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The stream (all workshops)

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

 

urbane

Submitted by Orphani on Thu, 2012-03-01 17:39

into the thaw of a dying winter
I have come to find you
beneath discarded shoes of bridges
where red rust is the graffiti of the sky
written in the blood of the rain

you are born there looking up
unspoken black in the hollow of the pipes
the channeled water in the hearts infrastructure
where bones find innocent children
to ask about the gravity of birds

Insignificant Bit

Submitted by William Saint George on Thu, 2012-03-01 14:54

She chose me first
then let me go
as quickly as she came.

I took her sadness,
gave her joy
and was left
with worthless shards.

Her bitterness
had made her cold
and she kept
her heart's lock shut.

I tried to break
the iron lock
but was burned
by her untrusting glare.

Today, I breathe
without her aid,
I sleep sans
thoughts of her,

but she still lingers,
deep within dark
caverns of my mind.

Comments Poemised..... now A MUST read

Submitted by loved on Thu, 2012-03-01 14:07

For sure, I’m a creative egoistic poet

I have composed over 8000 poems, yes, 8000... during the past two plus years... as I was confined in the snows, not to be forgotten... As you know no two poems of mine... fall in a slab...albeit they might seemingly give off similar perfume .If a poet is understood, then one is no poet at all.
For creativity is not at its verges end
It’s not a cliff
but an echo on a cliff
which sounds
resounds
and
rebounds
but never fades into the realms
of frameless eternity...

They Don't Know, They Shouldn't

Submitted by emogothgirl on Thu, 2012-03-01 13:03

as stars burn out when night is day
her heart takes fleeting beat
i walk with glass embedded heels
and blame my careless feet

the girl walks 'round with green and red
she'll have her choice in men
and yet she yearns for more and more
her fingers greed 'til then

she said one day might hold for us
a love of different kinds
i wonder if she too is plagued
in her heart and her mind

"STARLINGS"

Submitted by scribbler on Thu, 2012-03-01 07:50

I've seen the starlings roost in winter
in giant canes and bare oak trees
(any drab black bird was free to enter)
so many they looked like dark leaves
brought there by a stiff cold breeze.

Each bird cried out loudly as it could
in a raucous non-melodic voice
trying to be understood
but only adding to the noise
as if left with little choice.

the madness of being

Submitted by Kailashana2 on Thu, 2012-03-01 07:48

When the wild geese fly
across your eyes
and the Bedouin tethers
his camels to the stars

and what remains of tenderness
is heard in every seashell
of our madness,
ours will have been a time that came to be
and a day that had come to pass.

There are lonely hunters everywhere,
they hunt for arrows and they hunt for bows,
they hunt with weapons
for their soul.

To A Lesser God

Submitted by Geremia on Thu, 2012-03-01 07:40

A LESSER GOD
What is it they see
What is my sin, my flaw
What creature have I become ?

Why do I always lose
to a lesser god.

Where is the magic
I once had
the words of seduction
the powers that enchant
and the voice that sings
enchantment?

The wounds bleed deep
deeper now than ever before.
I ache for my yesterdays.
I was stronger then
Stronger than today
I fear the pain
tomorrow will bring
again

THE EMPTY GLENS (FINAL VERSION)

Submitted by Tam the Chanter on Thu, 2012-03-01 07:02

.
THE EMPTY GLENS
1795
There's a tall ship in the harbour,
Waiting for the evening tide,
Dewdrops fall, like tears, from rigging,
Weeping for my clan's lost pride.

Morning mist lies on the water,
Footprints fading in wet sand.
I am boarding with my kinsmen
Never more to see this land.

In the glen our houses burning,
As the Earl's men torch the roofs,
Burnt - out ruins scar the landscape,
How will others find the truth?

Workshop: 
Storytelling in Verse

WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT KEVIN*

Submitted by Bonitaj on Thu, 2012-03-01 06:53

Class shootings, drive-by's, Columbines and such,
Not just by Homo Africanus, delinquents,
Dispossed and out of touch.
The youths we loved
The kids in cots
The babes we reared from scratch
How come there's killings now and
no love lost
On those we breed to snatch?

The Knowing - (final cut) - storytelling in verse - (final story)

Submitted by docmaverick on Thu, 2012-03-01 03:25

If my mind is ever present

and my solitude's a friend,

dark ideas lead to actions

darker actions, towards a trend;

~

a stoic calm is my exterior

never, ever break a sweat,

in the hollow of my inner being

I've this appetite to whet.

~

Within the chasm where my soul goes

a dank pulsating yearns to start,

tuning out the distant conscience

because I haven't any heart;

~

half the time I am the predator

in the darkness after day,

daylight time I am more subtle

Workshop: 
Storytelling in Verse

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