Free Verse Poems | Examples

A Poem is an Artform

  
     A poem is an artform – 
       well, not always

    A poem is an idea –
       hmm, not necessarily

    A poem is all rhythm and rhyme
       Ha! What about ‘free verse’

    A poem is a thing of beauty
       --though some are pretty ugly

    A poem is a window to the writer’s soul
        --though not to Shakespeare’s, whoever he was… 

    O, A poem is what’s just been written 
        Whoever thinks he can explain one 
           ~ that person’s got to be kiddin’

New system trouble

I'm having trouble using the 'new system'
Cant edit comments properly..cant even
See the update bar..this is when on a phone.' Are others getting the same ttrouble?

Treason Audit

Federal agents seen blocking roads leading to farms in Ventura County

After COVID financial exception the poverty order of math regulations grasps liberties

The Woods

I ran through it. 
My arms are ribbons twirling around. 
There is always a spot available. 
On a bench which is made up of livelihoods like mine. 
But there’s something so nice about sitting down. 
When there is nowhere else to sit. 
This is the most splintering kind of panicking. 
This bench is made of old wood. 
So it’s one of those woodsy types of places to sit. 
And everyone does sometimes. 
It’s the most ruined, run down panicked feeling. 
The last person who sat here?
I think he was a music teacher. 
I can tell by the music he left in my head. 
On this bench which seems to conform to my body like a couch cushion. 
I think he stopped following me. 
So I can fall asleep in the woods.
Wouldn’t it be weird if I kept running?
I thought so too.

More than just a soft toy

You were there when the dark
crept loud through the door,
when my tears made small rivers
that stained to your core.
You never once left me,
you never once frowned,
you just held my silence
till sleep came around.

Your fur is all matted,
your seams pulled apart,
but I know every thread
is stitched into my heart.
Others see fabric,
old stuffing, worn eyes
but they don’t see the love
that your silence implies.

I’ve told you my secrets,
the ones I can’t say,
and you guard them so tightly
they won’t slip away.
You’re my courage, my anchor,
my shield, my safe place,
the first thing I reach for
when life feels unsafe.

One day they will tell me,
“You’re older—move on.”
But you’ll never be gone, Bear,
you’ll never be gone.
Even if I outgrow you,
and tuck you away,
you’ll live in the child
who still needs you each day.

So I’ll whisper a promise
to your threadbare old ear:
wherever I wander,
I’ll keep you near.
For you’re more than soft fabric,
more than my toy
you’re the keeper of childhood,
my comfort, my joy

Turning Point

I don’t know about you,
But I have reached a turning point.
Yes, it’s not the first time for sure,
But each time it becomes more clear
Sharper and deeper,
And this time it shakes me to my very core.

I know I am not alone,
Although it may not include you at this moment,
I know it will eventually,
Because the turning point
Is one of human destiny,
What defines a human
What defines the next step we each take
On the ladder of our own personal ascent.

Mount Analogue comes to mind
A place imaginary, a book unfinished
A symbol of something sublime in all our hearts.
Let me repeat that, in all our hearts.

This is the turning point we all face
Sooner of later
All of us, together at last. 
Hell yeah! And 
Amen.

(9/11/25)

Unity Quote

"It's A Steep Slope...But, We Can Make It If We Go Together...."

what is my country

My country, it is not the sweet Portugal
AND yet I love Fado, the wine of the Douro,
My country is not beautiful Italy, nor Rome,
And yet I love Naples, Palermo, and Florence,
It’s not Haiti or Salvador de Bahia,

It’s the Dolce Vita and Eight and a half, in black and white,
I like all the films by Fellini or Antonioni,
My country, it is not the illustrious talkative France
AND yet I like Jurançon and Monbazillac,
I like beef bourguignon and duck with orange,

My country, it’s not California, or Utah,
AND yet I like Monument Valley, Hollywood Boulevard,
I love the Grand Canyon and Los Angeles at night,
My country, it is not so political Turkey,
But I love Istanbul and sleepy Cappadocia,

It’s the Dolce Vita and Eight and a half, in black and white, 
My country is the cinema, it’s the privileged place
Where will the train stop from your indolent and black eyes,
It is beyond, the bridge of lascivious embraces, the bridge of the Iroise
It’s the country I like when you play for me alone, O my action. 

