Free Verse Write Poems | Examples
These Free Verse Write poems are examples of poetry about Free Verse Write. These are the best examples of Write Free Verse poems written by international poets.
how do you write poetry?
I am stunned by this question.
How do you not?
Very brutal by nature my mind can confirm,
Poetry marathoners need a cap laced with wisdom,
To grace the desired seats of battlescarred warriors,
The skillet must still burn hotter than Hades.
Surely Marathons are run with endurance and persistence,
So is this one, for my goals are lofty.
Though I lack great speed, power, and technique,
My oak must stand deep-rooted through the storms.
My drafts litter bins as torn scraps of junk,
Haters blot the ink of my masterpiece.
Negativity weighs on my frail shoulder,
Yet my resolve stands steadfast on aching feet.
But no one can deny good poems their glory.
Like smoke they escape all traps and dissipate,
Clutching throats to make their presence felt.
All I need do is write—and hope.
The songs that masterpieces sing
Are heard by the deaf and sung by the dumb.
Their rhythm washes away the dust of imperfection;
They heal the soul and soothe the mind of sorrow.
So, my pen, fill yourself with ink of perfection.
Write on this paper I lay before you—
Another poem no sponsor can deny the top prize.
Write before the last drop runs dry.
A song is a poem
With rhythms and rhymes
It would be a blasphemy
Not to say it and explain it.
A song is a prose
Put on pause
Intermittently
With various beats and tempos.
A song makes you dance
A poem makes you dream
And a prose helps us examine.
A poem is a classical prose
With harmonic words
And well-calculated rhymes and verses
A poem is really fantastic.
A song makes you live
A poem makes you revive
And a prose helps us survive.
Copyright © December 2016 Logerie Hébert, All Rights Reserved
Hebert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
want write poems that not
bout politics life's weighty
absurdities death's grip all
simple poems contentment
son's enthusiasm energy
wife's cooking heroic endurance
kitten's bouncing curiosity
old cat's slowing solitude
dog praying hard reform
colors fall newness spring
mowing leaves grass gazing
on in forest looking beyond
tree tops lake mirage day
venus mars night
bach lifting toward
mozart floating down
heaven singing love conquering
fulfilled voluntary unions bodies
cooperation nations peace
strength through peace soul society
treading softly near edge
old habit making safe path
some sweet day will
The books left
Flying out
All the words sliding
Leaving the pages
As the books took flight
No words left to describe the night
Fluttering with stiff covers
Pages falling/fading with the light
Fires took our history
Books removed to twist the news
Rewritten by barbarians
With which we are smitten
Cannot lose
The books left
All our words gone in spite
Only ashes remain to light our night
I hid my feelings,
but whenever I saw you
they poured out like a fountain—
a sudden sparkle,
a beauty I couldn’t contain.
our song is me writing-
"poetry about those stolen stares
songs about that beaming smile
and even a whole film script about it"
the ink of my pen bleeds in pink
but later turns to gray
i weave our memories as part of a big story
with a climax in which you
devoured me with a kiss
but the falling action sets me adrift
to wander on the seas wide
with no cure to this disease
our song is a song in which-
"nothing happens but desertion comes in light
to pull out my nerves and haunt my midnight
i lose my sanity and cry till my eyes starts to bleed"
Where are the flowers at?
I stare through my windowpane,
What i see is a barren land,
Did they vanish into thin air
Or are they just invisible to me?
Am i that bad,
Even they escape from me
Or are they just playing,
Silly games with me?
Where are the flowers at?
Staring is driving me crazy.
Maybe they're laughing in secret,
Hiding ,because i'm too lost,
Or maybe... not be worth blooming for.
This is a warning
A condition all of us have
One that every writer fears
It will come to you someday
And there is nothing you can do
Try sitting down at your keyboard
Type in just one or two words
Your mind will shut down
Your fingers will freeze where they are
And you may start to cry a bit
But do not worry it is not fatal
Just chill and drink a bottle of Jack
Watch some really bad television
And do NOT think about those two words
Give it a week or two...maybe a month
Then sit down at your keyboard and try again
If you write an entire sentence, you are cured
But if you only do two words
Get the Jack, turn on the TV, and forget about everything
Hopefully, that will work for you
But remember, there is always Jack and TV
If you ever need them
© Poem XVI/VIII/MMXXV
LRET
That feeling that sneaks up on you making your chest feel heavy with burn, now your skin feels too hot and you start to sweat, even the touch of your own hair makes you flinch and feel the weight of doom.
All of a sudden everything feels like it’s falling apart, but what feels like death is perfectly whole in front of you.
Those thoughts making you feel like the what ifs will break you. You start breathing faster and you know you need to calm down but it feels like you can’t catch your breath. Inside you feel like you're screaming for your thoughts to get in line and all they are doing is bouncing off each other and you're trying to not spiral.
You remember this is temporary and you focus on your breathing. Your family is safe and you are safe. These thoughts aren’t reality.
Porchlight Theology
Some nights you stayed
just to see the porch light come on ~
like the world needed
one small signal
that someone was still home.
I asked if you believed in God.
You said,
"I believe in people who leave the light on."
It’s raining outside-
no, more than that.
The rain falls in blocks,
thick curtains that turn the world to ash and silver,
smothering it in the hiss of splattering drops.
Outside my old home
stood a bamboo tree, four meters tall.
On days like this
(when I wasn’t welded to the TV)
I’d watch its branches bow and sway,
like a fishing rod straining
against some monstrous catch,
the rain pulling, tearing,
heaving to break free.
It struck me, even then,
that I never looked at it that way in sunlight.
When it basked in gold,
reaching for the sky,
I barely noticed.
Even now,
I rarely write about happiness.
Like there’s some invisible limit,
a cringe-o-meter,
to how well I can make joy sound.
Perhaps we like
to lean toward the darker shades.
After all, who stops mid-laugh to ask,
"Why do I feel like this?"
or "Does any of this matter?"
Good times don’t hold still-
they fly.
And so the melancholy truth remains:
that ink flows faster under grey skies
I find in today's world,
books and readers are missing.
Where have the readers gone?
Why are books so unattractive?
Could it be the style of writing or even their covers?
Years ago many would share their books with friends,
telling them the book was a must read.
Does the book hold the reader,
or does the reader hold the book?
The style of book needs to entice the reader to read,
starting with a catchy and colorful cover.
Yes, the beauty of any book,
is in the reader's eye to behold and enjoy reading.
To write a poem
is to commune with oneself
To share it
is to let go
Strings of inspiration swirl through my mind
They float and frolic endlessly
Until they spiral out of control
And eventually get intertwined
For I am a non-writing writer,
An untameable monster - forever trapped in cerebral stagnation.