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The stream (all workshops)

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

 

The Vagrant

Submitted by Timbo on Mon, 2011-01-10 11:36

There’s a man who sleeps in the cold at night
on the bench down by the lake in the park.
His pillow, a bag he carries, of the bits he owns
just his jacket, to keep him warm in the dark.

Who was he, before he fell into this way of life
and is there someone who loved him and more.
Did he have a car, a house, a job of importance
was his life something special and happy before.

Bright Eyes

Submitted by Timbo on Mon, 2011-01-10 11:02

You were always there to welcome me, if I came to call
and I’d reach out to touch you, as you sat there in the hall.
Happiness was yours, just watching the children play
just like sleeping and eating, an important part of your day.

When I sat in the chair, you'd climb upon my knee
and with those bright eyes of yours, turn to look at me.
After a while you'd climb back down, heading for the door
going outside into the night to explore a little more.

Hide Jekyll, Hyde!

Submitted by crypticbard on Mon, 2011-01-10 07:20

`

Part demon, part angel,
your gaze draws me nigh.
Part animal, part divine;
the celestial hosts sigh.

Doubts leak like a broken tap,
assurances cloud the sky.
Drip and drop to fill the gap;
your balmy words can't dry.

An easel for pigments to trap;
row by row hung from a vine.
Libation pressed flesh and sap;
A bloodied cudgel rests supine.

`

days later

Submitted by Victorclaude on Mon, 2011-01-10 07:14

days later

days later they
found me.

I said I
would never
do it
again,
but I get
to edit.

the staff
of life is not
bread,
it is fear,

but I
get
to edit,

my
dear.

One by One

Submitted by docmaverick on Mon, 2011-01-10 06:36

Anticpated pleasure
just around the bend,

selfishly, I'm at the task
of making sure it does not end.

With the silkiness of satin
my fingers trace her skin,

not absolutely sure, at first
if I should dare begin.

I squeeze a caress from fingertips
that glide without a sound,

while she busily reciprocates
with passions that astound!

Gyrations produce dividends
that exceed my wildest dreams,

and, neither of us lovers
can get enough, or so it seems.

FALLOW

Submitted by Esker on Mon, 2011-01-10 00:16

wander the crepe wind
thin like frost
the snow lost
revery shinning
like polished dreams

the night is black
and we cant go back
point blank
you say

turn and my vividness
has turned to rust
the junkyard sleeping
and dead fires keeping

place a hand on my head
"Its a fever " I say
and you nod grave

the stars have fallen
and
wishs drift like
fragments

streetlight burns like
loiters patience its
crown of sodium
leaning on the snowbanks

GIFTED ? PET

Submitted by scribbler on Sun, 2011-01-09 10:33

We've got a little wiener dog
( the kind that's shaped just like a log )
he's friendly and a wee bit sassy
too bad for us he's also gassy

Perhaps it's too much human food
that sets his digestion to brood
well, whatever the cause is
when it turns loose, gee whiz

Our white walls once so mellow
from his methane are turning yellow
and it won't be long , I feel
before his gas makes the paint peel

long time

Submitted by Victorclaude on Sun, 2011-01-09 10:22

long time

wind knocks my windows
pleasing rattle in time
tickling syncopated thoughts
flaunting flirtatiously in
synaptic space

following daisy chain
melodies --
playing while cat
cleans its paws

Siamese voice refrains
guttural without question
asking none

but scratch just behind the
ears

Earth meets sunlight once
again
thing called a new day
begins its tick away tempo

metronome flurry
sound quails at immensity
of it all

A Lovely Piece

Submitted by loved on Sun, 2011-01-09 09:41

A Lovely Piece

Others will read
This lovely piece
Only if you read theirs
It’s like give and take
And
Then we rake
Make, so many friends
And
Compose some poems,
We love,
Others to the garbage bins,
We dispose.
Love is all in the air,
Don’t blankly stare,
For other poets do care.
To appreciate a brethren
In this world today
Tis rare
So love do share,
And
Now go
Take some fresh air.

SO PRETTY WINTER

Submitted by Nordic cloud on Sun, 2011-01-09 08:18

"SO PRETTY WINTER"
Margaret Ann Waddicor 6th January 2011.

The trees are so pretty where snow falls,
there blooming, on leaves they're quite big,
on sticks made of silver each twig.

The bark now so dark,
now halved by the stark white down,
asleep half asleep in its gown.
their presence enhancing the town.

The row of parked bikes
with new cushions that melt in the sun,
so smooth every one.

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