Best Free Rein Poems
When starlings were swimming in the azure lake,
When bats and owls began their nocturnal ride,
When all the Earth under a dark blanket lay,
And man and beast into sweet repose retired,
My Muse, like a sweet temptress, came to me
To set this captive free, to give free rein to my fancy.
She sang into my ears the lovely strains
Of a placid melody, bathing me in sheer delight
Creating in me a passion too intense
To articulate my disjointed thoughts
Into vibrant melodies of beauty and love.
Soon fireflies of thoughts came flitting,
Like bees around a looted honey comb.
In a butterfly net, I trapped them all.
They clustered together in a clumsy heap,
Making my darkened zone bright
With little arcs of shimmering light.
I placed them carefully in an ordered strain,
Word after word, in meaningful sequence,
Fashioning them into a beautiful symphony,
Arousing in me mystical spells of joy.
When your Muse comes knocking at your door,
Delay her not, but let her in
And go for a merry ride with her
Into some sleepy glades where silence resides.
There, let her magic wand kiss and caress you
From head to foot and all over,
Awakening your fancy from deep slumber,
Parading before you, scenes of beauty and wonder,
That, songs of passion are born from you
Gushing forth in streams of honeyed dew.
So, write on....!
Moonlight glistened like stars on the snowy mountain lane
Ascending to a mesa above the timberline
Horses from the valley ranch often grazed with free rein
More than once fillies had climbed up the steep incline
One morning after the mare Midnight had disappeared
Ranch hands formed a posse and set out to search the hills
The raven-black horse was loved; for her safety they feared
A winter storm set in; hands faced heavy snow and chills
As night approached, dejected posse members returned
The ranch owner consoled them and offered his deep thanks
All felt their rescue mission failed, hung their heads concerned
As snow piled high, blowing, drifting into heavy banks
Three days of frigid weather kept horses inside their stalls
Passing Midnight’s empty booth made rugged cowboys sad
It was on the fourth day they witnessed an end to snow squalls
A sight on the mountain trail turned many faces glad
Midnight slowly plodded down the hill, nudging her foal
A painted pony, black with vivid spots of white
The colt looked like her mother, covered with flakes of snow
Hoof prints down the mountainside shone in morning light
Midnight had taken shelter inside a tiny cave
Just large enough for a determined equine mother
To rest a few days after birthing a stunning babe
A miracle, ranch hands said, unlike any other
Theme: Horses and Snowflakes
For Constance, a Rambling Poet's "Horses or Snowflakes or Horses and Snowflakes" contest
by Carolyn Devonshire
I'm as free as the wind as I sway in the saddle!
I love life! There's no clutter, nothing to addle!
I give my faithful horse Wild Lightning free rein,
As we meander across God's magnificent terrain!
My pal Spooks trots ahead surveying sagebrush and crags.
I sense that he enjoys life too by the tail he wags!
I crave no roof - the wide-open range is my home.
Territorial bounds don't confine me - freely I roam!
Well-worn saddlebags contain my earthly possessions.
I don't aspire riches nor am I burdened by obsessions.
My soul abounds with wealth as I view His Creation!
Ah! The grandeur of it all! 'Tis ample compensation!
I pause on a knoll viewing the vast panorama and ponder,
The river, a lake, those snow-capped mountains o'er yonder!
In the valley a herd of pronghorn antelope gambol and play.
At dusk The Master Artist paints a majestic sunset display!
Campfire embers slowly die - Wild Lightning grazes nearby.
Spooks lies at my feet - snug in my blanket I gaze at the sky.
I anticipate being awakened by a glorious sunrise next morn,
When Wild Lightning, Spooks and I continue our vagabond bourne!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
“Poetry is eternal graffiti written in the heart of everyone.” — Lawrence Ferlinghetti
When starlings were swimming in the azure lake
When bats and owls began their nocturnal ride
When all the Earth under a dark blanket lay
My Muse, like a sweet temptress, came to me
To set this captive free, to give free rein to my fancy
She sang into my ears the lovely strains of a placid melody,
Bathing me in sheer delight, creating in me a passion too intense
To articulate my disjointed thoughts into vibrant melodies of beauty
Soon fireflies of thoughts came flitting like bees around a looted honeycomb
In a butterfly net, I trapped them all clustering together in a clumsy heap
Making my darkened zone bright with little arcs of shimmering light
I placed them carefully in an ordered strain, word after word,
In meaningful sequence, fashioning them into a beautiful symphony
When your Muse comes knocking at your door
Delay her not, but let her in and go for a merry ride with her
There, let her magic wand kiss and caress you
From head to foot and all over awakening your fancy
From deep slumber, that songs of passion are born from you,
Gushing forth in streams of honeyed dew,
For poetry is a life cherishing force!
