"freeman" poems
big sweaters, ghibli, acrylic paint, cafes, knit blankets and unplanned afternoon naps on the couch, gardens, bananas, vanilla almond milk, soft yarn to crochet into ****** scarves, candles after midnight, the big trees with bulky roots, patio furniture, pianos in random buildings, the internet, manatees, the boundless colours of nail polish, peanut butter & honey, rubber boots, pens that write well, fresh new notebooks, skylights, american netflix, mothers that understand, tête à têtes, one glass of sweet white wine, awkward eye contact that turns into comfortable kissing, airplanes, fresh air, baseball caps, the female collective, the really good dark chocolate, flowers, pumpkin spice lattes and ***** chai lattes, candid laughter, yoga, oceans, high waisted shorts, striped t-shirts, docile cats, playful pups, french presses, integrity, sunscreen, meerkats, penguins, chameleons, autumn leaves, fall fashion, ruby woo mac lipstick, osho, dynamic meditation, compassion, siblings, scrambled eggs, smart phones, garageband, metronomes, hot glue guns, quinoa, ferry boats, soft hands, bicycles, real people, fat snowflakes in ample, graceful ********** backpacks that don't hurt your shoulders, hair conditioner, multi-vitamins, soft sand under bare feet, people that own up to lies, clarity, samsara, satori, samasati, visions, echinacea, lavender oil and frankincense, ambrosia apples and ripe avocados, authenticity, Morgan Freeman's voice, good kissers, ******* iced tea on a hot day, curtains, the smell of beeswax, art galleries, hand massages and foot massages, reiki, plums, mild thunderstorms, soccer ***** good surprises, when birds don't **** on your head.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 7:24 AM UTC
I can smell your thoughts.
You are thinking about Morgan Freeman now,
I can feel it.
I can smell your curly hair
And your love of ******
And your farts.
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 11:43 AM UTC
Yo soy *****
**** immigration and the racist white tèjanõs, please tell me how the hell would they ever know what I know, shout out to my Mexicans Hondurans and black Cubanos shut the border down call it the no fly zone. Adios Americanos me and my amigos are stealing ya women and playin em like pianos, vocal terrorist this lyrical revolt should be your primary interest. Public enemy number one the domestic hectic terrorist I'm influencing your white son, right to bear these nuts I'm taking the tea parties guns stealing your freedom from right up under you, all your jobs, and way of life, your point of view. I'm the original black power ranger hide your right winged minds if not I swear they'll be in danger. I am the broken brick the stone left unturned the rhythm of the wind the willingness to learn and the desire to fight and get what you earn. I am the individual placed on the no fly list with my hand balled into a fist cause my turbin is too tight and my beards to thick. I am the man choked to death by nypd for selling cigarettes now I'm rioting with my words doing lyrical pirouettes. Yo soy ***** spitting jive like lingo I want a Pam Grier keep your Marilyn Monroe, from the 6th borough buckin like bronco they said finish em I'm educated and black had to hit em with the combo. I'm non fictions Huey Freeman battling congress and their demons catch me flexing on the law lookin like the black He-Man Standing up for what I believe in writing in my notepad I stay steady schemin with my head up in the clouds I stay steady dreamin. Yo soy ***** freeze em like sub zero not concerned with dolores or the dinero yen or bills yo, I'm still waiting for marvel to make a Mexican superhero.
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 11:05 AM UTC
Howard Dully was twelve years old
when Dr. Freeman felt so bold
to dig around inside his head
a wonder that he isn't dead.
The year was 1963,
when Howard had his lobotomy.
He never even had a clue,
of what his parents planned to do.
ORBITOCLASTS
The name Freeman gave to his personally designed
lobotomy knives.
They went under Howard's eyelids 3 centimeters
from the mid line and parallel with the nose.
Driven to a depth of 5 centimeters he pulled the handles
laterally, returned them halfway, and drove 2 centimeters
deeper. He touched the handles over the nose, seperated
them 45 degrees, elevated them 50 degrees, and at this point
he probably
smiled to himself.
For now they were parallel,
and ready for photography before removal.
An angry stepmom arranged it all,
she made the final judgement call.
They labeled Howard as insane....
opened him up, and juggled his brain.
Howard survived because he was still growing.
Not fully developed,
his brain would keep going....
off in directions he couldn't control
but never condeming
the depths of his soul.
Not long ago I read his book.
I felt intrigued to take a look.
I hope, dear reader, you do the same.
Remember his story,
remember his name.
