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Free verse poetry

Welcome to the free verse poetry section of my portfolio. Free verse is considered to be a form of poetry that is free of poetic meters and rhyme schemes. It is not however an entirely free form and it should still hold some poetic structure. Some people might find that not having any rules to work with would make this form difficult. For me, this form is a dream come true. Long live free verse!

Here are my examples.

 

Rock and roll

The guitar gods are shredding licks.
The devils work is done as another victim is converted .
Turned over into dark, rock and roll.
Rebellion.
Institutions begin to fear.
They prepare a master plan to bring us into line once more but the voice has already spoken.
As the lights dim and the day turns to night.
We come to life.
The mosh pits are full.
But we can squeeze in a couple more.
An unsuspecting adolescent walks beside the pit.
We pull him in and throw him around until he sees life the way we do.
Another victim converted.
Another rebel in the ranks.
Another thorn in conformities side.
The institutions had better hurry.
Because the guitar gods are still shredding licks and will do so.
Until the bitter end.

 

Seaside view

I’m standing on the edge of the cliff looking out at the clear blue sea which extends for miles.
A steady breeze is blowing.
Families on their holidays walk around on the promenade directly below.
Beautiful ladies ‘sunning it up’  on the beach.
A true summers day, the kind that bring out a wealth of people to play.
An excitable dog is chasing the waves in the distance.
An excitable child is chasing the dog in the distance.
Fishing boats are out on the bay attempting to earn a living.
Standing at this point with this view and this sense of peace, i have no misgivings.
This is heaven.

 

Intruder in the lounge

There is an intruder in the lounge, an intruder in the lounge.
Ready to wage war.
His eyes burn, pain will be inflicted when you step into the room.
He’s waiting in the corner, by the time you see him it will be too late.
He has got a knife in his hand, a blade with a  mission.
Revenge in his heart, he is not afraid of prison.
This is not a pretty picture to behold.
There is an intruder in the lounge, an intruder in the lounge.
When you open the door make sure that you see him, before he sees you off.

 

Motivation

Can anyone tell me the reason why I do what I do?
I do it day after day after day.
No break for the body,  no rest for the wicked.
Just a repetitive story of perseverance.
A kick up the behind in an attempt to get with it.
Holding on to a dream that may not manifest in reality
But the faith is strong.
A resolute belief that the destination I am aiming for is where i truly belong.
The carrot keeps dangling and I keep following.
Slowly I progress inch by inch to a future filled with art.
The reason why I do what I do is because I love doing it.

 

Dreams

Dreams by nature are temporary.
Thoughts consumed, fragmented.
A painting of ideas, form a vivid exhibition.
A private display
We wake and try to reconstruct a world
That never existed.
That cannot exist, in reality
So the saying goes.
Yet the purpose of dreams
Is to enrich the life of the mind
A night gladly given
To balance the equilibrium
Of a potentially dangerous thought factory.
Yet when we try
To find that compelling place
Within the world of waking
We are supposedly stumped
A truth I always reject.
For dreams can be much like life.
Often antagonists lurk.
Role models disillusion the slide show.
Often someone cheers from the crowd
Lighting up the stage
With positive vibes
Yet always someone jeers
Always someone chases
Always on the run
Racing rats to reach the prize.
Everyone has to lose sometime.
A day gone to the giant called time
The gas tank is almost empty.
A pit stop is required
Time to recharge
The twice daily dosage
The words good night.

 

The dark side of wealth

We live in hard times, but i seem to have got it right.
My car sure is flash and my house is real big.
My own private driveway keeps the scavengers out.
The camera system is an eye that never blinks.
People at the local pub ask me what it is I do.
I tell them nothing, wouldn’t you?
A gang of greedy thugs are always waiting outside.
But my private guards soon take care of the matter.
I only buy the best products and only the most expensive champagne.
Ooh champagne baths are not good for your skin.
I fly by private jet and land on a private airstrip.
All of the hostesses are cute.
I sleep in five star hotels and eat in Michelin starred restaurants.
I have my own gym filled with people who are there only to say.
“Wow, you look damn fine today”
After a while I begin to wish things had in fact panned out differently.
I have everything but I have no one.
No saviour in my life to bring me back to reality.
No lover to warm up the bed for me.
No child to wake up the neighbours for me.
No daily routine of normal life monotony.
I have everything that money can buy.
But nothing to make my life feel worth while.
I am a poor man in an expensive suit.

 

Metropolis

The metropolis of modern times.
A city on wheels the engine burns.
People go about their day with a speed that matches the changing city scape.
The buzz of people do not let off when it gets dark.
The neon lights hide shadows.
Every six yards something is for sale.
Every street has a subway line running below it.
The buildings are large in height and girth.
The buildings stretch out forever and ever and ever.
This is a fantastic vision.
Big city bliss.