Nov. 23.2022
~Placed Third~
Poetry is a Life Cherishing Force Contest
Sponsor – Sotto Poet
Re submitted for Brian Strand Contest. No.1170
When she takes her life into her own hands
with fingers that read braille
from dot to dot
Refuse to live in the void of darkness
between A-Y
No boat was built
to stand on shore
She wants to remove the writing itch
from dot to dot
Soft words that tickle the tongue
Let light shine in all lighthouses
over the seven seas
Read all favorite books
over and over again
creating images
sprinkled with angel dust
free rein to your imagination
For those who are blind
or visually impaired
a brilliant invention
Read and write
from dot to dot
to a flood of experiences
15.11.2022
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
When letters wait to pounce on a blank page,
when thoughts crowd the mind like frothing scum in a pond
I keep wondering what poetry is to me and to many
Is it not the language of the heart
with no intervention of gray matter
the unlocking of closed vaults
stirring the embers of love, hurt or pain
or giving a free rein to fancy and flying
on magic carpets to lands forlorn
Sometimes it is a glide into a sea of tranquillity
an escape from the humdrum of the world
a flash of liberation from assaults of pain
a sedative to numb the turmoil
a sanctuary for a burdened heart
a window to look at the world through
a companion when one is inconsolably alone
a candle flame in a darkening world
a cloth line to hang the dirty laundry
a water lily blooming in the pool of tears
a shelter in homelessness
sometimes it is a ladder to climb up to Heavens
an angel on wings with tidings of hope
peace in a world braced for war
Poetry, if you are all these let us fall at your feet
bless us in our art, may we splurge in fancy
and conjure up worlds from words!
Our poems may not be light houses
but could be fireflies on a starless night!
Submitted for Brian Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
July. 25. 2022
Submitted for Marathon Mile, No.14. Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Mark Toney
~ Placed First~
Poem on Poetry Muse Poetry Contest
Sponsor – Beta Agustin
There once was a playful little boy his imagination 'Oh' how it would soar
dreaming of nights of dragons and forts becoming the warlord of his blankets
and cardboard.
On a weekend day he requested to build a fort so the dragon he could slay
all the time his little mind running into overplay.
So being a kind mother him having no brothers or others
I gave him free rein not knowing his fort would look so strange.
From room to room he ran with delight grabbing any item in sight
preparing for his brave and final dragon fight.
Chairs were moved and tables were flipped even our cat would hiss and spit
while Polly our parrot sang Oprah in the background with a nervous twitch.
Finally, hours later and all out of breath he runs to my room his small hands
tugging and pulling yelling for me to come see his display.
With a large gasp my breath had escaped, what a colorful sight I did see
as he jumped up and down screaming whoopee!
All my panties were hanging at the top each one a special window
so he could see the dragon coming for him to slay all looking like a windsock.
His choice of weapons with colors of red, black and pink were all
of my thongs he had carefully turned into sling-shots.
Each one holding a hard candy he had proceeded to suck on
so they would all stay in place and lined up ready for his offense.
With a gentle pat on his head and a forced smile of dread into the fort we slid
while waiting on the dragon we ate candy looking out his windows ahead.
T Reams 10/11/2015 Contest Sponsored by: 'Team Poetry Soup'
So once again, with grim countenance, the ship sailed on with all bemoaning their woes
Till calm seas prevailed, with balmy sun, sweet zephyr song, they came to Helios' shores.
Helios, calm god of the day, smiled upon the lads, gave of his land free rein, but with a caveat-
Helios pride was his golden herd, indolent and fat,"Do what you will, but don't touch that"
Well, as was their wont, like a terrible refrain, full-weathered from woes and want, but yet unwise,
The crew, overcome by gluttonous greed, slaughtered a heifer, for raucous feast, not sacrifice.