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 6:05 PM UTC
I cherish my freedom
Hard earned though it was
Through the abolitionist railway
And those who supported the cause
An African slave,
though free upon birth
I was sold as a slave
And was now bound to the earth
Run for the caves boy
Run for the caves
Run for your freedom
Or die here a slave
Run for the caves boy
Run for the caves
Run for your freedom
Or die here a slave
Late in the dark
I heard of the routes
To the new land of freedom
I was resolute
I would run for my life
Leave my family behind
I would run for the caves
And the new life I'd find
Bound to plantation
I was just something to trade
I would run for my freedom
The decision was made
From South Carolina
I'd head to the coast
I'd run for my freedom
I'd then be a ghost
Follow the signs
That was all that I heard
They know you are coming
Just remember the word
Stray from the darkness
A dead slave you will be
With the last thought you'll have
That you'll never die free
Boats on the seacoast
Up to Salem they sail
Look for the sign
And remember the trail
Make for the caves
They'll find you where
The water is highest
They'll come get you there
From there up to Salem
And one more step to go
Stick with the railroad
The way that they know
Make way when the moon
Is down low in the sky
If you're found in the meantime
It's a fact you will die
Freedom is costly
But, it is within reach
Make for the caves
At the north end of the beach
From New England go on
to the north or the west
Both spell out freedom
The end of your quest
Don't look over your shoulder
just follow the signs
They know you are coming
stay deep in the pines
Remember all those
Who have made Freeman Cave
Follow their symbols
And don't die a slave
There are people who will
Help you free from the strife
But, for now find the caves
And son, run for your life....
Run for the caves boy
Run for the caves
Run for your freedom
Or die here a slave
Run for the caves boy
Run for the caves
Run for your freedom
Or die here a slave
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 11:56 PM UTC
~The only guy worth my time! xD I fangirl over the most unexpected movie stars! Everyone's like, Sherlock, Sherlock
And I'm in the corner going, John, John!
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 9:45 PM UTC
From depth to height, from height to loftier height,
The climber sets his foot and sets his face,
Tracks lingering sunbeams to their halting-place,
And counts the last pulsations of the light.
Strenuous thro' day and unsurprised by night
He runs a race with Time, and wins the race,
Emptied and stripped of all save only Grace,
Will, Love,--a threefold panoply of might.
Darkness descends for light he toiled to seek;
He stumbles on the darkened mountain-head,
Left breathless in the unbreathable thin air,
Made freeman of the living and the dead,--
He wots not he has topped the topmost peak,
But the returning sun will find him there.
3.7k
March in the streets
But I urge you beware
They’ll still butcher the sheep
With the arms that they bear
Private properteers part with
No slave cropper’s share
So this Northern aggression's
Like Freeman’s red scare
All the colors of wind
Through the head-shavers’ hair
The Guevara adventures
These pigs wouldn’t D.A.R.E.
The Arabian knights
In the grand wizard’s lair
The denaturalized dreamer’s
Recurring nightmare
Of the Stalingrad ghost
Still witch-hunting like Blair
The projects to the precincts’
New modern welfare
The post-trauma disorderly’s
Empty screen stare
The savages they thought
Were waaaaayyyy over there
The debt clock ticky tock
In the heart of Times Square
The 1st world problem-children
Who commonwealth care
Because some barely EAT
And we’ve so much to spare
But these cowherds still like their calves
Medium rare
And the bulls try to sell you
Their laissez-faire snare
Till your trapped in a minimum cage’s
Last prayer
And the only escape
Is upgraded software
Like automaton autobahn’s
In disrepair
In this fascist facade’s
Fragrant breath of fresh air
Just as toxic as stocks
Of the mock billionaire
So I shock ‘em like Tesla’s
Bolt-action Voltaire
And I leave it to you
To go **** it out there
Mar 25, 2018
Mar 25, 2018 at 6:27 AM UTC
Let the poetry of others repose in majestic halls:
My poems are filler for paper shredders,
For packing in shipping boxes,
And backing for flypaper sticky strips;
To wipe the muddy soles of shoes
That have seen too much of springtime
In the garden.
Others poetry fills the airwaves, and sits between the covers of books;
My poetry is for grocery lists,
And sudden messages you need to scribble while on the telephone,
And maps to undiscovered geneological treasures
That are only a township away-
To trace the faces of cool tombstones
Under a mid-day sun.
You won't find my poetry near any other kind of list
That doesn't say get bleach, dog food, and toilet paper.
