fabiochiu/medium-articles huggingface dataset:
Where is poetry in Rupi Kaur's books?
By: S. Haya
Tags: Rupi Kaur, Poetry, Poem, Free Verse

Where is poetry in Rupi Kaur's books?

(Somebody please tell me.)

I succumbed to online hype

And read Rupi Kaur's 'poetry' books,

Or rather, went through them,

Looking for poetry,

Or some semblance of it.

I found none.

What I found were just normal sentences

Written just like in an essay,

Or romantic fiction,

On various subjects,

But just broken down into stanzas

Using enter and space buttons

On the keyboard.

Much like what am doing here,

(If you're reading this 'poem'

And thinking it's a masterpiece,

Then you must really love those books,

I should probably just draw some doodles

To complete your elevation into poetic bliss.)

Perhaps, the question we need

To ask ourselves is,

Should just anything written

And spaced out with an enter button

Pass off as free verse?

Let me stop there

Before someone accuses me

Of trashing someone else's work,

Or of malice.

But before I sign off,

Can someone please tell me,

Where is poetry in Rupi Kaur's books?
Brick by Brick
By: Jade Gatsby
Tags: Life, Poetry, Relationships, Free Verse, Love

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

Someone told me about you recently

and I felt afraid, briefly;

I thought the wall I had carefully built up

brick by brick, stone by stone

would come shattering down,

a collapse of the only system I engage in

wilfully;

and I braced myself

for the pain I would experience

at the sound of your name

A love born of accident;

an unattainable glimmer of hope;

a friendship that flooded my senses

with careful, hesitating drips of coffee;

amphetamine rush in my veins;

maybe I am not unlovable

maybe someone can love me and

this is that person;

turned into fervent, burning

gulps of water when I’d

spent my life crawling through sand

and I choked on it

Time passes and stories end

and this one took forever to read;

too many nights spent allowing

myself to feel

the pain of the shattered glass you

plunged into me

Brick by brick, stone by stone,

I bled myself dry and covered up

and I felt afraid but my system stood;

I felt no pain, only curious;

Do you ever think of me?

Am I the villain in your love story?

You were my favourite book but

I am tired of reading.
3 Guys Walk Into a Bar
By: Gaston King
Tags: Time, Sanity, Poetry, Free Verse, Bars

Three corrupt souls attempt to take on the night, maneuvering down their separate paths to reconverge and share a similar head space.

Credit: Paul Kramer on Unsplash

Time drifts through gutters feeling cement and concrete in his darkest hours just as a loan man walks a countless number of steps. Step after step surrounding boundless buildings in some search for understanding.

A simple being coursed into a weekly search of preparing the correct mindset to properly coexist with sanity. Sanity gallivants through the evening alone and perfunctory, refusing to hold himself accountable for situations that have unfolded.

Time, a man, and sanity walk into a bar, receiving the predetermined judgements from regular bar patrons.

Regulars who seem unsure if what they bear witness to is healthy or a cornucopia of dreary tidings.

A woman shines a smile with a beaming light of beauty towards their way. A ray seemingly much more decadent than the three have ever beheld.

A look that cannot go unseen from the opposing side of the tavern, the three look to each other to decide who should approach.

Time pleads guilty of a promised matrimony to death. The two hold an inexcusable bond that defies the sanctity of the three idly lounging together.

Time takes a hard look at himself and decides to depart because he foresaw himself coming up short.

Sanity expands to a level of excitement where he announces his presence loudly without a single sound.

After collecting a massive amount of liquid courage, sanity provides a voice of insight to the man before passing out.

“Get Lost”

The man collectively and politely maneuvers towards the beauty with a newfound sense of self-discovery.

© Gaston King, all rights reserved.
Neck
By: Lennie Varvarides
Tags: Personal Development, Poetry, Free Verse, Poem, Poems On Medium

A poem about perspective

This is my neck and I am sticking it out for you.

The lines move

across my frame.

Following symmetry

that I cannot see.

Flesh full of marks

made thin.

Shades change

textures shift.

My skin

not comfortable in.

Routine in need alter

working on perspective.

Wait here a while

and you will witness change.

Together through confession

progress is made.

This is progress.

This is progress.
Exhaustion
By: Raymond Lemay
Tags: Millenials, Nature Writing, Transcendence, Free Verse, Journaling

Learn more. Medium is an open platform where 170 million readers come to find insightful and dynamic thinking. Here, expert and undiscovered voices alike dive into the heart of any topic and bring new ideas to the surface. Learn more

Make Medium yours. Follow the writers, publications, and topics that matter to you, and you’ll see them on your homepage and in your inbox. Explore
Fading
By: Bradon Matthews
Tags: Sad, Free Verse, Nostalgia, Poem, Scuzzbucket

Photo by Jordan Graff on Unsplash

I spare a moment for the

Granite countertop,

See it patterned out along the

Stream of days passing

Me like I pass a street

I used to walk down,

Lonely in the closeness of the

Houses,

The lawns all green and

Mowed and uniformly

Blank

There are drawers in this house

I know hold bits of me

I can’t face,

Pieces of the times I

Laughed like it would

Last forever,

Empty bottles I

Poured for lovers or

Friends,

And I wonder if they would

Even recognize my

Face

Outside the sun sets

Earlier by the minute,

I stay mute

Just to watch the shadows

Stretch along the

Kitchen

Before slowly

Fading off
The Locomotive
By: Gaston King
Tags: Trains, Heartbreak, Poetry, Free Verse, Life Lessons

Credit: Antonio Pasciucco on iStock

A damaged steam vessel loses track of its original design. It suddenly begins lacking in all areas of control. The only direct command it can comprehend is “listen and push”. It requires repairs, a job that will hammer hot iron within to reconstruct the locomotive.

