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Introspection Free Verse Poems | Free Verse Poems About Introspection

These Introspection Free Verse poems are examples of Free Verse poems about Introspection. These are the best examples of Introspection Free Verse poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Free verse |

Footprints

Frothy waves stretch to kiss toes
Hikers plodding sandy coasts
Leaving imprints on the shore

Who journeyed here, perhaps this morn
As the orange orb created dawn
Summoning sun worshipers

Footprints far too large to fill
Descended down the shell-strewn hill
Then hugged the waves’ low tide

The retirement community
Sends scouts here daily just to see
If the sands of time still wait

Alas, they do, imprints remain
Sacrificed to sea when evening tide returns again

Their legacies erased each day
Another scout, another age
Will surely cast its prints anew


Details | Free verse |

Another Man's Clothes

I wonder
Who I might become
If I wore another man's clothes
If I thought his thoughts
Dreamed his dreams
Lived his heartache
Felt his insanity
Walked along his razor's edge

Would I
Understand
Empathize
Digest his pain
Rise above his circumstances
Would I realize how easy my own life has been

Perhaps
I could search through his pockets
Look for answers
Remove the tie from his neck that strangles
Rip off the clothes that make the man
Return his sanity
Free him from the labels sewn on yesterday's promises

Or I could walk
A bit longer
Search a bit deeper
Discard my own misconceptions
Feel his peace
Think different thoughts
For he is more and less than me
He has danced and loved in exceptional ways
And as I walk and wear his shoes
I hear the tapping of his soul
I become
Aware
It is not him
Not me
Not anyone
That can save us
From ourselves
Yet we are changed
In inexplicable ways
By wearing
Another man's clothes


I chose this one for your contest because I feel as 
a poet I put myself in other people's clothes all the time.
I like the premise of this contest and I hope this gives you
a glimpse of who I am. 

Richard Lamoureux
Submited December 20 2013
written in early December.


Details | Free verse |

AS FATHER IS TO HIS DAUGHTER


Passing through framed windows like ours, I recall your tales of reckless war and lost friends that burned your innocence at 21... and though you claimed flashes of courage, moist eyes poured vulnerability looking calm, undaunted. We both searched deeply into our souls as a father is to his young daughter, that I wanted to let you know, it was alright; but that mound of shoulders turned away. Down the years as officer and gentleman, Time stole long weeks, absent from your dining chair, leaving me resentful and bitter on hardened sills until you arrive under crawling dock of stars. But in free moments, how you cherished me so; waking my cheeks at 3 am to race the winds, to fly with a shooting neon, laughing with a blue moon. You spoke of faith and honor if life dared a shame, oh mild scent of your arms cuddling my girlish dreams... until off you rode suddenly on heaven’s wheel. I see you through all framed windows like ours, that even if my iced breaths needed you more as small flowers thirsted for rain, my anger was a cry for love’s company... “ I have adored you in moments of distance and nearness, if not always, then for all eternity.” Have I forgotten to open this, my soft, broken sigh? Dad, everything is all right. The Confessional Contest


Details | Free verse |

KARMA



Fluted hands angle on knees as glimpses 
sort the knitted threads of a late afternoon
where gathering of blooms abide.
Almost friendless, a man inhabits his space
ready to inhale the waft of new dusk, 
of how a world in his inner terrain mirrors
the ceremonials of a mindful passage
upon grasses and half-lit windows
outside the self. 

And through a prayerful instance,
he connects with a god hushing the tempo
of sighs mixed with incense blowing, as if 
to twirl in an air of breaths cleansing
the scabs of trespasses. Miles of babel words
turn into a different language: quite unknown
and understood only by him who finds
contentment in being unbound ,of gliding 
above a haloed sky that reflects the movement
inside his awakened essence.

For the atonement of all misgivings,
he releases his pride in layers 
of deep confession to pay for his karmic debt;
that in a warm communion with humility
he makes amends for life's consequences

as stillness becomes his friend.


Anthony Slausen's Karma


Details | Free verse |

Spaces

As my thoughts shrink my mind expands
Growing into the spaces between my words
The words of others
Refreshed within the pauses
Dancing inside possibilities
Filling in the blanks

Words suspended
Within time and space
Connecting the random with the infinite 
Skipping along
Flowing through in whispers

The spaces 
Reflecting eternal promises
Stepping stones along elastic highways
Breaths yet to be exhaled
Here I grasp for inked pleasure

My resting place
along inspiration's highway
My moments of calibration 
Synaptic revelations
Hallways leading to ancient corridors
The place where all artist meet

Each space, appears the same
To those unable to see
They can't feel the symphony
Yet, we who live, within the spaces
Rise together
Give applause
A world expanded from the small
An opening within word walls
Rising to float, upon the breeze
They lift our mind with subtle ease
Come and join me please
I have space 
I have room
Within my spaces
For you








Details | Free verse |

Didn't Don't

.

Didn't Don't
Somebody keeps pulling on the rope to swing the bells
   didn't don't       
            didn't don't
Don't touch it. Don't say it. Don't do it. Don't doubt it. Don't think.

Somebody handcuffs my steps. Somebody determines my boundaries.
Before I fully understand free will, there is a slap on my head
      and phosphenes like stars that command my orbit.
Before I can recognize differences, there is a slap on my hand
      right hand, not left hand...never ambidextrous; 
      and time out is isolation without a trial...and I learn
                               the fear of wrongdoing
                               remote-controlling my existence,
conditional on demand, predesigned
      and easily
      and obviously
      frightened
An aborted freedom escaping into the sewer
trying not to get it on the seat

I'm the observer of other lives, not mine               
tied up and chained, in captivity 
attempting to prove an alibi 
                    for being alive.
No one cares
not even myself

Somebody pulls on the rope to swing the bells
   didn't don't       
           didn't don't
It's dirty. It's ugly. It's bad. It's poo. It's sin.

commitments, commandments... Commandments, Commitments
                               Salvation... Damnation
Sometimes deception makes them ring in a low tone. Sometimes
I do what they say, and not what they do, and not what I want, and not what I think.

