Join the Neopoet online poetry workshop and community to improve as a writer, meet fellow poets, and showcase your work. Sign up, submit your poetry, and get started.

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

Profile picture for Esker
Esker Feb 03, 2011

*Steamer rooms

Branded by the fire
the smoke entered
the room of love
where naked hearts
beat patina seconds

the walls wept with
rust and waves of
rivulets caressed
the cut where the
blade sought
dorsel dreams

and they met
while heaven drowned
and hell crept

the brands of light
falling like cries

...

Profile picture for Timbo
Timbo Feb 03, 2011

The Seed (in the beginning)

My father was a Poet in his bygone days
with his poems ‘For a Kite Hawk’ and ‘Indian Ways’.
He wrote of love for Mother and of David too
and words of Christian faith with a prayer or two.

When I used to know him before he sadly died
he would show his poems to me with modest pride.
But I was too young to know, he’d sown a seed in me
for at that time, I did not take to words of poetry.

Profile picture for Hooded Stranger
Hooded Stranger Feb 03, 2011

Heavy

Heavy

The weight of guilt
Hangs heavy within my mind
Gonna cut out my weary eyes
Suffer my life alone and blind

This weight of regret
Hangs heavy upon my soul
Gonna move on, far away
No purpose, nor control

It's too much
Can't carry it anymore
My body aches
My shoulders too sore

It's too much
Can't go on no more
I am too weak
This pain I can't ignore

Profile picture for loved
loved Feb 03, 2011

Of love

Of love
I am a sexologist, you now know it, ask me any questions and I shall tell no lies, as love alone lies between the thighs. Mental, is just an aberration, to create emotional revolution and as know of sex, I always recall my masters voice, ere he died.

Give me sex,
He said but I can't stand no more,
Just remember my life's experience for sure

Love lies between the thighs
And
That’s for sure,
I can make no love no more
And then he died...
He couldn’t endure!

Profile picture for lou
lou Feb 03, 2011

Attack

Jackal dogs on the attack
Rampant,laceration.
Filled with envy and greed.
but we fight back.

Nefarious fiends
Your teeth are showing,
Throw down the gauntlet
We have never been friends..

Attack, retreat, attack
Your battle plan is a classic,
But you’re only exposing what you lack.

Counter action sends
You reeling, Jackal dogs brawling and bitching
you will continue to hit dead ends,

For the hunted will turn back
And strike you.
That is our pact.

The defeated will win.

S
scribbler Feb 02, 2011

RAIN ON A TIN ROOF (tiny edit)

An all night winter rain and storm;
outside it's cold, in here its warm
while sitting before a gas log fire
we watch the tube and conspire.

The rain upon a roof of tin
sometimes can cause an awful din
causing us to raise our voices
while we discuss our program choices.

But at least this heavy rain
is not joined by sleet's refrain
or accompanied by forming ice.
Losing electric is not so nice.

S
smilecatcher Feb 02, 2011

The moment the light went out

The moment the light in her eyes went out,
like a snuffed-out candle, her sun lost its glow.
Vacantly staring at a whitewashed wall,
void of graffiti, its substance is gone.

Having to keep busy, busy like bees in a hive,
only to be outdone by frantic ants in a hill.
The heartbreaking cry of a thunderous sky wounded
by a boundless echo of distress.

Profile picture for Rett
Rett Feb 02, 2011

Seven Moons of Shaldimoor

Seven Moons of Shaldimoor

She stands overlooking the valley
Where the river winds along the floor
Below the great Fountain of Rainbows
That have been the pride of Shaldimoor

Far up the Pinnacle of Heaven
Rise the high Towers of Tomorrow
Looking down upon the lush valley
At the great river known as Sorrow

A breeze is blowing lightly southward
As the fountain flows toward the valley floor
She stands there, her eyes filled with wonder
Beneath the seven moons of Shaldimoor

Profile picture for Psyve
Psyve Feb 02, 2011

FAREWELL TO JUNE, FAREWELL IN MARCH

.
.
FAREWELL TO JUNE, FAREWELL IN MARCH

The Colonel’s gone:
There’s an old lady all alone
And so forlorn;
Suddenly, with him not there
She’s past her prime:
Out of tune and out of breath
And out of time…

And her days drag on and on…
And her nights are, oh, so long...
She remembers days in 'Doon:
Stairwells and starch,
Farewells in March,
Farewell to June!

Profile picture for Timbo
Timbo Feb 02, 2011

Who Can You Trust.

As I begin my usual walk, a teenage boy is standing there
I try not to catch his glance and I know I must not stare.
He has an evil look in his eyes, or maybe it’s just fear
or is his young head the victim of, too much under age beer.
I quickly walk past him, feeling too old to risk a fight
I don’t suppose he will bother me, but maybe he just might.