Haunting thoughts of weakness and anger begin teasing the outdated design. Exhaling steam from the smokebox as gears and gadgets continue to work, lift, and reshape mental boundaries.

Looking back towards the tender side unleashes a variety of forceful obstacles. Relapses of construction are considered hindrances. A position, a location, a touch, a taste, all simple pleasantries that once aided the vessel.

A heavy weight piles into the firebox, more and more heat begins to push it to it’s very limit. Dry laced fingers and bulging chaliced palms suffer from bursts of red, flowing within each grip. Each surrounding vein activates as the sincerity of inner strength awakens.

It has decided to leave the depths of the dismal hillside and climb up and out of this place of weakness and doubt. It moves rampant through an overwhelming atmosphere with an unchecked palpable force.

The craft listens to the surrounding setting, motivating itself to create the necessary amount of adrenaline to flow throughout its entirety. A valve gear begins to weaken, the continuous pushing is beginning to wear and tear on the vessel. Shaky uncertainty causes the vessel to peer down and demand in question, “Is that all you’ve got?”

The hand tightens and returns to its place to apply more than the necessary force to lift, push, and defy mental boundaries. The driving wheels suffer but the vessel grows to endure. Wishful thinking creates a rare heat which melds the piece to its prior and forever position.

Over time the vessel’s body has become newly forged. It’s been melted down to it’s core with different dry compounds only to have been beaten into steel. The locomotive has become durable enough to absorb heavy hits, low blows, and is prepared to go pounding through the darkest hours with steady white plumes.

© Gaston King, all rights reserved.
The Air Grows Cold
By: Bradon Matthews
Tags: Breakups, Melancholy, Poetry, Free Verse, Scrittura

The Air Grows Cold

Photo by Dominik Kempf on Unsplash

All my poems start with

“I”, “I love, I

Hate, I stay up or sleep or

Rummage through drawers

Looking for the screwdriver or

Batteries” and I can’t blame you

For a lack of enthusiasm

For the seventeenth to bare

Your name that month

But I was trying

I just didn’t have the tools to

Hang the picture level

And I know it drove you

Like a nail through drywall

Into your own “I’s”

“I wish he’d listen when I

Speak I

Wish he had more pills and

Less control I

Wish he’d just calm down

For once”

We would visit friends and

I would piss you off like

Always,

But there were moments where

I swore I saw a

Bridge, I just

Couldn’t lay the

Framework no matter

What I wrote or

Said or did-

N’t mean it that way

I just wasn’t who you

Thought

Your eyes upon my

Blue-grey skin

I never

Wore the proper

Coat,

Just another warmth

I managed to

Confuse

Bradon Matthews
holy men in hell
Tags: Art, Hell, Poetry, Free Verse

holy men in hell

Photo by Adam Kring on Unsplash

warning: this poem references suicide and sexual abuse

It only takes paying a little attention to tell —

that by the time the old preachers get to heaven

it will be full

as hell.

And St. Peter will have to take them aside

and explain with a sigh

of someone who’s done this before.

Saying:

Sorry, we don’t let holy men in anymore.

We just don’t have the beds

you see too many children —

they ended up dead.

Do you remember that sermon?

What was it you said?

About just war and warriors of Christ to be lead?

About how you heard the voice of an old angry god in your head?

So instead of seeing each other, God’s children saw red.

Even after that disgrace

maybe

maybe

there still would have been space.

But we looked into all those gay kids

who kept killing themselves while crying

to try and find out why so many were dying.

The one’s whose tears were holy water

that mixed with their blood

the same way our saviors did

when it fell from the cross.

Well we found out who taught them

they were damned

and disgusting

and hopeless

and lost.

And I know

I know

I know what you thought.

That your prayers would protect you

because you’ve prayed a lot.

But so did the blessed boys

The ones preyed upon while they prayed

with only cold crucifixes for comfort

abused and afraid.

See they came here confused

with anger and scars that we couldn’t refuse

so we gave them the places that you could have used.

Then, finally, St. Peter will stop —

but only because he ran out of breath.

And the old preachers will wail

And demand

And break down

And question the plan

And where god can be found.

They’ll say they were just doing

what they were told was right.

That for every soul darkened

they led thousands to light.

They’ll beg

and they’ll plead

and the foolish will fight.

And St. Peter will sigh

shake his white head and wait

then slowly, so slowly, drag his keys across the gate.

And it will open

only the smallest sliver.

So before they ever have the pleasure

to look upon his face,

a vengeful Father will have the pleasure

to send them down to their fate.
our pretty medusa
Tags: Mythology, Poetry, Medusa, Free Verse

our pretty medusa

Attribution: Foto Ad Meskens

Before Medusa was murdered and maimed,

before she was hunted by man after man trying to make his dreams

out of her death

before she was made into a monster

— Medusa was a girl.

Just like today,

the kind of girl cursed

with the kind of beauty

the gods can’t keep their hungry hands off of.

Pretty Medusa was just going to Athena’s temple to pray,

when Poseidon saw her

when Poseidon caught her

when he used his power

to take her own body away.

Just like today

Our hearts should break

for Medusa.

Our blood should boil

for her pain.

And Athena’s should have too.

Instead, she warped Medusa’s assault into Athena’s insult

buried empathy under offense

and decided that the girl who wanted to pray deserved to be punished.

Just like today —she had to suffer twice.

