This shows the poems in just one one workshop. To see all the poems on Neopoet, go to the stream. Or go to the ">workshop page itself, where you can find out more about the syllabus.
I am writing a poem for you. It's not likely to work.
I will try, even though I will probably not get it right.
It might help if I think and then write. Confidence also helps.
Or I could take a peek at a poem already in vogue.
I am writ / ing a po /em for you, / it's not like / ly to work.
I will try, / even though / I will prob / ab..ly not / get it right.
Boy, is it hard to be writing a verse like this.
Patiently presenting amazing story lines.
Perhaps I should be more careful and listen more.
after all writing is funny and exciting.
BOY, is it / HARD to be / WRIT..ing..a / VERSE like this.
PA..tient..ly / PRE..sen..ting / AMA..z..ing / STOR..y lines.
Beautiful, bountiful, beleaguered princesses,
tortured and tormented, exhibit tolerance.
Patiently, presenting amazing fortitude.
Constantly forgiving horrible attitudes.
Frightened mice sit waiting. Dogs sit skulking.
River fish swim, knowing tigers eat flesh.
Leopards keep on running, feeling horny.
Wild horses gallop, splashing water.
Fright..end / mice sit / wait..ing. / Dogs sit / skulk..ing.
Riv..er / fish swim / know..ing / tig..ers / eat flesh.
Leo..pards / keep on / run..ing / feel..ing / horn..y
wil..d / hor..ses / gal..lop / splash..ing / wat..er.
Second Attempt
Autumn is full of fruit and bright sunlight.
It brings tasty morsels ready to eat.
The beasts of earth banquet before winter
gorging, in haste, until feeling replete.
Au..tumn / is full / of fruit / and bright / sun light
it brings / ta..sty / mor..sels / rea..dy / to eat.
The beasts / of earth / ban..quet / be..fore / win..ter
gor..ging / in haste / un..til / fee..ling / re..plete.
Third attempt - iambic
Heavy weights are crushing me.
Painful chains of history
locked my heavy fears inside and
flung the saving key away.
Filthy hands have built the Col'nies;
walls to part, and lawless policies.
Tanks to bomb extensive fire
burning innocents' homes and legacies.
Dozers deep in earth are digging
leaving grains of sand down squeaking .
Rooting vine and olives out
blazons farmers senescing .
Who would promise a flourishing garden
that is barren and poor with no womb?
With no food or a plough it would harden
the attempt to attain what might bloom.
Who'd be raising the child; that's the voice
of the future, genteel, and true stone,
if his parents do not care with a choice
of upbringing his manhood with hone?
That's the verse with no rhythm or rhyme,
with no thoughts to evoke or to bliss
or emotion to shake-that's sublime
it won't awe or invoke, it's amiss.
Trying a dactylic verse on a blank page
driving a fool to a desperate act of rage
fearfully referencing Webster
knowing this form he'll never master
Identity, my old enemy, how do you do?
Making me wonder who am I, like you give a Damn.
Spinning my wheels at your hands, you make me crazy.
Poison arrow through my heart, heated dagger in my eye.
Thoughtless bastard, you darken my soul, make me lose my mind.
Through your torture, the push and pull, I find comfort in your arms.
Twisted love turned to hate, as I second guess my fate.
Where do I belong, you spit in my face, grinding my dreams to dust.
Okay children, here is my final submission for your perusal. It concerns the blade of Princess Clair'ice Christenson who is one of the heroines in my epic poem ÇAÇÔ, Man of the Morning Star. It is written in strict "heroic verse" which is to say Dactylic Hexameter. I have not scanned it. That I leave to you if you would.