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we pirouetted round the Baptist church floors,
passed the gilded food stamps:
sacrificed penny-sweets for Jesus.
Forest-bound, we ran,
sucker-sticks pointed in case of rapists,
squealed on the merry-go-round,
we were only eight, in leather, painted-up-jackets.
Our Wonder Bread-fed uncle
taught us the art of catching fireflys in jars,
our slow cousin, Mary, cussing their burning bodies backwards,
Mythological Great-Nana tied a string round a wart,
rubbed that bump with a sharp stick,
buried it under the weeping tree.
String, buried, deep, deep, deep,
only to pop on the toes,
of our uncle,
as he swung, finally free,
on the prison floor.
We processed, mournfully black,
food-stamps in hand,
to the corner-store.
Some of us, sweets in hand, didn't look back.
So, this poem sucks. It's trite. But at least it's a poem written in "blank verse" (unrhymed iambic pentameter). Don't do free verse until you're competent with some kind of structure. That's why I prefer the ones in this thread that at least rhyme. Anyways, shut up and read this.
All through the morning bright we roamed the fields,
In afternoon we tamed and reaped them bare.
Come evening in our towers made of glass
We bathe alone in chilly cobalt glow.
How savage was the spear, how pure the gun,
That which was good all day seems now, at night,
Bathed in that cobalt glow, a thing to scorn.
With midnight but an hour hence seem we
So wise and hopeful for the brightest dawn.
The crickets chirp, the birds will sing their joy,
Just as before and for all time to come,
But we, failing to wake, will rot away.
Here's one I wrote in my journal a while back. I usually write with rhyme and some semblance of meter but this one just came to me this way:
Emerge with a blink, a stretch, a scratch,
and the morning air wipes the sleep from your eyes.
Cool fingers caress bared skin
waking an ancient fur-memory.
Concrete chills, deader than stone,
but the rains came in the night
and the wet earth breathes life into your soles
as you step into the real world
from the one we have made;
safe, and easy, and tame.
They stand beside you, your mate,
and your dog, and this is right,
the way it has always been.
And this morning you pause,
and almost recall what it was
to dwell always in what is real,
and what is now.
And this morning you regret
trading the real world
for this one;
safe, and easy, and tame.
Just like you.
Today I will: Eat food, not poison. Plan for success, not settle for failure. Live my real life, not a virtual one. Move and grow, not sit and die.