Free Verse

Hurry, little birdie,

(you freedom-loving little thing),

this is a story

about glory;

and of how you found your voice to sing.

*

Once, you were a caged bird,

singing songs you thought were all your own…

preset rhythms

were your prison….

but you had not the slightest way to know.

And in choirs, you sang with them -

(little birdie, you'd rehearse…)

all the sonnets and the ballads

of a grey and somber universe.

*

“Scurry, little birdie”,

your heart one day did whisper from the blue

“there is more…

(so much more…)

then what they make you say and do.”

Yet reliantly, and silently,

you every day would wake up just to sing

Haiku’s with their perfectly

rhythmically-determined strings,

and the celebrated, much-known words

of Shakespearean and Rudyard Kipling kings.

*

One day, among the dawn of others,

you decided to try to say

just a little more than what, (recited),

they did chant and chant away.

And with liberated heart-waves

you scattered words and somehow blurred

their stanzas and their patterns

in such a way your voice was more captured.

And ironically; sonically...

through the masses and the herds;

finally, divinely -

little bird…

little bird…

you were set free to your own rhythm

to be beautifully heard.

*

Little birdie, you are free verse

in a poetic universe where many rules apply.

Not quite sonnet, not quite ballad,

for gravity and earthly laws you have defied –

and with off-beat syncopation,

you have found your liberation,

and have learned to spread your wings and fly.

*

Without boundaries, you are weightless -

rising high above a world of code;

little bird, go sing your heart out

with newfound stateless, open roads.

Where once timid, you’re now vivid,

and your voice can wholly bloom

in this universe – in your free verse –

your thoughts are exponential,

(beautifully essential),

quintessential, thought-inviting wombs.

*

And little bird, always remember

the luck you’ve had to wander from your pen;

*freedom of speech* is not a privilege

that other birds are always granted and given.

And even with this leeway

[you’ve been fortunate to find]

there is still one captor on your freeway:

it is yourself

[[[it is you]]]

it is the prison of your mind.

*

Since the nest, you've self-rejected;

little birdie, you would coo -

wishing you were red just like the robins;

but little birdie, you were blue.

Oh, how you dreamt that you were fire -

always crying with desire -

aspiring to be something that wasn't naturally

or genuinely you;

but little birdie,

you are calm and you are settle -

you are *water-spells and daydream rhymes come true*,

always wanting to be red -

you are periwinkle blue, instead,

and this has been the greatest obstacle for you:

to be listened to, to be noted, to be seen and to feel proud...

(to be truly heard, little bird)

and sometimes you still do dream your voice was loud;

for even with the freedom you have gotten

sometimes your words are locked in

*the mysticism of the clouds*;

far away from all the robins

(yes, the robins)

and their robin "red-breast" crowds.

*

But little birdie, don't you worry,

(your free verse world will slowly)

help you grow to be

*just as vibrant as the robins* through the beauty of your poetry;

so sing, blue bird, sing,

sing everything and all you know to be

true to who you are;

little birdie, there's no hurry -

in your free verse world you're always on the road to be

your own

shining

star.

*

And there will be times the wind tides pull you

back into the realm from where you came;

society will temp you

with the malice of its games.

Sometimes you will feel jealous –

(feeling what you have created is not…)

great enough to make yourself a name,

for while you may sway freely with your wording,

with your tempo and domain -

little bird, you will be forever learning

to break away from juxtaposition chains.

*

But little birdie, in your free verse,

someday, someday, someday…

even from the jailhouse of your self-doubt

you will learn to run away.

Just like you found your own way

to say the things you want to say,

one day your modest purpose

will shine brightly through this circus…

and from the bluest water,

you will spark crimson flame

just like the robins...

but you'll still be you and they

will never have forgotten...

the rhyme to your sweet name;

little birdie, you are free verse -

this is your universe and so

reign, birdie, reign. 🕊👑

-📝🧚🏻‍♀️Gina Corrine

Writing this poem brought tears to my eyes. It is a reminder to myself to accept myself for who I am. Even in a free world, I don't think you can be truly free unless you are happy with who you are.

I write a lot about having a conflicted spirit of both blue and red - of equal parts fire and water. If you follow me, you'll see this theme pop up a lot. While I am the most at home in blue, I've always strived and dreamed of being more permanently red. The fire exists within me, and it does shine through at times. I like to celebrate it when it does. I also do my best to celebrate my blue. 💙

***

photo credit: shutterstock