Athena turned pretty Medusa’s silky hair to swarming snakes

changing the shape of her face into something so hard

to look at, it would turn even sympathetic glances to stone,

while Poseidon walked away.

Just like today,

the world always did confuse beauty for goodness

so made Medusa a monster.

Not enough to have her relive old pain

brave men bravely came to give her new ones.

To collect the disturbing, disgusting, head

of our pretty Medusa.

But Medusa’s mercy had been taken from her that day in the temple.

So she killed them all —

hair hissing as she overpowered every man.

I wish the myth ended there.

Medusa finally feeling safe

surrounded by the skeletons of those who tried to take

a warning to men about the monsters that they make.

But just like today,

the gods wouldn’t walk away

until she was buried.

So they gave a new brave hero pretty weapons to kill the ugly beast

and he murdered our pretty Medusa.

Freeing her — from her head and life under assault with the same swing.

As the murderer flew off with Medusa’s head in his hands

I can’t help but think of it smiling with relief.

The first peace

she had since she went to the temple to pray.
Walking
By: Bradon Matthews
Tags: Breakups, Moving On, Free Verse, Poem, Scuzzbucket

Past the hallway where my life once

Hung like a balloon

Three days after the party

Too high up to reach

My eyes just stare

At the blank spots where I used to

Feel the caress of fake nails and

Palomas from shitty

Bars in shitty college

Towns,

The french fry grease soaked bags

From drive-thru windows

I stopped at

I love you and swallowed

I love myself

Neurotically I check the doors

For weak handles and open

Deadbolts,

First the garage then the

Sliding glass, then the

Front and back

To the garage

And I know this is a lot to

Grasp, I know that

My life is the finger of light

Sneaking in through the curtains

But I still burn these candles in the

Dark and I swear I

Burned years of myself

For minutes of you

I’m walking from the

Fridge to the bedroom

The ice in my glass

Melting slowly,

So much room in the bed

I could stretch for miles

And not rub against

A thing
To Pieces
By: Bradon Matthews
Tags: Reflections, Change, Melancholy, Poetry, Free Verse

To Pieces

Photo by Connor Dugan on Unsplash

The way my shadow sticks,

The way I disassociate

And the past scatters like

Ash, like the rain

In summer that hangs over the

Next town but I

Am quiet now, my lips

Have learned to listen

For the fall

I am defined by

All this empty space, the

Way the architecture

Sinks into the sea

I feel

So small in the shade of that

Concession, that the

Tide swallows all,

That this part of me will

Slip away
The Dashing Fountain
By: Vivin Karthik
Tags: Poetry On Medium, Free Verse Poetry, Free Verse

Photo by yukari harada on Unsplash

I was falling into the well of life

Baffled, spooked and untethered

Having no control whatsoever

With no end I could see

Through time life put many cuts on me

There was love and then rejection

There was happiness and then sorrow

There was applaud and soon regret

There was trust and later betrayal

Life continued striking to knock me down

Finally, life blew me down to the end of the well

I laid there wearing my bones

There were no tears left in my eyes

Only darkness in the two sockets of my skull

I rested in this coffin of failures and regrets

Weeds and flowers were grown around

The sepulchre silence was deafening

But then I heard a sparkling sound

Coming under from where I was laying

It was amplifying through time

Getting mightier and mightier like a roar

Hallelujah, it was not the end for me

Water slowly started coming out

From underneath to fill the desolation

The desolation of the well of life

It touched my bones and skull

And I started rising up gradually

Rising up against all my rejections

Against all my defeats and sorrows

I dashed out from the doomed well of life

Like a spectacular fountain of steadfast

I came out from the hole with full of life

Boldly rising up above mountains and sky

To the unknown and beyond
to be a white rose
Tags: Art, Sophie Scholl, World War II, Poetry, Free Verse

to be a white rose

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

If I could be like anything —

(in shape

and form

and functioning)

I should be like The White Roses.

Knowing surely there would be a day,

they’d all be picked

and plucked

and pulled away.

Still stubbornly growing.

(bigger, bolder, braver,

ever outward

toward the sun)

Petals undone.

Seeds spreading.

Roots tightly wrapped

around poisoned earth

where they were birthed.

Sharpening their thorns — in secret.

Stabbing the places

(they thought)

the gardener was weakest.

If I could be like anyone

(In how they lived and what they’ve done)

I would be like The White Rose

(named Sophie)

Who as her stem was cut

— and metallic red splattered lily white —

still knew her fight was right.

“Such a fine sunny day, and I have to go, but what does my death matter,

if through us thousands of people are awakened and stirred to action?”

- Sophie Scholl, February 22, 1943
Beckoning Sunrise
By: Victoria Antonelli
Tags: Depression, Sunrise, Winter, Control, Free Verse

Beckoning Sunrise

Photo by kilarov zaneit on Unsplash

I wake to brilliant orange and pink

Begging me to pick up a pen and run

Down the street screaming for people

To finally wake up

I have a lot of things to say but how

Can I say them without ringing necks

Of those who own the mouths barking

Idiotic and ignorant responses?

