Best Free Verse Poems From Contemporary Poets: ” Grandma Knows a Spy from Wuhan “

Free Verse

    Oh no, not free verse. Gosh but, it’s not the end of the world if a poem doesn’t have end rhymes. An internal rhyme can cause just as much mischief if not more. And rhythm(?) — you’re not going to sing it out loud, are you?
    It’s not an ivy down-climbing crime if a poem is not abstract, not obtuse or loosely profound, or if it’s not approved by a fee University.
    Although, an occasional structured poem can occur with special permission and occur with the appropriate poetic license obtained from the secret authorities.

Douglas Gilbert

Wuhan Lab

[Now that it’s been established that Wuhan is the center of bio-weapons technology(by another name) implicitly supervised by the government, ‘accidental’ germ warfare can be said to have occurred. See:
The origin of COVID: Did people or nature open Pandora’s box at Wuhan? By Nicholas Wade | May 5, 2021].
    Grandma has a pen-pal who works in the Wuhan Lab who Grandma knew since the girl was a graduate student studying in the US.

Grandma Knows a Spy from Wuhan

In the clearings
hauntings inhere
dear unfinished things

They’ve finished cleaning
the blood off the floor of the salon

Grandma’s voice
screams in the night;
her pen pal is lost, yes

Grandma is dead.
her hair dresser too–
by video two funerals
and the autopsy is done
no toxins of the ordinary kind.

Everyone misses Grandma.
Many knew her faux pas cinema
— been odd times.

Grandma had a Chinese pen pal
a foreign medical student
passing the USMLE
passing the TOEFL and everything.
Her friend’s now a doctor
now a scientist.

Many times
Grandma was down in a funk:
Something about the Great Depression,
the War and the slaughter again.

So many screams in the night:
“Where is my Wuhan doctor girl?”

There is so much beauty yet
in the quixotic world: the
flowers and designs
on the body bags.

Grandma told us
days never come lightly
when the night overwhelms
before the elegant cry

Such beauty in a sad world
my Grandma always said, is
just decoration, and
she favored flower designs
on chic shopping bags

Let the designers rise to the task
to make pretty body bags
to rise to praise, and yea
by the dawn’s surly knights
oh hey can you see our deeds
in the corona of the Sun
particles of sunset and doom.

Everyone misses Grandma.
Many knew of her, some
knew her. It’s been odd times.

Grandma told wild stories.
Very entertaining. She was
not distant ever
regardless of rules

Grandma stabbed herself to death
with a scissor in a beauty salon, and
the owner was shot to death while
grabbing a policeman’s gun.
It’s the usual.

Grandma left me
a stack of papers
from the pal, now a doctor.
Grandma loved
her dear mystery friend
from Wuhan. She claimed
her friend worked in a laboratory.

I have the correspondence
written in Chinese, and
the blacklight she had
asked me to buy for her.

The letters came slowly
sometimes through Hong Kong
and Singapore, but sometimes
through Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan

Grandma was fond
of her Wuhan girl
as she called her.

Just before her death
she reminded me that
it wasn’t important
to read the beautiful
Chinese calligraphy
because it was unimportant

It was important to read
the invisible secret writing
written between the lines.

Read in the dark
she had said.

New letters continued
to come from the
missing Wuhan girl.

I read them in the dark
with the Black Light.

Apparently, Wuhan girl is
patient zero for the world, and
they are hunting for her

They finished cleaning
the blood off the floor of the salon

A Random Love

A Random Love

I don’t know anything about coping,
I’m just hoping you’re hopping to
cop a plea for me in a vague space
just because I have randomly
found you wanting,
maybe wanting me
with my random wisdom
that says I could love you
with a silly quip
that would make you smile, and
I so much want to laugh, as if
I could be your comedian of sorrow
who would grasp the
preposterousness of the rhinoceros
whose horniness for love we share.

