grows
Weary

She knows
The pain
Of living with
A two headed demon
That nauseates
Stomachs

She understood
The fear in a voice
The sweat dripping
From palms

Finding safety
From the seed of
Growing paranoia

Dancing on the page
Leaving images behind
Giving birth to words
That saves

Pilots of Pages...

Submitted by Roscoe Lane on Thu, 2011-06-02 16:58

Pilots of Pages.

I set my pen against paper
like a rudder entering water
the pen guides this paper
to it’s conclusion.
Such simple thoughts are
scary even hard to comprehend.

We are I believe pilots of the pen,
obtuse maybe, playful certainly,
serious sometimes, downright angry,
frightened, brilliant, almost anything
you can imagine we are, but pilots

Çaço, Man of the Morning Star, p.1 Harsh, b.1, protasis, canto 2

Submitted by wesley snow on Thu, 2011-06-02 14:54

Canto Two ~ It is dawn of the morning following.

Battle has ended, but the storm has not. Amidst the destruction common to combat's aftermath, a squeak of wagon wheels heralds the entrance of a small band. Three strange individuals, as unlike each other as three could be, come seeking those who yet remain alive upon the field.

Table

Submitted by Esker on Thu, 2011-06-02 14:44

the window full of bright
I watch the birds hover
and slide from view
the traffic waiting for the light
and I catch the colour
of your hue
the calm serenity of you

the coffee rich I sip and taste
the hours watch
I must keep haste
the quick exam your beauty
based
the pale flow
hair held by bow

away and from the shop I walk
and listen to the ravens talk
and place this moment
under lock
for rainy days
and thought filled ways

Nature's words

Submitted by Nordic cloud on Thu, 2011-06-02 14:10

Nature's words.

The firs and pines they speak
their wind tossed branches
wave their words
across the miles of lake
to echo in the firmament
up high
where skylarks fly
and birds of prey they wait
to spy the mouse and vole
far down below

Volatile

Submitted by lou on Thu, 2011-06-02 12:56

I'm a bitch
Jump in feet first
and think later.

Volatile witch 
quick to anger,
Curse and fight.

Someone attacks me 
they live to regret It
they will never forget it.

Filled with self loathing
Brimming with remorse,
Overflowing with regret.

Not to proud to admit
When I'm wrong,
Even when my foots in my mouth.

is there a doctor for the soul?

Submitted by Kailashana2 on Thu, 2011-06-02 06:31

there is no cure
for this melodrama
there is blood on my fingers
where i touched your wounds,
you said we all have them
and some are well-hidden
some follow us with hound-dog eyes
inconsolable and lonely for his master,

the spirit of the wind
shakes the dream catcher
halfway to paradise

the parchment of this poem,
an unspoken sin
that catches fire,
our ashes rising,
sing.

My Wings

Submitted by Eduardo Cruz on Thu, 2011-06-02 04:53

The flame in me
Which burns
Endlessly
Is about to be quenched
Awaiting my need
Is my love

On wings of gossamer
I fly like the birds
That migrate home
After winters cold
To the warmth
That touches me
Deep within my
Soul

Our love is a volcano
Erupting
Taking us beyond
The highest
Chakra
And holding us
In bliss

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