These Free Verse Peace poems are examples of Free Verse poems about Peace. These are the best examples of Free Verse Peace poems written by international PoetrySoup poets
Every day, I fall in love with something new,
while maintaining the love I have already found.
I fall in love with scars, wrinkles,
redundancies and repetition,
items that people throw into the wind,
kick around and step upon.
I fall in love with my enemies,
one of life's hardest lessons to learn.
I find haters to be marvelous motivators.
Every day, I fall in love with something new,
while reinforcing the love I have already found.
The old man who sits in a rain-filled gutter,
seemingly oblivious to the water sluicing down the hill,
splashing against his clothes -
fists raised up to the heavens in fury
as he talks to an invisible audience
about how Apollo stole his dearly beloved wife....
....I fell in love with him too.
I fall in love with things that some people deem as insignificant,
ugly, morose, dirty and immoral.
The more I fall in love, the more I love each passing moment,
including the pain, torture and misery that may appear along the way.
If I write down treasonously treacherous words,
the reader could assume such words to be rooted in rage
or a cynical outlook. But the words are actually born out of love -
I love every single word in existence.
Every day, I fall in love with something new,
while still maintaining the love I have already found.
I fall in love with the woman
who is too shy to have a proper conversation with anyone,
because she believes herself to be very ugly,
when in fact, she is an exquisitely gorgeous woman.
I fall in love with broken daffodils, bent daisies,
a shattered seashell, the sweet stench of rotting seaweed on the shore,
the way her hair smells baking in the sun.
I fall in love with black and white photographs,
hypnotized by the essence the dead have left behind.
I fall in love with marbles, the feathers of mourning doves,
and with the stray cat who after watching the moving truck drive away,
slunk around the alley in search of scraps -
over the years, she has proven to be
a most respectful and loyal animal.
I fall in love with saints, villains, rusted watering cans,
the way sunlight bends into prisms when it shines
through the cracked antique windowpane
which I simply cannot find the presence to replace.
And as for the people who think that my love is a whole
different spectrum of emotions,
or how it is impossible for someone like myself
to fall in love with something new, every, single day....
....well, I love them too.
April 6th, 2012
The sky resembles the robin's eggshells
scattered across the ground,
a blue so seemingly infinite yet fragile,
cracks running between understanding and madness
complementing each other
as divine truths in their own right
to conquer my mind,
to unhinge the doors,
making it unnecessary to pick rusted locks
letting thoughts fly free,
releasing love out into the horizon.
If frozen within caged snapshots of mildewed expectations,
it will surely die,
but even so,
I was willing to strangle it by holding on too tightly.
Until I saw the sky and eggshells today
Peppered clouds reflected on the water,
paralleling speckles on the eggshells,
remind me of the freckles on your face.
We need to be wide-open-free,
we need to fly,
without focusing too hard on shells of yesterdays.
We need to unclench our fists,
unclench our tongues,
explore the vast blue peppered sky
on wings of letting go....
so that we can once again feel with purity,
so that we can hold each other ever closer.
*GRANDMA WAITS IN THE GARDEN*
Hi grandpa it's me again!
Your dentures sit in an open glass
Do you remember the tears grandma sang before she passed?
The way she looked into your eyes,
moments before she said her goodbyes.
Grandpa, I found a note from grandma, she doesn't want you to cry.
Hi grandpa, it’s me again!
The rocking chair is old and dusty
Do you remember the way grandma sat me on her lap?
Read many stories before I took a nap
How she enjoyed brushing my hair with her hands
Love the way she rocked me to sleep every night until I grew.
I stored your hearing aid away
Do you remember that special musical box in grandma drawer?
I opened it last night, to watch the ballerina dance
I wish you could hear the tiny chimes grandma loved
I hope you don’t mind I’m keeping grandmothers favorite scarf.
I'm caressing grandma’s picture frame
Do you like the way she looked in that pretty sundress?
Grandpa I miss the things grandmother did for you
I like the walking stick she handcrafted, the day your needed support
It kept you in balance every time we took long hikes in the woods.
Hello grandpa, it's me again!
Here I sit holding your hand.
I have no more tears.
Soon you will see grandma.
Please tell her hi, and I know you will be there the day I die.
Bye bye grandpa
Give grandma a kiss for me.
Memories of the North Sea
sift in like sand kernels
on a fast, frigid tide -
events that transpired outside
the confines of rhyme,
instead, unfolding exactly
as they were meant to.
I had never before seen
so many shades of gray.
This monochromatic splendor
within an absence of sunshine
that was perfectly fitting,
instead of being bleak and bleary.
The smell of salt and seaweed
awoke deep within me
something dormant and eternal -
a surging desire to flush
from out of my blood
with an inverted force of pride.
Salty blood and water
coming together in a communion
of distant relations and movements.
A flash of bright red
digging in the sand beside me.
My child is wearing the only
vibrant colour to be seen for many kilometres.
The colour matches
her enthusiasm and energy,
as she moves from one spot to the next
like a dancing flame.