Giving Credence To a Trainwreck Special

The Daylight Special (1)

Um, so guys you’re at the kitchen table
and y’hear the same old news:
the kids’ve been marched to school
y’hear the same old blues
’bout a girl raped in the bathroom
and no report at all to the school board

But you’d dare not complain, guy
’cause you’ll be troubled by the Wreath

Let Diogenes in Daylight,
shine a light on Wreaths
(at democracy’s grave)

Let Diogenes in Daylight,
shine a light on Garlands
(he’s gonna bring us all down)

Let the Daylight Special
shine a Senate light on Wreaths

Let Diogenes in Daylight,
shine an ever lantern light on garlands

Yonder comes the Louddone County School Board
come to extinguish all light, shutdown all sound,
doesn’t know a girl’s been raped, and the parents are loud

Let the Daylight Special
shine a Senate light on Wreaths

Let the Daylight Special
shine a Senate light on beliefs

Let the Daylight Special
take the Wreath to task

Let the Constitution truly
be unmasked.

If you’re ever in Louddon
gee, you’d better be quiet
you’d better not speak now
There, you’d better not speak, Lord
or the Marshall will seize ya
and the guardians will knock you down
and before you know it, guy
whoa, you’ll be sent to jail

Let the Daylight Special
shine a Senate light on beliefs

Let Diogenes in Daylight,
shine a light on Wreaths
(at democracy’s grave)

Let Diogenes in Daylight,
shine a light on garlands
(he’s gonna bring us all down)

Let Diogenes in Daylight,
shine an ever shining light on garlands

Fairy Tales for Elderly Children

The Empress’ New Mask

In the beginning of the Wuhan era,
the crown-virus was veiled by deceit
and the Great Orchid Empress was crowned.

Faustti, the Financier of renowned repute funded
Court Wizards to gain them functionality.

The Empress valued costume
and guise more than perfume

But something was fishy in Denmark
when two merchants appeared:

The Merlin brothers claimed they could weave
tales into masks made from bat skins.

The coverings had a property that
anyone without virtue could not
wear it without whistling
past the graveyard.

The plague was a blessing for her,
a hodge-podge of opportunity
and she never rued her power.
“Rules are rules like
the fabric of pedagogy.”

She went to a school to mask the children
and read them a story, but

Though the Orchid Empress was past the flower of her youth
she snuck an enormus serving of bacon under her mask
just before visiting the children to harangue them

The teacher was in awe of the Empress.
“Her majestly will read you a story…
Don’t fidget with your face coverings.”

There was a smirk beneath the Empress’ mask.
“I will read you ‘The Emperor’s New Clothes,’
by Hans Christian Andersen, and…”

A pack of dogs broke into the school, and
attacked the Empress.

A child shouted, “She whistled for the dogs!”

Masking of the Child (The Masked Child 2)

Masking of the Child

It had been without din
a glorious start for all
but the tall Brave Child.

Critical morning theory
in Randi’s dreary class
started the day
with a hazy salute:

“We pledge allegiance to the ping pong
of the united oppressed of America, and
to the proletariat for which it stands,
one iniquity
under Jin, with de-funding
and labels for all

Out of many, Randi reigns
” ‘Randi magister e pluribus unum imperare’ “.

Attention! Quiet!
How much is two plus two?
You child, don’t fret!

It is as many as we see these:
Mao, Fidel, Marx, and Xi.

How does
two plus two equal five?
You in the back, look alive!

It is the quintessence of Marxism.

The Brave Child rose up
poof — sans mask:

Hey Magister,
are you six feet away?

Monster! cover your face!

The Brave Child
stuck out his ten foot
spiked tongue, and
wrung the teacher’s neck

Snow White in tune
took to the front of the room:

Aliens and dwarfs don’t wear masks!

With finesse
they all kissed
and made up

Ode To An Olive

[A Mythological poem with a Greek chorus… “Ferocious are the winds of fate”, an economic crisis, and a currency collapse. (Written around September 2012: EU in turmoil)

Ode to an Olive

Apostolis missed
his dearly departed wife.
Only the olive grove was a comfort now.