The shrill scream of a tea kettle

Interrupts the rant inside my mind

Someone didn’t put the pan back so

My small sense of control is slipping

Maybe I should let my teabag seep

Before burning my mouth on hot

Water with barely enough caffeine

To help me sit up straight

It’s time to crawl back into bed

The place I left when orange and pink

Beckoned me to complete a task

I couldn’t handle
In Need of Noise
By: Sydney J. Shipp
Tags: Distraction, Poetry, Free Verse, Adhd, Self-awareness

In Need of Noise

by Viktor Mogilat on Unsplash

What drops between sounds can deafen

It spills from the sky,

and if I don’t die in the deluge

with no resounding distractions to buoy me —

no dings, rings, or clamor to cling onto,

nor my own words to wrap around —

I might find I can float

upon the thick roar of silence,

that it is not necessary to swim

against the action of a passive verb

Words leave me

and silence falls upon

But the sounds

and what was said is dredged

after the flood,

and I hold onto it in preparation

for the next day’s rain,

because the quiet

does not resonate with me
Sitting on the Bench
By: Bradon Matthews
Tags: Conversations, Romance, Free Verse, Poem, Scrittura

Sitting on the Bench

Photo by Ross Sneddon on Unsplash

The park is filled with

So many people, it almost resembles

A collage, normalcy, but things aren’t

Normal and I’m not either,

Darting my eyes to

Grab responses and drag them

To my mouth, speaking

Metaphorically I say everything is

Conscious and you say everything

Is energy, the rocks vibrating in

Your palm and I

Almost believe you in a way

I can’t understand and won’t for

Days, my brain too shaky in the cold

To take it’s layers off

My hands are freezing so I

Touch your jeans and not your

Skin and ask you

What you think about the state,

The tree beside me, the

Ink beneath my skin

Frozen to your mirrored iris and I

Wonder what that

Means and what you mean

When you say vibrate

But I just exhale

Watch your hand

Move like a magnifying glass

To mine, the realization

Of my circulating thoughts

A chapter for another day
My Letter, Part 1
By: Raúl Güereque
Tags: Life, Dissapointments, Poetry, Free Verse, Children

Photo by Quinton Coetzee on Unsplash

My Letter, Part 1

I am disappointed in you

Both of you

I have been for some time

You and the other two

The ones ‘cross state

So, you four

Not the little ones

They’re all innocent

Just you four.

4.27.07
Hair
By: Karina Hennefer
Tags: Free Verse Poetry, Hair, Free Verse, Poem, Poems On Medium

Free verse poem

I was told when I was a little girl

“Take care of your hair,

One day, a man will fall in love with you

Because of your hair”

I took care of it

And it was my biggest possession

It felt even alien sometimes

Some weird uniform I had to wear

To get accepted into the school of women

Sometimes I hated my hair even

For being so long and outdated

I wanted a short bob or a stylish haircut

I wasn’t allowed to step outside the femininity

I wasn’t allowed to even look at it

I wondered why we women had to be loved for something

And yet we needed to love a man for being someone?

Be feminine, be nice, be quiet, be soft

We are given so many instructions growing up

When the man is only given one:

“Be a man”.

I lost my hair very soon

And I cried for it

Because in losing it I understood

My worth was never attached to it

My biggest possession was me

And will always stay me

I cut and dyed the hair

And as time passed

I realized

Hair no longer had the power over me

It was mine
Knit Me a Christmas Scarf (a poem)
By: William F. Aicher
Tags: Poem, Poetry, Poetry On Medium, Free Verse

Photo by Steven Lasry on Unsplash

Driftwood washed up

on a shore of sheep

freshly shorn

to knit a pocket

for their master.

go.

fetch.

bring me the stickboy

so that i may carve a puppet

out of understanding.

slip and slide

up the slope of truth

while shepherds watch

their flocks

and once upon a time

their dream will

pull free of the stage

at the tug

of a crook

made of driftwood.
Devoured
By: Sydney J. Shipp
Tags: Poetry, Free Verse, Poem, Night, Self-awareness

Devoured

by Akira Hojo on Unsplash

Pines partition my course

for the night

into sections I can swallow,

columns of smooth black that slide

down cooly

between textured slats

of brown whose bark chokes

and splinters stick

and sap washes down,

the dark side of day

through a fence staked

between me and the shadows,

all the truth of night I can take

The yips of coyotes are

carried on cold

piercing between posts

through the pitch

to catch in my throat

for a second before they, too,

go down,

riding on the roll of a long howl

that stirs

what the evening has served

The sky is a spoon

slotted with stars

that serves up the night

over fields and through fences,

poured between

what separates me from the other side

and onto the grass on which I stand

It transverses the border of my body

as I am fed by the dim,

and I am consumed with the dark
Winter Crows
By: Jane Woodman
Tags: Winter, Poetry, Snow, Free Verse, Crows

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There Is Fire
By: Trapper Markelz
Tags: Parenting, Poetry, Poetry Sunday, Free Verse

Photo by Mary Ray on Unsplash

She watches orange paper lanterns

reach across the twilight pond

each falling — one by one —

in a soft wind extinguished

and submerged, except for a

single lantern

in missing man formation

that lingers in the current

before a sudden sign of flame

throws up firefly embers

that fade in the cold, young

wishes slipping to space.

I’m watching her grow up

right now by this water,

releasing lanterns like I release

her — into the water,

the wind, the dark, the flame.
Inheritance
By: Cameron Garnes
Tags: Poetry, Free Verse

Photo by Elias Schupmann on Unsplash

Fist sized dents mar the walls of my family home

My anger’s need for release overrides

The preservation of my own flesh and bone

Now my son doesn’t know his father

Because I grew up alone

Sins of my predecessors are passed along

Treat you bad cuz those who should’ve raised me right

Did me wrong

Momma worked hard for everything she had

Never saved a penny cuz she had to pay

For the absence of my dad

The well of wealth ran dry when it came to my generation

We quench our thirst in search of the next sensation
A Photograph Taken in Cambridge
By: Jane Woodman
Tags: Poetry On Medium, Free Verse, Family, Travel, Love

A Photograph Taken in Cambridge

Photo of a photo taken by author’s belle-fille.

