Free Verse. Poems - Poems about Free Verse.

It was all about a grim, Foggy, smoggy, old Thursday night In Hithergreen, London’s belching south, Below Europe’s icy, dark trees and In the silence of grieving mornings . . . Bulbous clouds bleeding with strained oomph Would stir the ingravescence of patented ills. The trains always come railing! Railing loud and silly Like heathen bandits with no shame. But before such mornings, A half-distilled liquored, low-brewed Evening...

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LINGERING Photographs linger in my mind— faded snapshots of a backyard, the swing creaking in the breeze, the taste of lemonade, the warmth of sun-soaked afternoons. I chase those moments, but they dissolve like mist, leaving only the chill of absence, the ache of what was, and what will never be again. ©2025 Sara Etgen-Baker...

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In Biafra, when we drank from the tilting cusps of dank leaves and washed with the spittle of cassava, the sun scorched like hell. Añuruedoahu*, the oasis of war, like worldly cowrie, stagnant, yet devoid of rural fetish, calmed our nerves and built in the altar of our souls hopes of answered prayers. *A mysterious stream in the poet's village....

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Digestion liquesces peppermint. I chew the leaves for both of us, an aftertaste when stillness is an afterthought. Dust gleams like the raised plastic on a debit card. Winds seem to bank and then burst through a window in a venetian blind-slatted sunshine; bars slit across you on the floor. Strangers make front entrances where shoes scuff the rug. The briefest, jagged arcs...

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A battered pier glass, the length of a running lightning, The width of a Caesarean window, And next to an agelong, framed Daguerreotype, lies face down across A musty room. Shafts and rods of robust sunlight from cracks and holes Make it less dingy. The smell of arrogant tobacco haunts the breath From the shattered floor tiles to the somnolent ceiling. Shards and smithereens,...

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The shackles that hold me Visible to my eye alone. The collar around my neck Only cause I allow it. The chains around my feet Have bound me to this prison, A prison I call home But feels a dungeon. The boulder on my chest Shouldn't keep me so stunted, But what a great locksmith I've turned out to be An oppressor I have made me To...

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let's meet tonight in cemetery to perform our sacred ritual where i hold you close and we dance in the dark there is a sword in my back and a glass of wine in your hand to fill it with my blood let's meet tonight in cemetery to perform our sacred ritual where you betray me for one last time as you're kissing...

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be my death and wear my bones be a ghost in my life and come to haunt me every night i'll sit at the cemetery or you can sit by my grave just for once be my death a reason i could happily die life feels too much let it be one of my escape use your knife and make me bleed till all that is...

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I sway my way into footfalls between skyscrapers as the wind slingshots the cap off of my head. Circling seagull and descending crow, the whispering wind advisory warns of sheltering in place on top of the bare circle that I've come to bear where frazzled hair lines radiate outward from, my baldness does not a nest make. Lulled pigeon, aim elsewhere for goodness...

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When the pungent dust and smoke settles on empty streets, what can we do but weep and let our tears trickle down to water that red geranium clinging to life in a battered pot balanced on the last windowsill left standing in our homeland. ...

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In our maniacal world madness cosplay nativity. When sanctuary is cynical take cyanide outside in a synchronized social suicide. Life at your disposal realize life is disposable. Lacking eye warble, below-zero countertop marble. Stumble over the five o'clock Hobble. Humble, Crumpled up macro-cookie crumble. Spade shovel buried down transient mumble. Blood musk parfume; false whale entrails. Innards inward into inferior interior...

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The wheels of the chaotic times churn for them the sands of crushed dreams in the desert of desiccated life, settling frenzied on the unstratified fragile structure of the disorganized dunes of desolate existence. The sequestered moments of distressed awareness, drift the dust of disarray to the foyer of failed being. The truth of trustful conviction...

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Everyone loves him. A nice amicable guy, as he is no relative, he is no refrain. He starts within a rhythm when often a melody is surreal and soars along the flight of the song, up high, high above, where God knows everything about eternal time, beyond the worldly cacophony and hustle and bustle....

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the cuckoo is a lazy trickster she lays her eggs in bush warbler’s nest remember Mayzie LaBird in Dr. Seuss’s book Horton Hears the Who? Bush warbler is tricked by cuckoo bird. She thinks the eggs are hers. Takes care of them until they hatch And then raises cuckoo’s baby as her own....

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I slowly make my way, eyeing the perfect place to perch— the bench sitting in the full sun, caressing my face with its rays. I’m drawn to the light and shy away from the shade. It gives me a reason to be alive as I watch the children run around. So many years spent at the park; now I am here with my greats, wishing...

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