Rhyme Free Verse Poems | Examples
These Rhyme Free Verse poems are examples of Free Verse poems about Rhyme. These are the best examples of Free Verse Rhyme poems written by international poets.
Never say never, always say "perhaps;" unless it's a
Wedding, a funeral, or your daughter's v-ball game.
Never say never, instead say "maybe."
Never feel forced to use rhyme, tired is the fad despite the ear's need
To smile at the sound of music; rhymes are for the dullard,
Like Dr. Seuss and Mother Hubbard.
Never say never to your kids lest your aim is to model
Human folly & the grace-skill of Forgiveness.
This will all be over soon so please don't cry.
Y'know this whole poem goes way better with chicken stir-fry.
Something Else
Perhaps this word goes here
Oops, not quite that
I think if I do this, it will rhyme
Drop the words
Clutter the mind
I'm tired of this; I'm going to bed
Emotions in dreams,
Inspirations in life
Words on a page in perfect tense
portray the dream of the poet to finally make sense
I wish I could see
Oh the places, Dr. Seuss
where dreams have wings
where stubborn souls
fight gravity
Oh the places, Dr. Seuss
where rhyme and reason
two-step in the night
forgetting the obligations of love
I find structured chaos
exhilarating
when the rest of the world sleeps
Your characters smile
desperately
I overcompensate as well,
in my own way
The cat in a hat
is always balancing things
to negate loneliness
A fish in a bowl knows more than me
Tomorrow is always an option
“Tomorrow is another day”
Yes, Vivian Leigh, yes
I vaticinate through cypress
prognosticator of folklore
brewing indwelling woodcraft
dasyure and platypus
our unvalued birthright
gnaw at cassiterite
sunburn on cycadophyta
an acherontic turmoil
you , ceres
lent nonlexical rhyme
reform this crisis !
always
evermore
peaceably
(Weekly Magnetic Poetry Challenge • August 17–23, 2026)
He wears a heavy coat of rusty fur,
hunched and brooding in the coastal scrub.
They painted him a villain in the nursery tales,
a big, bad shadow waiting for the dark.
He has a hundred hollow eyes that never blink,
carved open by the jaws of summer fire.
A crooked spine, a fist of woody knots,
grumbling low curses to the southerly wind.
But who could blame his wicked, jagged grin?
He learned his roughness from the searing drought,
patrolling the ashes of a blackened world
while delicate soft gums slept in the canopy.
He is the grumpy elder of the heath,
bristling, thick-skinned, and unapologetic—
holding his seeds like stolen golden treasure
behind those silent, gaping wooden mouths.
Some are soft and sweet
Others….well….a bit sharper
Colder…edged in frost
There are those that
Turn up the heat
Slowly simmering
The subtlety of satire
Softening the edges
Of the boldly bawdy limerick
There are those that dance
To that different drummer
Scattered alliterative groups
Counting meter’s coup
On a hesitant rhyme.
Ranters, rambling on the
Borders of repetition
Stung by the brevity
Of a well-placed Senryu.
And still the Bard holds favor
As time, in changing costume
Alters allegorical allegiances
Cold youth rebelling
‘gainst the yellowed page
Numerical wizards
Seeking arithmetic advantage
Lover’s dreaming of lust’s long faded scent
Scribbling in strained distress
Whistling amid the gravestones
Of silenced poets
It used to be like a glittery tide pool.
Brimming with hues and movements of life.
Now the eyes are like midnight mimes.
Stumbling about without reason or rhyme.
I'm afraid the tide's going out forever now.
A complete abandoning of the mind.
A rose devoid of color
and a poem reft of rhyme,
met without meaning,
timeless in an idle mind
that could not think, lay ink
upon a page, engage,
or otherwise oblige
the shrinking will
of one who'd fill a page.
So, sadly, they sat, not wishing that
they'd end, badly penned,
in a nothing, a not,
a period, a dot.
From her bed, the white rose pled,
this black ink poem,
obscures my form,
pale, pure, and pretty,
Please ma'am to see, the real me
hides behind these lines.
