Poetry and rhyme are inextricably linked. When many people think of poetry, they think of very traditional metered, rhyming verse. Some of the most famous poems of all time are rhyming poems. They are all over the place, and for good reason, they are interesting to read. But sometimes, when we are reading poetry, we just want to focus on an idea. We want to focus on simply what is being expressed or the image being discussed. Rhyming can sometimes distract us from what we want to read about. Here is a collection of poems that do not rhyme for you to read distraction free.
Snow Fence by Ted Kooser
The red fence
takes the cold trail
north; no meat
on its ribs,
but neither has it
much to carry.
Danse Russe by William Carlos Williams
If I when my wife is sleeping
and the baby and Kathleen
are sleeping
and the sun is a flame-white disc
in silken mists
above shining trees,—
if I in my north room
dance naked, grotesquely
before my mirror
waving my shirt round my head
and singing softly to myself:
“I am lonely, lonely.
I was born to be lonely,
I am best so!”
If I admire my arms, my face,
my shoulders, flanks, buttocks
against the yellow drawn shades,—
Who shall say I am not
the happy genius of my household?
Poem by William Carlos Williams
As the cat
climbed over
the top of
the jamcloset
first the right
forefoot
carefully
then the hind
stepped down
into the pit of
the empty
flowerpot
The Swan by F.S. Flint
Under the lily shadow
and the gold
and the blue and mauve
that the whin and the lilac
pour down on the water,
the fishes quiver.
Over the green cold leaves
and the rippled silver
and the tarnished copper
of its neck and beak,
toward the deep black water
beneath the arches, the swan floats slowly.
Into the dark of the arch the swan floats
and into the black depth of my sorrow
it bears a white rose of flame
Do You Want to Fall Back In Love Again by Neo Schon
Do I want to fall back in love again? Of
course I want to, but she asked me that in
the morning when I’m eating my bowl of
cereal, now I need to think about what it’s
like to love her.
Fog by Carl Sandburg
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
White Flock by Anna Akhmatova
The sky’s dark blue lacquer has dimmed,
And louder the song of the ocarina
It’s only a little pipe of clay,
There’s no reason for it to complain
Who told it all my sins,
And why is it absolving me?…
Or is this a voice repeating
Your latest poems to me?
Cross Pollination by C.W. Bryan
I had only heard the term
cross-pollination.
It does not feel
like it sounds.
It is not
midsommar.
It is not
the cyclical dancing of flower-crowned children.
It is watching the tide recede
leaving the beach naked.
Exposed as a broken bone.
It is
a deep breath in
before you are swallowed whole.
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