Verse Poems | Verse Examples

I have to eat enough. I opened up everything. Give them a patch of lawn. Or maybe a toast. The first thing I learned. Inside of cooked shopping trips. Could be a cookie on the sidewalk. But then they would hurt. Shoes are the ones who feel. Flopping over. I have to eat more. The monster...

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i wonder if this feeling will pass. if the skin rotting beneath my eyes will become a permanent color of blue, if the bruises on my knees will fade to nothing more then flesh. they say this feeling goes away as you age- im not so sure about that. i feel the agonizing sensation of pain rotting...

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Flashbacks I would rather not see I yearn for your love returned . . . as my reality...

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The sky, a bruised plum, holds its breath. Then, a rip. Not clean, not surgical, but a jagged tear across the seamless blue. Wind, suddenly a tangible beast, claws at the trees, whips skirts around legs, a low growl escalating. First fat drops, hesitant scouts on dusty sidewalks, exploding with a dark kiss. Then the deluge. A roaring curtain separating now from then, sight from sound. Light, fractured and violent, slices the world in...

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The shift begins unnoticed, a quiet agreement between the sun and the leaves. No grand announcement, no blaring headlines, just a gradual softening of the insistent green. A single crimson leaf, a hesitant flag dropped on the battlefield of summer, a whisper of what's to come. The air, once thick and heavy, thins ever so slightly, carrying the faintest breath of something cooler, a promise whispered on the breeze. Shadows lengthen...

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The unseen threads, taut with unspoken expectations, slack with miles, with years, with the simple choice of a turned back. We build bridges of shared laughter, of whispered secrets in the dark, arches of understanding, brick by fragile brick. And then, a careless word, a forgotten call, a shift in the wind, and the chasm yawns. The digital hum promises closeness, a thousand faces flicker on...

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The stained digit, a purpled declaration, a temporary badge of civic duty. A single press, a moment's commitment, indelible ink blooming on the forefinger, a mark that resists casual erasure. It speaks of participation, a voice cast into the collective hum, a small act with potential consequence. This purple smudge, a shared symbol across nations, a visual testament to a fragile democracy. It will fade, day by...

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In one corner of your room you’d hung a faded photograph of Charles Lindbergh and his plane in sepia covering a lighter-colored square of wall exactly the same size. He looked so dashing with his scarf and smile but his eyes were dark and sad (like yours) beneath his aviator’s cap and it was signed, “To Mildred.” Why did...

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endless leisure hours as distorted time stretch before me... like the infinite vista upon the midwestern plain farther than the eyes of mine (an ascetic and copacetic shortsighted father of two grown twenty something daughters) can no longer see, since sockets severely seared staring at the hypnotic screen blindsided courtesy the magnificent 7 (a group of seven major technology companies that consistently outperformed the overall stock market, particularly in recent...

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Spot Dreams I watch his paws twitch ears upright listening his soft growls, he corners his prey even in sleep he dreams the cat can’t escape ...

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rooster crows his morning song pridefully male apple blossoms arrived last night deep purple lilac bush in full bloom feels like May verdant meadow lawn nearly fluorescent i choose my paints ready to follow my artistic muse...

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My car is flashy A beautiful red Lots of chrome Her name on the back Her name is prestigious Her wheels are flashy She is sleek and chic Lighting up her name on my driveway at night When I open her door I feel honored to drive such a queen...

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Record high today for April 9th Supposed to be 75 this afternoon Dogs and I are sitting on our Kansas porch Bird speak echoes off the forest shelves Surrounded by woods and water We listen to the lively tweets Sound of a jet plane disturbs us briefly Silence again except for the excited wrens and robins Cardinal flies by...

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I am pretty much unqualified To judge poetry contests To draw cartoons To paint canvases To use a chainsaw To write a book Yet I do all of these things Without certification, license or diploma Because no one has demanded my qualifications...

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His voice is buttery says a musician critic on TV I have no idea what buttery means She sings her butt off This is also curious If she turned around, I could see this He can sing the phone book Couldn’t we all? If we wanted to. If I did, someone would beg me to stop singing No. Everyone would beg me to stop singing...

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