Wild was Helios at this blatant deceit, with terrible curse, banished them all, to wander once again.
So with Helios' curse (and Neptune's help), the ship was tossed and soon lost, all crew were slain.
It was Odysseus alone who was alive, afloat on flotsam, floating about, with fervent wish of death
But sweet surcease was not his lot, more plight was his fate - his tryst was due with Charybdis yet.
Perhaps Scylla was a better bet, in it's slavering jaws a definite death, I think he'd rather have it
But caught he was in Charybdis' thrall, a vortex which ate him whole, and threw him out as spit.
Past the maelstrom's outer whirl was our hero tossed clinging to life's last hope, verily a straw
Floated, the wasted carricature of a man, denied of food and water, no sustenance he could draw.
But perchance the Gods smiled on him, wearied of their devious, puerile games going too long
Odysseus fell on land once more, where restored were life and limb, bewitched by Calypso's song.
Now Odysseus, all said and done, was a man vulnerable to worldly women's wanton wiles
And Calypso was full besot with our hero's lusty frame, his wit, his deeds and charming smiles.
For seven years did he taste bliss, ensconced in Calypso's arms with thought of home amiss
But one day, after seven years, did Caypso, with heavy heart, let him go on pleas of our Hermes.
From Calypso's isle did Odysseus sail on raft, through storm, as was now his habit, and came to Sceria
Where Nausicca, on Athena's urge, gave succor, till he sailed with Phaecians who had trade with Sumeria
The Phaecian ships soon landed Odysseus on fair Ithacan shores where Penelope had travail,
But my dear laddies, I must hie hence, for the Dawn is nigh, of Penelope and Suitors, is another tale.
Concluded
Don’t Fight It – Write It
When the urge to write – speaks
listen…don’t fight it… write it.
When the canoe tips over
don’t fight it….right it.
When the winds of praise
fill your billowing sails,
beware the capes of hope
where all wind fails.
Allow the “Muse” free rein
but never rule
for she may quell the pen
as you play writing’s fool.
Write with passion
of your pain,
soothing lovers
walking through the rain.
Grant unspoken truth
a voice to speak
lend the power of your pen
to those once weak.
Embrace the subtle shiftings
in your style
resisting them is
writing’s last denial.
Write within your soul’s
unblinking sight
for you - are you - and know
that you must write.
John G. Lawless
5/15/2015
submitted to – Advice for New Writers: words of Wisdom in Verse
sponsor – Tyshawn Knight
They looked forward to spend the weekend
in this haunted aged castle
Who believes in haunted stories?
It was evening when they arrived
the table was set for twelve guests
even if there were only four of them
The food was served in silence by the host
They just wanted to enjoy the meal and
jump to bed early
Suddenly the one empty chair moves
pushed half a meter backwards with one
scraper sound
The sound reaches right into the spinal cord
Everyone agreed it was scary
But who believes in haunted stories?
They understood that it was
several guests at the table than invited
Perhaps residents from earlier eras
After the meal they sat in silence and listened
Low muttering and the sound of knife against porcelain
and glasses that clinked
Where reality is no longer sufficient
and the imagination is given free rein
Neither the dog nor the guest found peace at night
whose slumbers their eyelids were wide open
The experience of what was real and true
that night no one can confirm
They tried to ignore it at first
but could feel someone breathing down their necks
Doors that were locked from the inside were opened
by invisible hands
The floor creaked and there was a cold grave breath in the room
The weekend was cut short after this one night
Hey, who believes in haunted stories?
Their memories are now tattooed and haunted
Incomprehensible to people who have never experienced this
26.02.2023
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
- H - Words - Poetry Contest -
Sponsored by: Constance La France
1st place in the contest
Won’t Stop Worrying
free rein
no gain
Barbara Campbell
07/07/15
Winter leaves
And falling rain,
Darkness; wounds
And growing pain.
"You used to say
That I was your inspiration...
From writing,
You could not refrain."
"There was a light in your eyes"
She said: "Now, your eyes are cold,
There's no more warmth in your hands;
You're getting awfully old!"
Winter leaves
And falling rain,
Darkness; wounds
And growing pain.
"I loved your words,
Your beautiful poetry!