 

Inner warrior

Call up the inner warrior.
Let him rise to the surface with the legendary sword in his hand.
He is needed.
There is a situation in life that requires a mentality stronger than my own.
So rise up warrior.
Rise up and slash the obstacles that block my path.
Throw them off the road so that I can travel safely.
With you by my side i can do anything.
With you by my side everything becomes safer.
With you by my side we will.
Move mountains.

 

Luck of the draw.

It’s a race, a race to complete the goal.
It’s a struggle, a struggle to establish a name.
It’s a taste, a taste for fame and glory.
It’s a hunger, a hunger for more than just this.
It’s a drive, a drive for satisfaction.
It’s a war, a war for a decent slice.
It’s a boost, a boost for the cathedral sized ego.
It’s a lust, a lust for a concept culture.
It’s a gulp, a gulp for a sating oasis.
It’s a dream, a dream for the shining lights.
It’s a hope, a hope to be successful.
It’s a chance, a chance at a decent hand.
In the game of life where luck is the ruler we do what we can to make the most of our world.
The golden finger does not discriminate and the fruits of our labour may not bear our very own apple but it may plant a seed.

 

Writer’s block

Sometimes we sit, stare at the page.
Words fail to explode.
This curse afflicts every creative soul.
The endeavour seems blurred.
It is nothing more than a state of mind.
The dreaded ‘can’t’.
It builds such a wall.
We wonder if we are up to the task.
We feel compelled to ask “do I have anything worth saying?”
Of course, if we don’t say it how shall we ever know?
There is a cure for writer’s block.
It’s a cure that sits comfortably upon the edge of a cliff top.
It’s a cure that looks out upon a world full of life and creative opportunity.
It’s a cure that brings all of the elements under the control of the creator.
It’s a cure that brings satisfaction at taking in the beauty that other simply do not see.
It’s a cure that all of us can overcome simply with a click of our fingers.
It’s a cure, a truth that few of us wish to accept.
The cure is called arrogance.
We possess arrogance for a reason.
Used in the right context, it is the most useful trait to own.
If we convince ourselves that the mountain can be moved simply by the strength within our ego.
It can.
So stop looking at that page thinking ‘can’t’.
Start looking at that page thinking ‘pffffff’.

 

The battle

As the swords clashed and the sheilds banged.
A horseman drew up behind.
With a thunderous roar and a well trained hand.
The sword struck down upon a warrior.
A cavalry flanking manuevre so rapid.
Not much time to respond.
A carpet of arrows blanket the enemy.
Infantry claw from the side.
Formations fragment from both sides.
Cavalry late to respond.
Shock charge impact near the end of the day.
Battle is won, the enemy is done.

 

Tidal

In it comes.
The tide races in to the near horizon.
Time to turn tail and run.
For the fun to be had is turning to carnage.
Such is the story of natures past.
Tidally tossed to and fro in an unending battle.
For dominium of sand.
Tidal war waged forever.

 

City slick

Flames are high tonight.
For city slick hustler.
Smokin’ on a cuban.
Ah, life is good.
Turn down the lights.
For city slick is smokin’ tonight.

Smokin’ smokin’ City slick, pretty quick.
Wheres the party tonight?
City slick, pretty quick, maverick.
Get your people inside.

 .
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Alliteration

So sweet the sound of sizzling steak sealing on furious fire.
So soft the scent of succulent cow slowly shrinking in the pan.
So soothing the sense of satisation slowly, softly reaching out.
So sating the salty sauce as you scoop a spoonful as an appetiser.
Sit still while i serve the sweet succelent saucy streak dinner.

 

First date

What to do, where to go.
How to dress, how to act.
What to say to please.
How to use your sense of humour.
How to make her feel at ease.

What meal to choose.
What movie to watch.
What gift to buy her.
How to show a loving touch.

How to seem confident or smooth.
How to make here look to you.
How to judge the present mood.
When or whether to make the move.

 

The commute

Pre-dawn shivers on a January morning.
Stand in the crowd waiting for the train to pull in.
A screech and a grind as it comes to a halt.
A battle of grunts and growls as the commuters pile in.

Stand up in the aisles or be boxed in the seats.
Which is worse depends on the neighbours.
From cold to hot, the sweat pours off.
Passing disease and discomfort, harm to the others.

Phones deny signals and the drinks cart never comes.
The guard doesn’t bother to come check you’ve paid.
The masks are typing, sleeping or eating.
The daily commute is droll, it’s always the same.

 

Misty morning

Swirl, swirl, swirl.
About the head the wisps, whisper.
Sweet nothings heard from miles away.
Mist distorts.
Closeness calls from invisible horizons.
Wet clings to follicles subdued in morning cold.
Shiver in memory wasteland.
For in warmth of dwelling many forget.
Forget the misty morning.
Dismiss November shroud.

 

Factions

I am here, you are there.
The blade separates the wielder segregates the hearts of me and you.
I know this to be true.
For the factions stand apart.
One dressed in red one dressed in blue.
Stand in the respective queue.
Look across the open gap.
One day soon, these factions will come through.

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