Words and letters do not flatter.
Look about, before, between.
Find me, free me, and forgive
this poem, this pitiful poet.
So, just what is poetry?
An endless attempt to rhyme with orange?
A forever searching of the soul for meaning?
An idyll fantasy a-dance with alliteration’s riffs?
An individual search for “our” Holy Grail
Perhaps, a distant song
Forever playing in our heads,
Sung softly ‘neath the murmur of the day.
Pitons driven into the stony crust of life.
A mud puddle inviting us to make mud pies
Rekindle the joy of soft pliable words
Shaping a moment to ponder
Poetry’s resonant question
“who makes the best mud pies”
Of this I am certain, a poet is no saint.
Fine words flow easily,
rubbish is articulate.
Malignant sugar highs,
silver tongues run wild.
That endless supply,
half finished lines,
just one more rhyme,
top shelf experimental.
Stanzas gain control,
mood manipulation.
Such a sly logophile,
faces are transfixed.
Power’s a schedule 1 drug,
a clean buzz for any artist.
All you need is that mic,
prepare for an addiction.
A poet is no saint, of this I am certain.
I didn't say that,
Jackson Browne did
I'm not talking about music,
rhyme, or suicide
Isn't that just three
simple words
for what I cannot
wrap my mind around?
Ben, I won't tell you
now
that I came to the edge once
too
sometimes tomorrows
don't feel
like possibilities
I consider the view from the top
when breathing can sometimes be
the hardest part
Would air run wild to hold me
if I let go?
Does a passionate end
make an average life
worth reconsidering?
"Does it ever get easier mom?"
You might ask me in ten years
I'll tell you (the love and bane
of my existence)
"No, but its worth
multiplies"
I sit at my desk with a piece of dry wood,
Trying to write things that are misunderstood.
My brain is a constellation of static and glue,
Like a hamster in a tuxedo trying to chew.
I dip my sharp lead into rivers of ink,
But the paper is judging the way that I think.
Is it a metaphor, or just a bad smell?
My rhyme scheme is trapped in a deep, lonely well.
Oh, rhythm, you flee like a cat in a hat,
Leaving my stuck in a rhyme that is flat.
I procrastinate wildly by counting the dust,
My typewriter gears have all turned into rust.
Written for D;
I devoured the dust of deceptive devotion,
a plague of perfumed promises ~
a destructive dialect
that drained the music of my muse…
O heart-soother, pulse-seeker,
d e l e t e me ~
I’m a dangerous dream,
drenched in delusion,
disguised as a desert-rose dawn
within the dusk I wear,
dressed in honest lies ~
dramatizing deadly desire
and infernal flame,
a mirror framed in thorns and ivy…
The victimized villain
who once believed in me
knows my soul’s seething song,
this heart’s burning blaze,
and I’ll remain as a gothic sunset,
stranded in the
beloved Sahara of angst and silence,
for love never felt my rhyme...
Give me a syllable count,
I don’t do meter (or math, forsooth),
don’t ask for a rhyme
it might be a little off ~
as am I, just a bit crazy
(or so I’m told).
Oh, me ~oh, my,
I’ll kiss the girls to make them cry,
jiggety-jig, jiggety-jog~
home again, home again,
we’ll eat pumpkin pie,
kiss the frog and say goodbye.
is like trying to find gold
in a bowl of white rice.
I found poetry
instead.
This one isn't a pearl
of wisdom or meaning,
but dirty truth;
a common rock,
cold and uncollected.
I listened to 'The Fray'
tonight, which I rediscovered
by accident
because I told Siri to play
'Two Step'
by Dave Matthews.
One followed the other
because I pay for Apple Music,
even if I drive a less-
than-sought-after Toyota
Corolla.
A man I love was once
a marine.
He doesn't know what he
wants hard enough to chose
a direction.
I know my North and South.
I have chosen true
West from East
and found myself
somewhere
in the middle of nowhere.
The Goo Goo Dolls
are playing one of my favorites,
'Better Days'
and someone else,
other than me,
is listening.