Ferocious are the winds of fate

Not so many years ago,
Apostolis and his wife cried
for a young Mother they never met, and
wept that day in sorrow and joy, wished
she could have seen the olives grow

Her babies were left
under an olive tree, abandoned
in the dawn that day when
the mother’s joy never rose
in the blackness of her shame

Ferocious are the winds of fate,
odd weather like a ferret at the door

Rumors told Apostolis
who the father was. But
ne’er a word to confront him
though he saw that weasel
at a fair once.

The babies grew, and
walked in the shade, had
silly escapades, laughed at
pressing matters
under the olive trees.

Apostolis told them
babies come from
olive trees

Odd weather is fate
like a weasel in politics

He had loved his olive trees
and the first pressings of optimists
but politicians managed arguments
like ancient Sophists under trees
cash-starved, and secretly
worried about drachma quakes
on some sneaky Friday night.
A cousin had the worry beads
and a drink of tsipouro for luck.

The European Union
was the Elephant in the room.

No worry: there’d be
a midnight train to Athens
50,000 euros to play against doom,
pay for a pressing matter

His daughters were
extra virgin fans —
served the traditional
with local spice and flare

But they were desperate
to leave him, the ancient one
and his columns of numbers
and of olive trees, because
they’d been to the Oracle
and were terrified by the words:
“When your father is slain
in the name of family, you
will find gold but not on Crete…”, so
they professed and protested
too much love for the old man
who wasn’t very old at all.

Ferocious are the winds of fate,
odd weather like a ferret at the door

He’d asked them to read Sophocles
but they were going on scholarship
to new worlds before
the Romans became afraid.
Chloë went to finance in New York,
Clytemnestra to new Athens.

This time he didn’t know
who the hordes would be

His family home seemed safe
the philosophers told him,
ha and he was the original alpha

But his daughters grew
wild parties, wild plans

Whirlwinds twist souls,
plans fated in the wind

This time he didn’t know
who the hordes would be, saw
follies and corruption
crushing austerity, but
Clytemnestra married the mayor
though he had had six previous wives.

She said, “Daddy
don’t worry
politics is new, and
Theseus is a clever man
with business connections.”

Ferocious are the winds of fate,
odd weather like a ferret at the door

Apostolis missed
his dearly departed wife.

Chloë wanted to build
a luxury resort in the olive grove
for rich Europeans or Americans,
said, “Daddy, finance is modern.”

Ancient are the winds of fate,
ferocious like a ferret at the door

Freaky weather systems on the news:
hot fronts like the flush faces of
ECB bankers hearing “Drachma”,
cold fronts like frigid pale faces
drained of blood by Dracula who
might run wild through Brussels

But Apostolis wasn’t worried —
had many Euros in his local bank,
but then again…

A clash of fronts approached,
very rare thunderstorms
and an epsilon on the wall

They said, once in 500 years
for such weather conditions
and the olive grove looked fragile.

Storms on his mind, Apostolis’s
eyes rained on thoughts of his young daughter
the image of a young Mother he never met, and
he wept that day in sorrow and worry, wished
she could have seen the olives grow more

Clytemnestra called,
“Daddy, don’t worry
I’m coming home
with my husband Theseus.
I love him more than you’ll ever know
and he is such a clever man.”

Odd weather is fate
like a weasel in politics

Chloë called,
“Daddy, don’t worry:
I’m flying home
to set the finances”

When the epsilon is
on the wall, prophets say,
a ferocious loan is like a wolf:
it will eat all your sheep

A peak of sun and Apostolis missed
the golden hair of his departed wife,
and he heard rare thunder while
he waited near a rare and
golden-tipped olive tree.

“Daddy, daddy,” yelled Clytemnestra,
as she approached from afar with a man,
but she stopped in her tracks at a shrub.

“Clytemnestra!” said Chloë
stumbling out of a car. And
the sisters hugged from afar.

Ancient are the winds of fate,
ferocious like a monster at the door

Apostolis missed them and
lifted his arms to the wind,
“Darlings of the olive grove,
run here before the storm!”

The girls ran to him,
Clytemnestra with her husband.

Apostolis struck him down
with the thunder clap of his fist.
“Fiend, fiend. Monster!
I will get my gun.” And
he ran toward the house
as the rain poured down.

