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.
Like a little baby
That missed his mother,
For her return consoles him.
Like a little bird
That got lost in the morning,
Hoped at last found it’s nest.
How blissful he is,
How delighted,
For the naked trees unveiled his path.
In the mixed was I too,
In his train I am again,
For he toke the flag.
Birth -Life - Death the three inevitable/occurrences
Born by collusion of two ...NO Control
LIFE is what you make of
by your own mind's resolution
Use your brains or use other's
to help yours rust...
It is just a string connecting two...
DEATH ===The ultimate finality of all that seeds into life ===INEVITABLE 100 PERCENT
LIFE'S COMMAS NOW END IN A FULL STOP
All else is faith and imagery
REBIRTH OR NOT...
ALL WHAT!
NONE KNOWS IT.
nor ever
WILL
If I have one shot at it, I want to give you my all.
It’s got to be more than filling in preferences,
That I’m worth the time I spent on earth,
Not filling a dating site to match the tall to the tall-
That I’m short, Wagnerian, and Khrishnamurti-ish.
How can I put it all in one song, one short ballad?
To sing of the wilderness, of cities and their tears,
The indescribable finality looking at the galaxies-
Praise she who shared my bed, dancing the years
As I played the dizzy bird of paradise...
I saw him by the tool aisle, a young hairy bearded man pointing his index finger to his ear in a small circular motion. First one way, then the opposite. After three chorus's of circles, he would slap his ear as if it had water in it. Then suddenly from deep down low "Holy" a pause, a deep breathe, and at half-time in his mile long sigh an echo of "Holy". People tried not to notice this delusional man as even clerks on cellphones took little note. He was close by, but my fear blinded any attempt to look him in the eye.
We are privileged humans,
The United States grants us freedom.
All of us as citizens
Have the same opportunity to bloom.
But are we really free?
We have freedom that is granted to us from the law
But how many of our thoughts are enslaved by moors?
Are we oblivious to the white America that we live under?
Yes, we are more privileged than other nations,
And for that I am grateful.
But, there is a huge space
For improvement.
“To form a more perfect union”.
AHHHHHH OOOOO oooooo Marvelous metaphorical poetry
How happy am I
that ere I leave the world
for my final sojourn
I have come across
a wizard of poet tree in you
alas my ego has since been buried
I am no poet
I thought I was married to poetry
composed by no one else like me
now I am just a seedling
reading thee
my roots need to go deep
ere I weep
upon the days since gone
a narcissistic poet in me
succumbs
now I am done
ego has been abandoned
Some of the mornings
of early fall glow gold;
sunbeams burst
through the leaves promising
all the happiness in the world.
The other ones carry the gloom
of the morning after
a post apocalyptic fallout.
The forest floor
suffocates under the plaster
of the fallen leaves
and rot takes over.
Regardless,
I brush my teeth and go
into the woods
to check if I can still run faster
than the day before.
I move foot by foot.
Since shepherds had turned wolves,
devouring they own sheep,
then I better remain a sheep of myself.
Since the truth has been enslaved,
And the apron of Christianity is now a commodity
Juicing tasty venoms for the souls
I rather become a sheep of myself
It’s the eye we see,
The mind is hidden
tell the deer to run while the lion is asleep
Before the grave yawns hungrily
Sheepishly they accept the faith
The quest for miracles and signs
A prophecy long foretold.
Careful was I when I took my way
The incident which brought me to his eye
The eyes that leads to deceit of destruction,
The groan of an innocent heart,
That to warning she ignored.
My heart panted, fearfulness affrighted me,
The night of my pleasure.
The pleasure night hath he turned into fear unto me.
For valve was lost.
The error of the night, the pleasure
That ends with the night
For crime was it to love.
Think of thou offspring yet to come my friend,
She was a true definition of mystique.
Her presence no one wouldn't crave.
Flawless, enchanting was her physique,
no one could ever make her fall in love.
I sat one sunny day, by the bank of a stream.
Suddenly my name i heard her call,
it was so real it couldn't have been a dream,
she bid me come to a secluded waterfall.
Under the waterfall she held me tightly close.
I felt her warmth and soothing caress,
and she smiled as my ardor rose,
as the frigid water hurled down on us.