Light lies slant

Having crept between the curtains

To make much of dark wood and butternuts

To make one small photograph glow–

We two stood against a low wall in Cambridge

Not seeing the beloved of our son

Fix our attitude with her camera.

We each lean into the other

Breathing in the peaceful current

That lives in and around us.

That current of perpetual gratitude,

Of grace, grows deeper and stronger

With every breath of humility and thanks.

How can I teach my son, a separate universe,

To see this simplest of paths to peace

To life enlarged by perpetual love

Where light turns everything to gold?
New Pair of Wings
By: Veronica Georgieva
Tags: Sad, Poetry, Free Verse, Relationships, Poem

My mistake was

that I broke off my wings

to give them to you

when you sold your own.

So you used them to fly,

fly far away, fly high,

while I was stuck here

underground.

And now I’m at the start

of my journey of relearning

how to grow them once again,

but until then

I’ll be drowning in the desert,

that you custom-made

for me to stay in…

…until you need another pair.
Forever
By: Raúl Güereque
Tags: Support, Life, Free Verse, Poem, Love

Photo by Helena Lopes on Unsplash

Forever

For as long as it takes

For as long as you need

I will be here

For you to take from

For you to comfort in

Without question–ever

For as long as I know how

For as long as I can

I will be here

Forever I will be here

For you

4.25.07
Caesura
By: Tiffany Penner
Tags: Life, Romance, Poetry, Relationships, Free Verse

Photo by Tamar Willoughby from Pexels

A poem

From my window

I see you in the rain light

Against a silver sky

Sharp-edged wind

Whips brown dust into paint

Swiping bold strokes

Across the landscape

I hear the splash your boot makes

In the puddle by the door

And your coat’s wet slap

Soft whooshing stirs the air

Carrying your storm-slicked scent

And there is thunder in your step

I’m sitting where the light is bright

Pen in hand, listening

To the march of a pipe band

Your presence in the doorway

Chuckling at the familiar sight

Waiting for my scratching pen to still

And my paper set aside

At last I smile

At the passion in your eyes

Meeting your hungry lips with mine

Here we’ve found a slice of eternity

Within our flesh-clothed souls

For spirits know no time
On the phone with my dad
By: Bradon Matthews
Tags: Reflections, Conversations, Parents, Free Verse, Poem

Photo by Marc Zimmer on Unsplash

I tell you I understand

Nothing, that

Years have passed and my

Body has grown tall

And my mind empty

And restless,

I tell you I remember every awkward

Stare I’ve elicited in strangers,

Every time I dropped all logic

And retreated to the basement

To rethink

Everything

And you laugh,

Say I’m just seeking something else,

Say the point is to enjoy the journey,

Say that’s all we’ve got

I say “it must be a wild ride

Being my parent,

Seeing me through OCD and acid,

Watching as I sit in isolation

Chambers of my skin

Thinking about the sunrise

And showing up with painted nails

To thanksgiving”

You says

“Your just having fun with it”

We both laugh again

And then it’s quiet,

The kind of quiet where

My heart beats morse code

Signals through the silence of my

Bones and wonders

If someone out there

Hears them too

Dad,

I called to tell you after all this time

I haven’t learned a thing,

That I’m making problems out of sand

And smiling as the tide rolls in,

Washing them away
On my way to somewhere else
By: Amy Knight
Tags: Kindness Of Strangers, Poetry, Trauma, Free Verse, Insomnia

A free verse poem

Photo by Åaker on Unsplash

The best cup of tea

a stranger made for me

was in a cafe I had never noticed

on a street I often walked down

on my way to somewhere else.

Until, one day

I never walked that way

ever again.

He came from round the corner,

out of nowhere;

sudden, frightening pain.

People saw.

“You know what that’s for”

he muttered, but none of us did.

He disappeared (or hid).

They picked me up off the pavement,

ushered me inside

and while I cried

they tried

to decide what to do.

Some lights flashed blue.

I didn’t go to hospital, against advice

but drank tea

with two sugars,

which was nice.

They asked my name

and when they called, you came.

On the cafe sofa you were shaking

even more than me (probably

because you hadn’t had the tea.)

We drove up and down, the cops and I,

around the town to see if he

would reappear on a street nearby,

just waiting to be identified. Well,

obviously, that was a waste of time.

The bruises on my belly and

my nights got darker for a while.

Sleep blew across me;

storm clouds on a windy day.

It wouldn’t stay. I lay

awake and watched,

those hours just drift away.

I wasn’t wearing high heels

or a dress;

I was walking to the gym.

I left, because

they never arrested him.

For victims of assault:

it’s not your fault, and no

it isn’t fair.

I hope

a stranger’s there

to make a cup of tea for you.

And if they offer sugar,

ask for two.

