Unlined Poems | Examples

Borderless

People 
surround
but I’m always
alone
In naked
seclusion
fleeing
the throne
Caught in 
the snarl
of their
consonant rhyme
Shunning
all 
overtures
— fields still unlined 

(Gardiner Montana: August, 2025)

Dissociative Amnesia

I walk within a shadowed hall,
Where echoes fade before recall,
The walls are bare, the mirrors blind,
A labyrinth, a maze in my own mind.

Fragments are scattered like broken glass,
Like a thousand leaves beneath the sun,
I search for truths I cannot find,
Each moment lost, each thread unlined.

The years slip by, a voiceless tide,
They took my past and let me hide.
What hands have written on my page,
What silent thief, what silent rage?

Faces hover, in the ether as mist,
Names unspoken, moments missed.
The weight of time, a hollow sphere,
Its whispers lost, its meaning unclear.

And yet, some part of me remains,
A song beneath the sharpest pains.
The heart remembers what the mind forgets,
In sorrow's cradle, no regrets.

Though my memory falters, cracks, and breaks,
Each gap, a wound, each ache, an ache,
I gather pieces, sharp and blunt,
And weave the fabric in my mind.

For even as the past decays,
I hold to light, to brighter days,
A fractured soul, yet still I try,
With open hands, beneath wide skies.

On Our Beds

Where we sleep there might be quilts
Or comforters or spreads
Or blankets made in varied styles
To warm us in our beds.

Some might prefer a cashmere throw
Or one hand-knit in wool,
While others cozy up to down
And can’t resist its pull.

A cotton blanket, or velour, 
Keeps many feeling snug,
While weighted covers, loved by few,
In most evoke a shrug.

A coverlet atop a bed
Will make it look complete,
Yet lots of sleepers get along
With just an unlined sheet.

Still, no matter what your preference,
Any cover is okay,
But be careful that your partner
Doesn’t tug it all away!

Avoiding Chores for Poetry

Avoiding Chores for Poetry

Mom’s folding laundry as muse pinches me
sheets flapping with ink scolding
I get beat from both sides

unlined bedding is blessed
the future shakes out Mom’s frown
turns it upside down when she reads my best

strike while the iron is hot and frame it
give it to Mom in present
‘fore she passes away

covered with a clean sheet
no poem disturbs her rest
Mom never beat me with her busy hands

Palpable Aversion

It’s pure as fresh snow 
and as pale as a ghost.
It’s the shade on the light spectrum
that I loathe the most.

A beluga whale, the milky moon
and the aftermath of bleach
and all my body’s hidden places
just out of the sun’s reach. 

It lies on unlined paper
and rests on decaying bones.
On a virginal wedding dress
in the trash, it should be thrown. 

A fluffy marshmallow,
billowy clouds and certain rice 
just add them to the growing list
of the hue that fails to entice.

I can’t stress this sentiment enough
this tint is truly beastly.
On baby powder, salt, and mayo,
the color white is not for me. 


*I wrote this poem on April 6, 2021, as part of a ’30 days of poetry’ challenge. This was day 6 and the prompt was: Write a poem inspired by a color. It’s pretty obvious what color I choose from reading my poem, but if you are still stumped after you finish, reread the last line. Thanks, and as always, leave me some love.

A Sign the Size of a Jeep

For five days now, it has sat
Black and gray, reflecting heat
Actually, a very nice Jeep
With expired tags, rumpled bookbags
Yet nobody has moved it from my house
For five days now

As I surmise, with my poet's eyes
Journeys of flattened grass, of dusty glass
A map discarded, a gypsy started
A young soul seeking adventure's answers
To grow into futures of unlined space
Or older hearts, chasing the chase
The remembered rush of chances to take
As a new wind erases
The years from their faces

Perhaps a journal, sketching a desert dawn
Or moon rippled seas, or fragrant rain
Calling them forward to green spun lanes
Oh, there could be hours to ride
Mountains to taste, moments to cry

(Dear Muse, have you been so obscure
that I needed a sign - the size of a Jeep
blocking my front door?)

Now I, shaken at last from lethargy
To pick up my pen, should perhaps thank them~
Before I have their car towed.

