FREE VERSE POETRY by Russell Perry
Free Verse Poetry (Verse Libre) – As a novelist, I find that free verse poetry exercises and hones my writing skills. However, it does present a danger. Unlike a work of fiction, it tends to expose ones inner thoughts more directly.
I recently read a comment by Antonia Felix, the New York Times best selling author and educator. She said that “Writing poetry is weightlifting for writers of any genre. It builds artistic muscle.” … I thought … that makes sense to me, I’ll give it a go.
Over the years I’ve harboured thoughts of dabbling in poetry, however, I’ve never really been one for rhyming poetry, as, in my view, it restricts you in the use of language and tends to make light of your subject. However, of a sudden, I seemed to remember that I had heard, or read somewhere of a form of poetry which was not governed by rules. I searched and found Free Verse Poetry or as the French call it Vers Libre.
So, now that I have turned my hand to Vers Libre, I find it exciting, a joy to write, and something I will continue with. I hope to write enough poetry in the coming months and years to fill a book or two with Free Verse Poetry. Please feel free to click on the toggles below to unwrap my first offerings.
The Writer – by Russell Perry
When a story ends, a new one must begin;
for writing is as drawing breath.
A blank page brings promise of adventure,
eagerly awaiting my words, my imagination,
and so it begins.
The adventure has been imagined, the story plotted,
but characters not yet consulted.
As I unleash them, they establish their own agenda;
they divulge their secrets, their nature;
they acquire life.
They take my story in directions not yet contemplated.
Excitement builds, as their presence pervades;
As the journey meanders, the mystery deepens.
Where will they take us?
The story will carry you on the journey;
but it is told one word at a time,
with each word carefully chosen;
for the words are your eyes, your emotions.
Through words you will see places you have never been,
meet characters as yet unknown.
With them you will feel sadness and fear,
happiness and excitement,
and once inside the story, words trap you there.
You are among the characters, companions on your journey.
But where do they come from? the words the characters.
They have always been there,
hidden in memory and imagination.
The writer seeks them out, unearths them.
The writer is as well a reader, yet as a conductor is to the orchestra.
Weeks End – by Russell Perry
Morning sounds seep into my sleep.
Birdsong, cars, muffled people.
Daylight pulls at my eyelids, probes my dreaming.
I come slowly to consciousness,
What day is it? What will be asked of me today?
Who will demand action or tribute from me?
My mind clears, my eyes open wide,
A realization, It’s Saturday,
No demand will be made on me today. No work.
The only work will be my work, what I choose.
These thoughts allow joy to permeate my morning,
The joy grows with a certain erudition.
Week-day demanders desist.
Their day too is Saturday, with their own pleasures.
They retreat from their pressures, their urgencies.
We each are in our own calm hiatus.
I rise with elation to meet Saturday, and exult.
There is yet Sunday.
Life’s Twilight – by Russell Perry
How quickly it comes … life’s twilight.
Youth has waned, it seems in just a blink.
Whilst youth is yours you think not of twilight.
Life is endless. “Old” is far away. Not your concern.
Now questions stalk your secret moments…
What light remains? When will night come?
Have I a summer twilight, with long, enduring light?
Or twilight as in winter. Darkness coming quickly?
It matters not if winter, for I will be memory.
Is there more? Will I be back this way again?
Oh let the stories be true. Let me return endlessly.
To witness things yet to come, to right wrongs,
Learn lessons yet unlearned.
But enough! Cease this misery.
Think not of death, but of life, waste not precious time.
Live among the young. Soar on their wings.
Spend time yet to come well, not in regret.
Find your joys, dwell on them, pursue them,
spend each day among them.
Discard regret, stress, procrastination.
Anticipating a joy each day, brings light.
If joy is not anticipated, create it.
Forever seek life’s light,
Night is far off … revel in the daylight.
The Old Man - A Poem For My Father.
The Old Man by Russell Perry
Our time has run out now.
I can no longer see you, or touch your face.
I talk to you, though receive no reply.
My heart misses you, yet I carry you there still,
With me always through eternity.
My looks, my actions, my considerations reflect you.
I forever heed your guidance, your moralities.
Your exemplar echoes through generations,
As those you taught become teacher,
and those whose life you touched become advocate.
Together we took life’s short journey.
We talked, we worked, we played, we fished, we drank.
We were father and son, best mates.
Each of your children enjoyed your special attention,
Yet none felt less loved than another.
You succeeded, in concert with your life’s love, our Mother,
to weave a web of love through our lives,
A web which can never be damaged,
And in doing so, you granted your own fervent wish,
That our love for each other remain strong, unbroken.
Tears well as I reflect on a life well lived.
Forever grateful for the time we shared.
I hope I gave you moments of pride,
As I know I gave you moments of angst.
You are my hero still, my example, my rock.
Through life, when people ask, Are you Homer’s son?
Shoulders squared and with great pride I reply, Yes.
Their sentiment often followed,
If you become half the man, you’ll do all right.
I strive for this goal still.