The girls ran and screamed,
“What? What?”

“Fiend, fiend. That creature
is your Father.”

Clytemnestra sobbed
didn’t know which way to run
didn’t know who she was
who she knew
who she loved

Chloë said,
“Oh God, oh God, oh God,”
though she was an atheist.

Storm clouds gathered
as if nothing mattered.

Theseus hid under a tree
though it wasn’t much cover
and a foolish place in a thunder storm.
He didn’t know who he was
who he loved, who he should love
and he was afraid of hell, and bargains
he had made in a lust for power.

“Theseus,” said Clytemnestra
as a funnel cloud approached,
“do you love me more than…”
But she could not gasp a finish.

Apostolis shot him dead
under an olive tree
as if nothing mattered.

“Daddy, daddy, daddy,”
the sisters said.

Who can one love
when one’s only Mother is dead
and she has never known one truly

Apostolis said,
“Oh my darlings of the olive grove
I truly love you as much as your Mother
and your Mother and every godly Mother
and every god of nature, and as much
as every leaf I have seen you play under.
Oh thunder, oh sorrow, oh tears,
I love my dears more than ever…”

A tornado ripped the roof off the house
and an olive press flew through the air.

Apostolis missed
his dearly departed wife.
Only the olive grove was a comfort now.

As the sun rose
they rested under
a golden-tipped olive tree.

Ancient are the winds of fate,
ferocious like a monster at the door

But like a feathered tornado
something flew out of a tree

There came a monster
with the body of an eagle
and the head of a bull.

It said as confident as a banker,
“You’ve killed my patron Theseus.”

“Daddy, daddy, daddy,”
Clytemnestra said.

Chloë said,
“This is impossible.
Let’s all run from
this mutant fowl, or
Daddy shoot it — it’ll
be good cooked
in olive oil.”

Apostolis gasped,
“What do you want?”

The jowl of the bull replied,
“I was promised a 7th maiden, and
it is my due.”

Chloë shouted,
“Daddy, it’s delusion —
shoot it, shoot it, shoot it…”

“Take care of the girls,
your Mothers said to me
under the olive trees,”
Apostolis said to them.

When the epsilon is
on the wall, prophets say,
a ferocious loan is like a wolf:
it will eat all your sheep

Chloë shouted,
“Daddy, it’s delusion —
shoot it, shoot it, shoot it…”

The Monster coolly replied,
“So what is my compensation?”

Apostolis said, “Take me
and I will help you.”

The monster grabbed Apostolis
by his shoulders with its talons
and said as if nothing mattered,
“Onward to Spain —
many Euros to go…”
and it flew away.

Ancient are the winds of fate,
let the matadors prepare.

Chloë said,
“Oh my God, if this
be delusion it must be fate.”

“You have gone mad and
silly like a raving raven,
dark in sorrow, crowing
about lunacy and fate,”
said Clytemnestra. “You,
my sister, are no comfort
and my husband is dead.”

“Well,” said Chloë
“it worked out pretty well —
the olive grove is gold…,
and shouldn’t we go
to the bank today?”

“Ha, you fool,” said Clytemnestra,
“you sophisticate in finance: the
banks are closed for the emergency,
for a month all accounts are frozen…”

“Oh hell, oh Drachma,”
said Chloë.

But they loved olives dearly.

Knives Upon the Table

Knives Upon the Table
(the psychokinesis of the T’ukmpuxogt)
[from The Fog of the Caveman’s Blog]

We’d gone in a convoy,
the doors of Her car were blown off

An evil twenty swarmed out
from fields of Sunflowers tall
knives redoubtable

They tied Her Sacredness to a fence
gagged her that She’d not reproach them:
their scabbards empty of their treachery

Such evil drawn out
upon the dastardly ceremony
that hides a scoundrel from a conscience

“Kill her,” I heard the tall one bade.
“Righteous tyranny of the Gods
“can NOT be malice when obeyed

“Let the least of us wound,
“the greatest stab Her in the heart,
“the fearful give the coup de grâce.”

Villains, villains, I shouted.