6/29/22

(true story)

Pre Computer Age

Pre Computer Age
By: Miracle Man
December 30, 2021

Coffee stains on unlined paper;
a number two lead pencil,
erasure mostly gone.

Thoughts that appeared as vapor;
I desired to be prehensile,
each break of dawn.


What was needed was a short pencil
with a long erasure.
Tom

I Am Mesmerized

I am mesmerized
by ever-changing wisps
of clouds
meandering across
cobalt-blue
Hawaiian skies.
I am mesmerized
by whitecaps dashing
against coral breakers
phizzing out in the sand.
I am mesmerized
by colorful phrases
strolling across white
unlined pages.

written September 11, 2021

Allegorical Thoughts

In a mishmash of the ubiquitous
Consonants peppered with vowels
Thoughts flow as my hypergraphia grows
Building fireworks of prose
Upon scraps; line or unlined sheets
With a restrictive verse
I the Poeter can be quite terse
A thought provoking reshaper
A tessellation of text into rows
As this near Rondeau Prime is set to close
Lest, we not fail to mention semivowels
With the aforementioned in mind; it was never meant to be obliquitous¹

02-03JUL18

¹ exhibiting or characterized by obliquity²
² an obscure or confusing statement

Structured Settlements

Would you, with me, traverse an unlined field
deny the jagged edge of distant peak
stroll lazily amid protected calm
or listen as the ragged mountains speak.

For some find solace in the chasms depth
cling tightly to the icy broken ridge
while others look within holding their breath
in passage cross the swaying “volta” bridge.

While I respond to ever present winds
a call to fledgling feathers to ascend
to tease distant horizons broken lines
unwary of the dangers they portend.

And yet the pen will falter in its quest
for form and function will decide what’s best.



©11/21/2019

FREE VERSE VS STRUCTRURED Poetry Contest

Ten-Minute Poem

The first minute, blank
brains filled with paper whiteness,
unlined, creative.

The second, third, fourth
go in a whiz, fizz, unpro
ductive row of parts

The halfway point; five
slow minutes; tired poem
drags your tired pen

Six, seven, eight, nine,
minutes leap like frogs in front
of a metaphor,

leaping at the last
minute, when time writes itself
into the whiteness.

Cheerful Glitzy Heart Felt Poem

The cheerful, glitzy, heart-felt poem danced and skipped so gay.
With terrific happiness she felt in her soul mind.
Sharing herself joyously in a delightful way.
Sharing her words in swirls and curls, paper unlined.

This Gathering of Words

I gather up my words
	barbs that have missed a target
		strewn about rose-like
			………..in beauty’s shriveling death

Inert objects …..injected….infected -
	 a self inflicted suffering -
		dulled daggers of despair
			…………..thrust into the soul of speech

This gathering of words
	aching to be free
		to plunge the bloodied pen
			………………into an unlined emptiness



©5/21/2018

theme – A gathering up my words

Let Your Pen Drip – Poetry Contest

Sponsor – Broken Wings

Black and White In My Life

Piano keys –
waiting for my fingers,
they dream of a Bach fugue.

Sheet music –
notes build cathedrals of sound
that wait in patient silence.

My daughter’s horse –
strong willed spirited mare
who taught her so much.

Print in books –
the miracle of adventure 
between the pages.

Equations on blackboards –
elegant integrals
to describe truth.

Old photographs –
time machines that carry us
to eternal youth.

My poetry notebook –
pointy pencil on smooth unlined paper,
singing my soul’s song.

2/16/2017
For contest: The colors black and white
Sponsored by Laura Loo

Refinement Comes By Fire

Trivial thinking makes a waste of life;
Like polishing your shoes as Jesus dies.
Yet academics often create strife,
With philosophers more intellingent than wise

Perceptions sharp as nail bombs to the eyes
Are diverted onto other paths and lives.
Who will be the one who can surprise?
With which mind may such perception strive?

Who will listen to the chosen one?
Not the men whose faces are unlined.
Who sees truly what we have become?
In whose imagination is the true refined?

Such a furnace is this blacksmith’s yard
Refinement comes by fire and burning hard.

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