He would say the food.He would say the cold, and then the food again,and then the name of a town he could not spell,and then he would ask if anyone wanted more potatoes.
Forty years of Sundays, and that was the whole of it:the food, the cold, the town, the potatoes.
At the funeral a man I had never mettold me about a bridge, and a boy named Halloran,and what my grandfather did on the third day,and then he said: he never told you that, did he.
No. He told me about the food.I understand now that he was telling me about the bridgethe entire time, in the only languagehe was ever willing to be fluent in.
About free versePoetry without a set rhyme scheme or regular meter, shaped by the poet.
Free verse has no fixed rhyme scheme or regular meter, so there is no rule to check it against. That does not mean it lacks craft. The poet chooses where lines break, how long they run, and what repeats, and those choices shape it.
Listen for Where each line ends, and how that break changes the way you hear it.
74 poems in this form →@soren
Writes when something's finally over, not before.
11 poems · 7 readings received · 16 written · 3 followers
Readings (0)
Nobody has read this one yet.
Leave a reading
Readings are written by members — free, and the poem stays right here while you write.
Sign in to leave a readingNew here? Create an account — it takes a minute.
More by Soren Vance
Alongside this one
Matched by shared theme or form. Where two match equally, the one still waiting for a first reading comes first.