My own fire burns in my eyes.
I had unconsciously dressed
in the same colours of the sky and sea,
blending into the scenery
as a chameleon --
an illusion thicker than clouds,
an illusion of stone
for me to melt and reinvent
at the spinning speed of thought.
I look over at my daughter
who is wearing a wide smile of wonder,
for she has not ever seen the ocean before.
She can see the chameleon
walking alongside her in the frothy surf.
Together, we collect shiny stones and shells,
our pants rolled-up to the knee
as we wade through waves.
I wonder if people onshore
can only see a solitary dash of red out here,
or if the chameleon is more
noticeable than I had thought,
while we watch sea-birds
cover the steep cliffs
in a blanket of black and white feathers.
~(2012 North Sea Remix)~
Authored by Chuck Keys
It had no color,
Lacking shape, size and dimension.
It wasn't moving or breathing.
There was neither aroma nor taste, not here or there.
Touching was useless because it wasn't physical.
It was indistinct and limitless.
Multi-sensually and multi-psychologically
It wasn't here or there and it was.
With no distinction,
It looked like everything else,
Or it could not have looked like everything else.
It never made me feel good nor bad,
Nor happy nor sad
Nor quite nor trite.
In our world of joy and destroy, we sort and distort,
Looking more on the surface and less on the inside,
Ready to judge and be judged from outside in.
The "oneness" of mankind stretches beyond definitions and limits,
From outside to inside and from inside to outside.
We are one distinct and alike world of "oneness."
Differences exist for differences,
Therefore, differences don't exist.
Only "oneness" exists.
This poem is dedicated to Dr. Clayborne Carson and The Gandhi-King Community,
For Global Peace with Social Justice in a Sustainable Environment.
I want to wear a djellabas.
Blackness engulfing me in its tentlike refuge
veiled in gauze.
Or a burkha of blue with a screen
over my face to hide
I want to wear rope sandals
down a dusty Afghan road on
the warmest of days
with the wind whistling
through the Khyber Pass.
I want to know the language,
taste the food,
gaze at the bearded men I pass
who will not know
I am looking at them.
They are handsome and brave in Kabul.
I want to hear the children
reciting the Koran
in their Pushtu cadence
and play upon a tabir
with a beat of
The room is still,
Quiet but for wind and rain
Making music on the windows.
Empty but for endless shelves
Of leather-bound volumes -
The first editions you loved so much.
The desk is weathered, coated
In a film of dust.
The chair is old and worn,
Tucked in just where you left it.
I can almost hear it creak
Under your weight,
Hear you whistle in that absent way.
I can almost see you there,
Hunched over creased pages,
Reading Keats or Blake.
I can almost smell that familiar scent
Of fresh soap and musty books,
Of spices and cigar smoke.
So many ask me to follow them
through rusty gates and broken doors
Where will I be led
whom shall I follow
Are their directions better than my own?
Will I lead myself down the garden path?
Perplexed by messages
What will satisfy?
Is there meaning to life?
Blind guides speak loudly
painting pretty pictures on my mind
Enticing me with their magic
They speak like they know
They want me to see what they think they see
It is so close
just over the next horizon
Being at one with the universe
Peace, love, understanding
I pick up a book
It warns me
there is but one way
Directed to the only Son
A gift from the Father
The creator of all things
Earthly wisdom to be ignored
become as a little child
The opposite of all that I had known
A single narrow path
I am slowly guided along
no longer alone
I know who I will follow
I am on the road to home
You know how we sometimes analyze too much and forget to feel?
It’s okay to feel -
whether it be confusion
or you just want to cry -
even the strong ones like us get lost
we don't always say what we really need,
we hide behind the go between and supporter to everyone..
So tonight if you're lost
know that in your silence you can still
liaise with your Maker...
He sees beyond what we ever imagined
most importantly He gives us the peace
and guidance we sometimes seek in others...
He is the voice inside your heart
the one that makes you care
the voice that cries at injustices
when life becomes unfair
He is compassion deep within
that stirs and makes you feel
the hurt and pain and helplessness
of the suffering and grieved
He is your comfort in sadness felt
when you try to understand
the senseless emphasis on things
of insignificance to man
He is the love no one can cloak
the tears of joy you shed
the water that connects the souls
of both the living and the dead
He is the force that shielded you
that kept you safe from falling
the guide that won't leave you alone
until you hear his voice that's calling
The voice that says he's engraved inside
your heart and soul and mind
and he'll bring to you remembrances
if you but want to seek, you'll find
He is the voice you know exists
healing wounds of your life's story
The voice determined that you win
And be partaker of his glory
He is the peace who ends despair
the truth in you for cause to say
"My God! My God! I know you're here
for you shine to light the way
and blood once shed has cleansed my sins
My aged old mind has been set free
Father I do glorify thy name
for grace that reconciles through Christ in me"
And thus it is..the voice of hope
that enables you to stand
His reach is to the very core
His wisdom..the rebirth of the soul of man...