Category Archives: Free Verse

Of It

You can do without it
If they think you can get it.
They’ll give you more of it.
(That is, if you have more of it)
They won’t give you any of it
If you don’t have any of it.
And if it’s offered for free,
You’ll take more of it
If you have more of it.
Can anyone make sense of it?

Hard to Ignore

It starts sharp – a stab of a needle
Or a painful shout, a command without words.
Angry muscles demanding you stop:
Pointless really (the show must go on)
Yet persistent and powerful.
Hard to ignore, so you adjust your weight
As best you can and grimace through
Until you can collapse in victory: finished.
In a way, anyway. The sharp pains end.
The high of endorphins sees you home to bed
In relative comfort (exhaustion alone)
Until the next day. Then, the dullness begins.
The throbbing ache in your bones –
A lingering numbness with teeth that stays and stays
Until the story starts over again.

Can We?

Can we hear without the babble?
The explosive blasts of seductive dribble,
Surrounding sultry images and alluring tales.
Can we see without the glow?
The flashes of light from scene to scene
With softer sounds yet exciting stories.
Can we feel without their guide?
The subtle crescendo and decrescendo,
With tempos driving and directing our hearts.
“We can,” you say, with cocky ease,
But if we can, then why don’t we?

With a Broad Brush

With a broad brush,
She paints the sky with black,
Blocking out stars,
The faintest trace of light.
Layer upon layer,
She buries them away.
Layer upon layer,
The stubborn stars stay.

A Repeating Struggle

A spark of thought
No time to pursue
A moment free
No recollection – or
No energy
(No consciousness even)
A repeating struggle
Broken only by paper and pen.

But for Sighs

Hear the throbbing hum of the air conditioning
Trailed by a lighter, higher rattle of the fan.
Through them both, pencils scrape,
Little whispers of sound –
Now fast. Now slow. Now silent.
A rubber tip beats a drum beat
Once. Twice. A frown. It stops.
High and sibilant, paper slithers
Across a plastic desk, across other pages,
Then, loudly protests as it flips and bends.
Fingers tap, feet fidget –
But lips and mouths stay still but for sighs:
Silent people in a loud room.

The Hunt

Some yearn for sugar-spritzed marshmallows
So bright they seem ready to spring,
To caper and cavort across the plastic grass
Until, headless, they fall – or rise again,
Joined by dismembered cohorts of chocolate,
The wish of other hungry souls along with
Eggs and chicks – all the same rich confection.
Among them eggs that bleed rich cream,
Bought in handfuls and consumed to a coma
While the hunt continues through the yard
With rewards of bright-colored plastic (empty)
Or worse, a discarded craft project,
That holds only food – no candy or coins –
Unless, wait, yes, it could (oh please)
Contain a chorus of glitter awaiting its prey.
The shower of sparkles, the laughter, the chase and (eventually)
To sleep with a chocolate-smeared smile on your face.

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