                 Through   fragments   of   this   duplicity,
                                               and   this   duplicity, 
I would be able to rebuild myself,
                                and Myself, into another hypocritical being;
and the intentional perversion of the self proclaimed truth,
                                or the liar paradox,
                                will be sovereign
leading to the use of tricks and cotton swabs.

When the remorseless hours run counterclockwise,
I would be happy through imaginary experiences,
consistently depurated,
consistently believed to be true.
             
Would I dare to examine the society in which I've been educated and raised?
Would I dare rip my skin...my flesh off of my bones?
How could I blame them? How could I possibly judge them?
Order and obedience in confabulation...in conspiracy...in complicity

If somebody keeps pulling on the rope to swing the bells
If I'm the only one guarding my own cell
If I'm the jailer, and the convict, and the crime.


.



Details | Free verse |

Melded

Questions hang suspended like stalactites Time, circumstance and elements contributing to its formation (—then something else seeps in, pushing me to call it fate) Questions that know not whether they should be voiced out and see light ...or remain hidden in caves, destined to be only heard by the labyrinthine chambers of the heart But yes, it is inevitable that these questions d r i p They drip, bit by bit, oozing with curiosity, forming more queries, that turn into stalagmites— Grounded questions to the suspended ones, open-ended to the closed. Sometimes meeting, creating columns, melded complements of each other. And then this makes me wonder— When these questions meet, do they ever find answers within themselves? Will the truth ever be brave enough to come out of hiding? This then makes me think of the words within souls, how these souls are the questions, in search of answers. ...And of how your words, your thoughts, your feelings, can drip into mine, feeding that inner glow It then collects, forming this deluge, flooring me as it creates a bond so powerful, it seems to defy time and even reason. A fascinating influx, that makes me smile despite myself Where sometimes I don’t know the beginning from the end— where bliss swims freely there, immersed in waves of laughter and ripples of tears. This for me is the beauty of it all, the search, the mystery...the discovery That constant ebb and flow, the give and take, that push and pull the flooding and trickling, that hiding and seeking Where one listens as the other speaks, but ah, both feeding off each other— hungry, thirsty, full, satiated yet craving for more. It’s something akin to, but not quite to how sunlight makes way for moon’s glow, how thunder rolls after the lightning strikes, coming hand in hand...yet both so defined. -------------------------------------------------------------- Yes, the questions may still hang like stalactites, and sometimes I do wonder if they will fall— And if they do, will they shatter, piercing hearts as they do? Or will their fates let them stay there, melding with stalagmites, standing the test of time, and sparkling as they do? June 17, 2012


Details | Free verse |

Thought Police

I'm afraid
So afraid
Of being arrested
By the thought police

Their rules are many
Think this
Think that
Don't diverge from the normal
Stop playing on the street corner of tomorrow
Let sleeping dogs rest
Do not question
Do not burn on passionate bonfires

I watch as they ready their weapons
They display arresting warrants through clouded glass
Fifty shades of bland
Cuffs dangling from bulging belts
Bound in self rightous blunder
They wait outside my door
Screaming bull horns command me to exit my paper freedom
I am blinded by search lights, forced to use my third eye
Fearful of their uniformed presence
How long will they be held at bay?

I hold their preconceptions hostage
They cannot see beyond their script
Trained in the warfare of ignorance 
They say "who are you, to question our authority?"

I answer
"I am the poet
The one who dreams beyond here and now
My words push through yesterday like a plow!
Yet I am gentle like the rain
Equal parts of pleasure and pain
A powerful detergent
I remove ancient stains
With my words I shake the ground
I will not be stopped by another's sound
Arrest me, yet you can't stop what I think
Within my mind I determine what I drink."

The thought police
Turn to another
The writings of our sisters and brothers
They wait, with cuffs in hand
Unable to understand
The few
The many
Who have joined hands
The poets
The thinkers
We take a stand



Inspired by Eileen Ghali's poem "The Hidden Woman"

Catie Lindsay's Heart of the matter contest.


Details | Free verse |

Mixing Of The Bones

If we could peel back the blanket of earth
To expose the bones buried there

Mix them all up in a great big pile
To say they'd all look the same would be fair

The rich man, the poor, the blind and the weak
Each gender, religion and race

The short, the tall, the large and the small
And include every shape of the face

If we had to choose one bone at a time
Not knowing who's bones belonged to whom

To make ourselves over new again
I wonder how well we'd do

Not judging by color, size or shape
Or status of high IQ

The bones might fit together just fine
And stay together till the end of time

©Donna Jones



Details | Free verse |

Things That Seemed Poetic

Things that seemed poetic were always sad,
though I yearned for sparkle
and my dad's guffaw, which never came.
Familiar things were always drear --
repeated motions in the same old game.
There were only distant glimpses
of budding spring, fleeting views
of daffodils. The strongest
poems dealt me death and dying.
Yet I always hoped, never went under
to gray despair, always dreaming
of a garden of love that we could share.
But those forbidden delights faded
quickly away; the only reality
I understand is the ever-looming
and final one. Nothing's changed.
The strongest poems deal death and dying.


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