© Amy Knight 2020
As Humans
By: Raúl Güereque
Tags: Humanity, Reflections, Life, Free Verse, Poem

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Running On an Empty Road
By: Bradon Matthews
Tags: Coping, Melancholy, Metaphor, Free Verse, Poem

Photo by Mark König on Unsplash

I am running on this empty road

And I am filled with numb and grey

Sunlight beaming through a stagnant

Curtain in an afternoon I can’t

Stand up to face

I am running on this empty road

And I am swallowing every pebble like

A candy trail back to sanity and

Wound up reaching for starred parts

Of hearts that don’t

Respond to beats

I am running on this empty road

And I am filled with the stare of

A dog I no longer own looking

Through the kitsch plates of youth at a

Man who had everyone’s best interest

On the press

I am running on this empty road

And filling it as my body

With the touch of hands and naked skin,

The feeling of the drugs

Pulse through my temple-altered

Drive through the

Clocktower of

Dawn

I am running on this empty road

And I am filled with the freedom of a moment

Colored sickly by the next

And turning over pebble after pebble

With the pendulum of

Fading self
astringent
By: Jennifer Cowie King
Tags: Addiction, Emotions, Poetry, Free Verse, Self

this time it wasn’t to be

and that would normally

be disappointing, but okay

her thoughts circled her head

in rotation on warp speed,

endless cycle

all she had to do was get in

the car and drive to the store

buy something, anything

chocolate melting in her mouth

blood singing with sugar,

instant ways of forgetting

instead, she went into the

bathroom with Clorox and

cleaned the toilet

trying to scrub the male

dominance away with bleach

and toilet brush

the smell, a lion’s cage roar

sharp and undeniably fragrant,

burning her nose

she needed a space to forget,

calm her anger, her loneliness,

her freshly opened wounds

distraction by astringent, anything

to keep herself from leaving, flushing

away into destruction by sugar

©Jennifer Cowie King

If you liked this poem, you might like this one…
I Don’t Get It
By: Raúl Güereque
Tags: Life, Questions, Poetry, Free Verse, Driving

Photo by Maksim Istomin on Unsplash

I Don’t Get It

Okay, this is it

I’ve got it!

You drive there

He drives here

We drive there

All, all, all

So you won’t

have to drive

there again

Okay

Wait

I don’t get it

4.26.07
The Trail from Head to Heart
By: Sydney J. Shipp
Tags: Feelings, Poetry, Free Verse, Poem, Self-awareness

The Trail from Head to Heart

by Jeremy Bishop on Pexels

For those of us who don’t know

the difference anymore

between joy and interest:

joy puts out the mind

and interest ignites it

Attention on any warmth in the heart

is deferred to a flaming head

Please place a cool rag on mine

because I want the warmth in my middle:

even waves emanating from a pot belly,

the soft heat of a stove

without the spastic singe of grease splatter,

a radiator relaxing the coils,

not the sparks striking between turning cogs

that wind you up

I want the subtle glow of a softly beating chest,

rather than the erratic banging of fireworks

exploding above

I’ll forsake the fascination

for a fever breaking upon the forehead

The trail from head to heart

is marked with ash in mourning

the enticing intensity of thought,

the loss of all that distracts you

from feeling
Leaving
By: Trapper Markelz
Tags: Poetry, Free Verse

I will leave this wild land of imported sources,

a divided nation, made comfortable

by echoing ear trumpets of split radiation.

When I was eighteen, I possessed

a blue duffle bag and bicycle later stolen

by someone who just needed it more.

I felt sorry for the mall security guard

in his quiet, flickering room, beaten

by a wicked tree that covered his cameras.

For years, coins trickled without account,

negative numbers a deep grainy red

that met the slash of wet scissors

in a lonely upstate summer.

So I bought a new bicycle, and rubbed my

thighs on it in the mountains, chattered

my teeth as the thermometer rose and fell.

But I returned — as a person — as a story —

as a person with stories — who continued

down a slow decline to an eventual passing.
a quiet redistribution of empathy
Tags: Unity, Change, Poetry, Free Verse, Poems On Medium

a quiet redistribution of empathy

poetry is merely

a quiet redistribution of our empathy.

a waterfall of emotion,

each handful cupped carefully and passed

to a woeful, waiting world.

once it was flourishing text and decorated idiosyncrasies,

long, winding metaphors and melodic maladies,

plays on words and thoughtful peculiarities,

softspoken remedies and heartbroken elegies.

then it became a bullet aimed at a heart:

short.

quick.

a gut punch.

it’s metamorphosis traced like a paperback spine,

it’s evolution tracked through the passage of time,

it’s changes of heart and changes of mind,

it’s anchors of peace and desperate lifelines.

from ancient tomes

to instagram poems,

we wrote as far as we could dare to conceive,

searching endlessly for a mental reprieve.

the world may have changed and so may its prose,

but the purpose of poetry stayed a flourishing rose.

to define is to limit,

and our emotion remains endless.

it was infinite then, it is infinite now,

and maybe it sounds different, but its reasoning is the same,

not for glory and never for fame,

merely to say, we are the same.

there is a world we will never understand

but we will face it hand in hand

as our ancestors did so many years before,

with those same honest words

and a welcome, open door.

seeking understanding of the impossible,

seeking solace in the unimaginable,

unwinding the wrapping of our grief

into a final,

calming sigh:

relief.
An egret
By: Agni Barathi, Aka
Tags: Poetry On Medium, Poetry, Free Verse, Birds, Poem

This morning,

my mind is a

limpid lake of blue waters

reflecting the yawning sky

with its countless clouds

and

on its banks

grass in different shades of green

and egrets

all the same shade of white.

The grass in different shades of green

don’t rustle even in the strongest of winds.

But one egret stalks the bank in a measured gait.

Another stretches out its wind to receive all the sun.

The egret next to it takes flight into the

tenebrous forest shimmering with my fears and guilt

and never returns.