NB La Dolce Vita and eight and a half, are two masterpieces by Fellini.

To Mars

To Mars

My memory came calling
Caught me by surprise
Taking me back to a time gone away

Her hair was dark
Voice a little raspy
The freckles on her nose
Made her unique in her own way
SHE MADE HER  MARK

I was black and white
She was grey
But somehow we connected
SHE MADE HER MARK

With every word she spoke
I became infatuated with her 
Sense of being
SHE MADE HER MARK

Our time together was only a flash
 we started a fire and let it burn
SHE MADE HER MARK

She left like a thief but that
Was her way

I often look back at the path of 
My existence 
And see her footprints
SHE MADE HER MARK

Blake Lively

Is
Unwriting lend
Trample undered doubt 
Nill grace, staggered taunt
Farthings tormented delays
Whispered daughter on hilt

Aphrodite sours the lengths rend

Milkened ponds
Battles fetch, torn and bent
To no hearthed bends hallow he crawls

The Perfume Bottle

The Perfume Bottle Sponsor – Craig Cornish – 9-11-25
In 1947 Nina Ricca released a new fragrance – L’Air du Temp.  The first spicy floral fragrance.  The bottle was designed by Lalique.  It was the first perfume based on spice and floral scents.  L’Air du Temps means present time.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Perfume Bottle
In the quiet of silenced cannons,
And odor of reviled salutes now impotent,
Midst plaster dust and stained souls
 Of shattered windows
A flacon rises from worn torn ashes
Caressing the breath of a woman
In present time
As two doves intertwine
Above crystal swirls of sunshine 
Reborn in signature scents of treaties.

Flawless guardian
For the newborn bouquet of hope,
Beneath wings of peace,
As a silhouette of scent
Overpowers the stench of gunpower
And ministers to children’s cries for bread
In a kiss from immortality
Accents of new notes for princess and pauper – 
Spicy and floral –
Released like doves of peace.

Countless C's

Countless Cosmic Constellations 

Colossal Combustible Clouds

Confluences of Chrysalis Crystals

Collectives of Choreographed Colors

Constant Creation Collisions

Corrective Course Corrections

Cosmonauts Crashed Craft

Countless Cosmic Consternations

Summer of the Dragon

Summer of the Dragon

No one knew where they came from
Some say from above
Others say below
Doesn’t really matter
They were here

The eyes, like two glowing embers 
That was the worst
The talons and scales failed in comparison
It was always the eyes

The swoosh of the wings 
Snap of the tail soon followed
By the napalm

They destroyed it all
Burn it to the ground
Until there was nothing left but ash
Then left us here to die

No one knew where they came from 
Some say from above 
Others below

It really didn’t matter 
They were here

The Perfume Bottle

Tucked away in one of the dusty corners
of my my deceased mother’s old curio cabinets
sits a somewhat peculiar perfume bottle
among a small collection of other vials
devoid of the fragrances they so long ago retained.

This particular bottle that my gaze has rested on
has the shape of a woman’s lower leg.
What catches the eye 
is the golden high heel it rests upon.
Tiny beads of glittery green
adorn its vamp and finishing edge.

I think of my dear mother
dressed for a night out on the town
in her mid-calf sparkly satin gown,
gliding smoothly on heels of gold which enhanced
the elegance of her long, slender legs.
As she paused at the door,
she’d kiss us on the cheek,
departing in a trail 
of Chantilly.

Seed

It was resistant to oxygen deprivation.
There was something about that seed.
You could never cut its umbilical chord.

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