Free Verse Poems
“Follow the Moon” by Marie Tully
I followed the moon,
Or did it follow me?
I turned a corner;
It was still there, you see.
I tried to trick it.
In the shadows I hid,
But the moon kept on watching.
That's what it did.
A cloud passed before it.
Now was my chance,
But the stars in the sky
Never could lie.
I walked on through the night.
The moon followed me home,
Or did I follow the moon?
I don't quite know.
Or did it follow me?
I turned a corner;
It was still there, you see.
I tried to trick it.
In the shadows I hid,
But the moon kept on watching.
That's what it did.
A cloud passed before it.
Now was my chance,
But the stars in the sky
Never could lie.
I walked on through the night.
The moon followed me home,
Or did I follow the moon?
I don't quite know.
Marie Tully. "Follow The Moon." Family Friend Poems, October 26, 2009.
https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/follow-the-moon.
“Splishy, Sploshy Mud” by Ava F. Kent
Splishy, sploshy mud
is the best type of crud!
You can make pies,
you can make mountains,
you can make giant skies,
just with splishy, sploshy mud!
is the best type of crud!
You can make pies,
you can make mountains,
you can make giant skies,
just with splishy, sploshy mud!
Ava F. Kent. "Splishy, Sploshy Mud." Family Friend Poems, May 15, 2017.
https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/splishy-sploshy-mud.
https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/splishy-sploshy-mud.
“Fog” by Carl Sandburg
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
“Autumn” by T. E. Hulme
A touch of cold in the Autumn night—
I walked abroad,
And saw the ruddy moon lean over a hedge
Like a red-faced farmer.
I did not stop to speak, but nodded,
And round about were the wistful stars
With white faces like town children.
I walked abroad,
And saw the ruddy moon lean over a hedge
Like a red-faced farmer.
I did not stop to speak, but nodded,
And round about were the wistful stars
With white faces like town children.
“My Mother Cooks” by Gil Arzola
Our last supper together was arroz con pollo. There was
no wine. We had no disciples. It was only my mother
and me in the small kitchen. It pleased her to serve me one more time.
Maybe she knew it was going to be our last.
My mother rose early that day.
She asked when I would arrive. She did not want to be late.
She made tortillas and set them as gently as newborn babies
on top of a cotton cloth where she covered
them to keep them warm. And
like the thousands of times since
she began cooking at eleven years old when she ran out of choices,
she measured nothing.
She had no recipe propped up to tell her how to make the dough,
how long to roll it, how much to make
so that it was always enough.
She tossed it together like her life
had been tossed. Like fall leaves and confetti.
Tossed.
She did not need instructions.
Her hands remembered how.
It stuck to her like a tattoo, like the gray in her hair or
the lines her life had carved into the corners of her eyes.
She could not tell you how
it had come to this.
She remembered.
That’s all.
We did not pray at our last supper.
Maybe she did.
In her head while I ate.
Maybe she did.
But I knew no prayers that fit.
And have learned none since.
At our last supper
she was two months short of ninety-three.
She would
be dead in one.
no wine. We had no disciples. It was only my mother
and me in the small kitchen. It pleased her to serve me one more time.
Maybe she knew it was going to be our last.
My mother rose early that day.
She asked when I would arrive. She did not want to be late.
She made tortillas and set them as gently as newborn babies
on top of a cotton cloth where she covered
them to keep them warm. And
like the thousands of times since
she began cooking at eleven years old when she ran out of choices,
she measured nothing.
She had no recipe propped up to tell her how to make the dough,
how long to roll it, how much to make
so that it was always enough.
She tossed it together like her life
had been tossed. Like fall leaves and confetti.
Tossed.
She did not need instructions.
Her hands remembered how.
It stuck to her like a tattoo, like the gray in her hair or
the lines her life had carved into the corners of her eyes.
She could not tell you how
it had come to this.
She remembered.
That’s all.
We did not pray at our last supper.
Maybe she did.
In her head while I ate.
Maybe she did.
But I knew no prayers that fit.
And have learned none since.
At our last supper
she was two months short of ninety-three.
She would
be dead in one.
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