Then,

even as I sit and watch helplessly

one egret soars into the monsoon sky;

A lone streak of white

against the infinite grey.
What I Am Now
By: Bradon Matthews
Tags: Romance, Melancholy, Free Verse, Poem, Love

Photo by Rafael Garcin on Unsplash

I was the trickle of a stream

Caked with mud and narrowed

With refracted light

And you used such Immense

Words, you saw with scalpels

And I tripped over my tongue

And splashed the dirt upon blond strands

Hung like the curtain call of

Youth

And like youth the clock began

To tick sporadic

Till sleep was a disease of lateness

And disjointed my life dripped

From the freshly thawing walls

Eons have passed since I was

Skin

Eons have passed since I smelled

The scent of rain

Falling

In anything but morris code

Do your fingers still tap to cuban music

Or have they begun to dig

As well?

The edge, what a place to live,

What a place to saw

Your years against

The cliffs are only sandstone

And as I perch I

Feel myself eroding faster

Than my feet can stand

The stillness
Growing Up
By: Bradon Matthews
Tags: Melancolia, Romance, Free Verse, Poem, Love

Photo by James Fitzgerald on Unsplash

Maybe this is growing up,

The dead skin that glowed scattered

On the fireplace, I glance

Once more at the place you’d hang your

Coat and I can’t feel you anymore

But I remember feeling scared

The night we met in the apartment of a

Friend, I remember

The way you drove me to my car

And how yours smelt of balsamic

From the salads you would eat

On your way to

Work,

And you went home, smoked

A joint in the shower and I

Knew then if not love

Then something close

Something so inescapably light

The eye doesn’t notice,

And before I knew myself I knew you

I look at the single plate before me

And remember all the nights

I cooked the same thing

And we ate happily

Like it was all

Alright,

Like we were home

You are gone now,

I eat alone,

I get high

Alone

I am never quite home

And maybe that is part of growing up,

The place beside me empty

My eyes dissect the couch

Through heavy lids
Printed Words
By: Audacious Women
Tags: Books, Poetry, Free Verse, Nostalgia, Bookshelves

Printed Words

Photo by Taylor on Unsplash

Books peek through their shelves

eager to reminisce

the unwritten stories

scribbled as notes,

that carried a thought,

a counter-argument,

Or plain awe.

Books peek through their shelves

standing as a testament

to the storms and sunshine,

some caused by them

some survived coz of them.

Books peek through their shelves

making a statement

lay side by side

Angela Davis and Ayn Rand,

piquing curiosity,

sparking a conversation,

building camaraderie.
What It Means to See the Water
By: Jac Gautreau
Tags: Oceans, Meditation, Poetry, Water, Free Verse

Difficult to explain

What it means to see the water

Its long horizon, softly focused

Freedom’s addictive altar

The promise of a new world

Dangerously within reach

Each wave seductively curling

Stealing pebbles from the beach

To see the water is to dream of levitation

To wish to know no earthly bounds

The water is like a forgotten promise

Made of salt and sound

To see the water

Is to acknowledge its power

Stronger than sail or ship or man

To pray for its benevolence

Or to bow to its demand
No Work Is Small
Tags: Humanity, Respect, Poetry, Free Verse, Work

No Work Is Small

In Picture: Author, Captured By: Author

I have mopped floors

I have danced in front of strangers

I have picked up garbage

I have held a new born baby

I have given rides to commuters

I have sat in the air conditioned offices

I have worked from the comfort of my home

Don’t call my work small

If I don’t clean your toilets, homes, and roads

You’ll be living in dirt

If I don’t drive you or serve you food

You’ll be stuck at home, with no food at all

Respect me, respect my work

‘Cuz no work is small!
Spectacular Green Pull
By: Karen L. Jones
Tags: Nature, Poetry, Free Verse, Poem, Green

Spectacular Green Pull

Photo by Nihal A on Unsplash

Spectacular green

spray paint cedar

a teenager in neon green with a hit of yellow

vandalized with beauty

Austerity with a breath of longitudinal wisdom

I want to touch you

turn my hands electric green

currents jolt my heart

pulled across the forest

stretching

from tree to tree

I want to cry

in reverence and taught admiration

green waves banking the forest beds

green riding like a wild youth

swerving through trunks

won’t be tamed

A free open perspective up top

welcome welcome green

wafting in light close to the sun

waving with ease

arms spread wide above the noise

Rough bark glossed over

run my hands over your muscular outer layer

envy your youth, your age, your glory

pull myself into you

you send me everywhere
What does it change?
By: Trapper Markelz
Tags: Poetry, Free Verse

Photo by Taha Sas on Unsplash

I’m not one that needs to know

whether this is real or not.

I’m not sure the answer changes

anything for us humans trying

to keep our heads down

in a cosmic shooting gallery

before our brief little view

blinks without permission.

Our brains are born to think

ahead, to map all paths, to set

unique expectations, and judge

small progress by what future

we find least disappointing

while those most in harmony

bathe naked in some present joy.

I bought a new bathtub to be

just like them, in the steam,

naked, hair slicked back,

holding the door with my foot.
I’ve lost the thread of myself
By: Muffie Waterman
Tags: Writing, Micropoetry, Free Verse, Creativity, Life Lessons

I’ve lost the thread of myself

Photo credit: Michael Dziedzic via Unsplash

I’ve lost the thread of myself.

I let go in the midst of all this

Life.

Swirling

Overwhelming

That caught and grabbed me.

Inconstant grip slackened

The thread, unattended,

Slipped away.

I have a clue.

Like all lost things

The trick is to retrace your steps.

Where did you last see it?

What were you doing

when you recall having it last?

And so it is that writing comes into view again.

Obscured

Then revealed

Again.

I would kick myself for forgetting,

But this has become a familiar path.

The way back is to word.