Halt at once this vileness,
these sneezed speeches
a phlegm of your diseased souls

A frenzied one spoke:
Her Sacredness
would fawn to the Council
and not to the Gods

She would banish our Sister
who champions the Gods

This impostor usurper
who takes the crown
would deny our true Priestess
her enfranchisement with the Gods

Let the Gods rightly
paint our true Priestess in
the light of Their Love, and
make her star brighter than
the day of this puny planet’s sun.

Hasten us all
lest we’d be interfered with
in our noble cause to
stab out the usurper

Draw now the blood of Her Falseness,
each of you in turn do act:
stab out this blotch

Sazrgk, begin!

But I crawled closer,
picked up rocks to throw

Thus I:
Sazrgk no! You of the least
do not now promote yourself to fiend

Let them have their honors.
Sazrgk, if you’d save your soul
take your mercy and go

But Sazrgk stabbed her in the shoulder.
’tis true: of weakness cold-hearted, he
did indeed plunge his dagger.

I screamed the ancient kinesis:

I became splattered in red screams
drowning in oceans of slaughter that
pulled me out of my mind with
a fury that engulfed the sun, and
made it set in vomit

By T’ukmpuxogt bold
the sunflowers were decapitated
in exploding shards of skull, and
headless bodies were
strewn across the road.

Thus I protect my Love
the only true Priestess.

Buttercup Babe

Visiting America, I met her
in a field of renoncules that
locals call butter cups

She’s my darling Buttercup
a compatriot

She wanted to offer me a partnership
in her business and to share business.

But much ado about love in the dew
and then onward afield ’til

we were back for a romp
under and around
the Arc de Triomphe
to play like tourists and
then marched to her home,
palace of the cuisinière
at the bakery de l’Étoile near Paris.

We homed in on her nest
over the bakery with zest, and
she was hot because the
spice of the day made for
joy and frolic at home

We chilled with a wine
she recommended for the night
and a tête-à-tête with an intimacy

and as our voices modulated to a purr
we unrolled a cloth like a sheet of dough
and my Buttercup
melted in the bed.

We kneaded in layers of joy
to be crisp and flaky like a croissant

In the morning, I left early to buy butter and
I had wondered: what is a croissant
if to do it is not to have it?

I came back uncertain.

I proposed:
My darling Buttercup,
let me keep this butter,
have the bakery, and
I will make you a croissant with love.

Well, she said:
You want the butter and
the money from the butter
and le cul de la crémière…
So you my love, must bring me
a buttercup of the field and I will
peer into your eyes until I decide
if you’re flaky enough to cook.

Quirky From Afar

[A super-star singer and suicide]

From the surf of many dawns, listen
my dear favorite flighty bird:
I’m sadly waving like an ocean

on your feathers; I
wonder why there’s no endless splash.

That water I knew seems shallow
but the music always seems cool.

Oh sorrow-drowning girl I
wonder why you die, why you
shed your feathers in the waves.

So many young song birds crash
and fame’s not much of a crumb.

Guess my fantasy, my love
is a bye-bye, a
pretty song bird up a stage tree
who’s never seen an ocean wave hi.

Oh, my love, my sad lady
sitting in the catbird seat
wonder why you’ve
never seen the sunrise smile.

To me, I’ve
heard a mournful lady, and
wonder why you’d die

’cause flattering and fluttering
fan cats purr and fan chicks peep

and no I’m not
exactly a fan, no not exactly, even though
you make showy new arrangements,
make a scene without a melody, upscale
variations and inversions on the sorrow sparrow.

I wonder why
you’ve never seen an ocean wave hi,
and oh God

I mourn all fallen
song birds at dawn
with oatmeal, but sometimes

lunch is best
at breakfast time
with appetizers at sunrise
by the ocean.

Birdies in the dawn
have worldly songs I know,
choreographed for the video.

The trouble with the quirky world
is few singers will have an
elegant soup for breakfast,
will not take my silly advice for
the morning lunch of desire

pizza with me, and
anchovies for seagulls
opus no. 4, symphony 2,

won’t minister to the minestrone
and are left with a cereal for the showy birds.