To your imagination,
You used to give free rein."
"There was a light in your eyes"
She said: "Now, your eyes are cold,
There's no more warmth in your hands;
You're getting awfully old!"
With all the invisible tears
And all the hidden fears,
I lay down-dying-
Upon solitude's dilacerating spears.
Rochdi Bouille
November 25, 2016
I am applying for the consultant position
of Office Manager for which I will audition.
I am undeniably qualified to deal with nitwits
and idiots I will immediately classify as 'twits.'
My solution to deal with those people is fair
It may not be righteous, but I don't care.
If your company is greedy to make money,
it's ok with me. Just give me my check, honey.
I don't browbeat employees with a big stick
when they come in late or say they're sick
I'll crack the whip on any numbskull at work
and there's one less lazy fool I'll call a jerk.
If you think my method is severe over kill,
you're right, because I don't show good will
to jackasses who keep making me mutter
words you would only hear in a street gutter.
I'll get control and do what needs to be done
and I promise I'll try not to pull out a real gun.
I'll need some handcuffs and maybe a jail cell.
Give me free rein and everything will be swell.
My resume' experience speaks for itself.
Once, I've even fired an Elf on the Shelf
I did it without a good reason or just cause
so you can waiver that harrassment clause.
You can hire me now for a trial run.
Keep me on or fire me, but I'm the one
you need to give brainless creatures the boot...
not due to my work ethic, cuz I don't give a hoot.
I Dont Give A Fig About The Brouhaha...
of new year's eve,
yet yours truly does consider
at least one singular plum me facet by Jeeve
er...Robert (or Rabbie) Burns,
a profoundly poignant poem, he did conceive.
Anyway, this wordsmith fascinated
by historical lyricist whose unbelieve
hub bull lee brief life, nonetheless
made a lasting contribution,
a psalm burr tune folks across webbed
wide world sing to grieve
of recent sorrows past, plus pay
homage to joys summoned from
deep within core of soul bellowed
forth with an exultant heave
perhaps unbeknownst to most Robert Burns
(25 January 1759 – 21 July 1796) did leave
his lasting legacy, sans (as national poet
of Scotland celebrated worldwide)
particularly the classic traditional chestnut
auld lang syne rendered in many versions
waving white capping
New Year's eve celebration proud
accomplishments one did achieve.
Coincidentally, "Auld Lang Syne"
and "America the Beautiful"
at which juncture, I interject
a historical grace note to mull
how latter named above patriotic
song in the United States,
(lyrics written by Katharine Lee
Bates saw many occasions
after music composed by church organist
and choirmaster Samuel
A. Ward at Grace Episcopal Church
in Newark, New Jersey) dull
lighting oomph and pizazz, extant
since early 1900s, origin gin null
intent format arranged as poem,
"Pikes Peak first published
Fourth of July full
edition of the church periodical
The Congregationalist in 1895,
now sung by mull teat hoods at Super Bowl
every year since 2009, and appeared pull
say ting stadiums at some sports events
after the 9/11 terror attack hull
lob bell loo in 2001.
The song comprises four verses,
one of isung before kick-off
in NFL's showpiece game.
Just by giving cerebral activity free rein,
this inquisitive mind of mine
learned how twenty first century New Year's
celebration include auld lang syne
linkedin with feted mid eighteenth poet
laureate, whose death at thirty seven, his spine
tingling spirit issues forth to give
him immortality almost divine
everlasting longevity within the pantheon
of August artists who humanity did assign
an eternal place future generations will
revere such metrical design.
Death is the bringer of eternal sleep,
where time slumbers in everlasting peace.
And yet, still, close friends and family weep
when a loved one's earthly connections cease.
And as memories cause tears to increase,
a fractured heart honors the soul's release.
Death is beautiful, not an ugly thing:
one never feels thirst or hunger again.
And you will become one with everything,
instantly freed of any fears or pain.
There'll be no anxieties to constrain,
for a soul without limits, has free rein.
Your soul will ascend from its mortal guise
into a spiritual dimension:
the soul lives on, although the body dies.
Being souls is a point of contention:
yet belief can overcome dissension,
Death's the soul's only means of ascension.
Death's an Angel, assigned to turn life off:
you need but believe: let the doubters scoff.