To write myself back into being.

The thread dangles

Tantalizing,

Elusive,

But it is there.
Waking up again
By: Trapper Markelz
Tags: Poetry, Free Verse

Photo by Kevin Escate on Unsplash

I have my faults: a shattered bowl,

a wrinkled sheet, knees to my chest,

a skull capped and a face bloody.

I’ve been afraid to touch and talk only

in screams with white teeth that duly shine

like candles. I’ve held the letter

with its wax seal and scripted ink.

It told me where we’ve been

and with whom we’ve slept. A song

of gold coins and sharp swords, and

others with a shrunken army

of papers that rewrite the past.

I’ll change the worst recipes of our ancestors,

grind dirt into dirt, and words into wind,

after I’ve done the hardest things.
Quiet wounds
By: Annine Massaro
Tags: Introspection, Poetry, Literary Impulse, Free Verse, Self

Quiet wounds

Photo by Jennifer Griffin on Unsplash

Did you know that there are some scars that lay dormant?

Suspended in time?

Yet they affect all of the life. Its entire beingness.

They are silent hidden things that remain just beyond the grasp of the mind.

Their mystery lies deep in the heart.

The pain and the pleasure…

The path of wholeness well worn by the Masters who call.

The only way out is through the looking glass.

“Off with their heads!”

Thank you, Alice.
The Tree still Stands There
Tags: Poetry On Medium, Poetry, Free Verse, Love Poem Modern, Poems On Medium

The Tree still Stands There

Photo by Andy Watkins on Unsplash

Not long ago,

If you remember, my dear love!

We spend a night out there

under a tree

Swore to each other

of not leaving and loving forever!

We, in the moment of wild passion,

Wrote an inscription on the tree’s trunk

testimony to our love and kissed that

and let it to grow along the tree

We pledged that night not to separate from each other.

But over time we forgot and the tree grew

until it overshadowed the testimony of our love under its skin,

Not showing now, only a scar!

I visited the tree last night to see if our love still grows

As that tree embodied our love, life and everything.

I visited it again,

Went to the time we had written on it

and reached the destination.

Alas! just like our relation, the tree stands

but dried, leafless, and lifeless, bare on the earth

waiting to be dragged down or a little push

if winds endowed to uproot it.

I sat there again, beneath that barren tree, reflected,

How our love has ruined a blooming tree

and rendered it to destruction,

Like our love!

By Israr Khan
Grace my chérie
By: Vivin Karthik
Tags: Poetry, Free Verse

Photo Courtesy: Anunanda

We were holding hands on the stone railing

The river under was so clear like a mirror

Her face was golden with the evening sunshine

We locked our eyes and kissed

The moment was so glorious it overshadowed the sun

The sun went down and there was no moon

She left putting a hole in my heart

She took everything but her memories

The whole universe became so small

Nothing but three dirty walls and a metal gate

Locking myself away holding to the laughs of past

As I held on the molten iron rods of her memory

I saw outside a mystery key almost reachable

It was the key of gracefully letting go

I put my hands out struggling to reach for it

For it is not easy to realize the key to conundrum

Finally I let myself out of pain through time

Realizing not everything needs to be said and known

Sometimes it’s not about aligning life to the reasons we know

But to acknowledge it’s ok to be lost in the forest

For salvation is on the road unknown

The road that will take us to the sun to shine on us again
See, Understand, Fathom, Follow
By: Madeleine Anne Bognar
Tags: Change, Influence, Free Verse, Poem, Power

Learn more. Medium is an open platform where 170 million readers come to find insightful and dynamic thinking. Here, expert and undiscovered voices alike dive into the heart of any topic and bring new ideas to the surface. Learn more

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Gestures
By: Sydney J. Shipp
Tags: Life, Spirituality, Nature, Poetry, Free Verse

Gestures

by Leio McLaren on Unsplash

The same hand that pulls threads

of pink cirrus clouds

from the sky at dusk

snaps,

and for one second you blink

and miss everything

turning to black

A sprinkle of stars stirred

by the same fingertips that flooded

the day with light

flicker

as a palm,

lined and large as a landscape,

waves back and forth before them

Here below I am touched

by these gestures,

if only from the air whipped around

in their wake,

currents running through the spaces

separating knuckles

and streaming over webs that stretch

between graceful digits

reaching out to hold me
Ghosts and Other Unasked Questions
By: Trisha Traughber
Tags: Vagabond Voices, Poetry, Free Verse, Family, Ghosts

Ghosts and Other Unasked Questions

Photo by Kurniawan kami saputra on Unsplash

The dead look

over your shoulder while you slip

your feet into once frozen

water and feel the wind spilling

the dappled sunlight over your neck.

Here, now they are

more powerful, present than when

we once shared time and space

and yet separated into droplets,

generations held apart by continents,

pride, perspective,

tides rising pulling us farther out

Until death brings us back

in rivulets, ripples, splashes.

Ask me

if I believe in ghosts. It is nothing

more remarkable than

the sunlit waters

tossing around your ankles.
The Factory
By: Zachary Barnes
Tags: Art, Poetry, Free Verse, Poet, Writing

Slaving away in this little factory

The height and weight aren’t satisfactory

The orders come in with impossible requests

The things I make just don’t pass the tests

Each part has a scratch or some sort of flaw

And it’s been this way for each of them all

Nobody wants an imperfect piece

Alone I sit fixated on the trees

Perhaps swinging below would quell their thirst

They had no idea but I wouldn’t be the first

A few days of mourning and showing sorrow

They’ll find a new place to send orders tomorrow