I make soup for breakfast sometimes
just to watch the mist fog up the
window glass of dawn
where nothing can be a scene.

I have a showy tablespoon
with a fancy engraved handle
for my lonely soups, for sometimes
it’s better to sip carefully than
be scorched with hot sorrow

better to look out the window at
feathers and upper blue cool dawn,
better not listen to orange songs
and be juiced.

Screeching birds in the dawn
have angry tears in the rain, secretly
curling up with a soupy turmoil
a noodle that no one is willing
to unravel, and many unwilling
to spoon out comfort to them.

These are the famous agonies
I think I know, though
being nobody of renown,
such unseen sorrow has
no publicity value, has no way
to monetize a cry, can not
get this tune on the charts, but
you have a beautiful way
to monetize sorrow.

Seen you young beautiful girl
who might have been near
where I could have praised
your feathers of flight
your perfume of happiness,
could have spooned out
a dollop and a dabble in magic
like I once thought I had.

I’ve seen your dance
in the bubble and cage
of the obscene show-biz scene
seen many be too serious about trivia.

Oh magnificent party girl, don’t die young again,
young girl with the band and groupies.

If you’d’ leave your toady agent and her dreams
and let me be a non-toxic chatty drug, ha
I’d sing nonsense with you
because I am profoundly silly, and
I wonder why you’d die even with the
praise of your fans, and no I’m not
exactly a fan, no not exactly, no it’s

just that I’ve heard you scream famously
and I’ve screamed alone, because
I can’t seem to compose the song of my heart
as well as you who is talented, lonely, and sad.

Maybe I could’ve been your odd high
the quirky no one who’s not hip
and hears your secret silent cries
that fans and agents never hear
when they feed you any drug of the day
you think you want, and if in a haze
you keep on chirping
I’ll pray for you, because
you are so beautiful and
of course, sexy, but
that’s not the point
though they say it is.

Oh hey, I know about loneliness
and when one dies young, and
I will wonder why talent doesn’t matter
and why I never met you.

Can’t say if I would have mattered at all
can’t say if I would have been more than a quirk
or a mere jerk, but you will die young probably, and
maybe I would have given you a precious hour…

an hour is all I need
to love being with a song
a rhapsody in grace
so blue toned, but I’ve

seen you on
a stage tree perch
in the catbird seat

and though you
let the fawning cats meow
you can not requite the clawing.

Still I wonder why oh
beautiful girls die young
though they can sing
sorrowful chirps and dirges on key

And I wonder if
I could have sailed to you
an admirer in a crow’s nest
who loved you more than a fan

Oh gosh, it’s been 8 Years since “Window Dressing” was written

Found this in one of the “related” links. Oh gosh, it’s been 8 Years since “Window Dressing” was written, and a Spring of optimism still hasn’t arrived. It’s been repeated without a result. Not a good omen? Groundhog day has passed and it’s still here. To wit:
     Window Dressing

Waiting out winter here where
rose petals have long since
swirled upon winds
like naked sweet flakes

Too many cold dreams froze the day.

You could’ve hung around
waiting ’til snow flakes
melted on your tongue

I can’t believe your
hot flakiness is gone
way out and far beyond
and I’ve

been chipping at a sorrow stone
like a flint rock without kindling,
cold slivers and flakes

You could’ve hung around
past winter’s blue tongue end
waited for the equinox
to knock us into Spring

But layers of your patience
seemed to flake off

you couldn’t wait
and cooled

Oh it
would’ve made us warm
that eternal vernal word on
the tip of my tongue
that winter day
looking out the window with you

Oh to wait for the ring
and the equinox

but you defenestrated my love
and from passion fever
in abandonment snow

I can’t believe your
hot flakiness is gone
way out away far beyond
while snowflakes are
melting on my tongue

Is there a vernal venal groundhog
you’ve bribed with flowers
to look through glass, not
see snowflakes falling
this frigid Spring equinox, when
we ought to sing and pop up?

But I’ve been jumping and unraveling
like an unwinding spring
snowflakes melting on my tongue

I hope flowers are coming back
dressed in red flakes