Still, my poetry is from a well lettered life-
I have written all my heartbeats, and most of my sighs
Into sibylline hieroglyphics, from midnight initiations
In the secret brotherhood, of my own soul:
And I will die a freeman, because nobody
Will ever feel the need to own any of these words.
Mar 29, 2010
Mar 29, 2010 at 12:51 PM UTC
Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led,
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victory!
Now’s the day, and now’s the hour;
See the front o’ battle lour,
See approach proud Edward’s power—
Chains and slavery!
Wha will be a traitor-knave?
Wha can fill a coward’s grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Let him turn and flee!
Wha for Scotland’s king and law
Freedom’s sword will strongly draw,
Freeman stand or freeman fa’,
Let him follow me!
By oppression’s woes and pains,
By your sons in servile chains,
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!
Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in ev’ry foe!
Liberty’s in ev’ry blow!
Let us do or die!
2.5k
*I walk down the street
and there is just this radiating *** appeal
in everything I could possibly do—
even in the way the rubber on my shoes
grips the hot cement sidewalks.*
(I realize that may not sound too ****
at all;
But I’m confident that in this moment
someone is drooling over that step.)
*Unmistakable swagger.
A few more moments of this
untouchable cool
& Morgan Freeman will be narrating
my every thought and movement.*
At least
that’s the way you make me feel.
How dare you.
You have the audacity to become
something so earmarked in my
little,
inconsequential,
twentysomething life.
You have the guts
to learn all of those
hidden quirks.
The same ones I relentlessly
and rightfully
keep to myself.
You have the nerve
to become the reason
why I smile for days,
go to bed alone
(but beaming)
& wake up with a larger reason
to grab life by its
*big
metaphorical
*****
until it sees things my way.
& I’m aware that
***** may not be the most
poetic of terms—
but the last time I checked,
poetry didn’t have
**a **** definition**
The last time I checked—
neither do we.
So how dare you
build me up into the only person
I can stand to be,
with only the promise
of an impending expiration date?
Then again,
there is something strangely
haunting
& remarkable
revolving around
the anticipation of that sort of heartache.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 4:02 PM UTC
My mind say "I am an eagle!"
flying in the sky
but I'm not an eagle
for I can never fly
I am an eagle
for I would be free
but I'm not an eagle
for I'm trapped inside the tree
I am an eagle
for I would feel the air of being a freeman
but I'm not an eagle
chained in the desert land
I am an eagle
for I can do anything that sounds
but I'm not an eagle
for I walk in the thorny grounds
I am an eagle
Away from the bed of nails
but I am not an eagle
bound to suffer the pain
I am an eagle
like anybody else to be
but I am not eagle
like anybody else wish to see
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 12:55 AM UTC
FOR certain minutes at the least
That crafty demon and that loud beast
That plague me day and night
Ran out of my sight;
Though I had long perned in the gyre,
Between my hatred and desire.
I saw my freedom won
And all laugh in the sun.
The glittering eyes in a death's head
Of old Luke Wadding's portrait said
Welcome, and the Ormondes all
Nodded upon the wall,
And even Strafford smiled as though
It made him happier to know
I understood his plan.
Now that the loud beast ran
There was no portrait in the Gallery
But beckoned to sweet company,
For all men's thoughts grew clear
Being dear as mine are dear.
But soon a tear-drop started up,
For aimless joy had made me stop
Beside the little lake
To watch a white gull take
A bit of bread thrown up into the air;
Now gyring down and perning there
He splashed where an absurd
Portly green-pated bird
Shook off the water from his back;
Being no more demoniac
A stupid happy creature
Could rouse my whole nature.
Yet I am certain as can be
That every natural victory
Belongs to beast or demon,
That never yet had freeman
Right mastery of natural things,
And that mere growing old, that brings
Chilled blood, this sweetness brought;
Yet have no dearer thought
Than that I may find out a way
To make it linger half a day.
O what a sweetness strayed
Through barren Thebaid,
Or by the Mareotic sea
When that exultant Anthony
And twice a thousand more
Starved upon the shore
And withered to a bag of bones!
What had the Caesars but their thrones?
1.9k
The voice of Morgan Freeman can make flowers sprout
Penguins march like an army to the rhythm of his voice
The voice of an opera singer may break glass
But his just melds it back together
I'm pretty sure
Somewhere
He's narrating my every footstep
My every breath
My every twitch
He's somewhere looking down on me
Giving the best play by play ever
His deep bellowing voice
Opens the worn hole
Helps break Tim Robbins out of Shawshank
And helps batman save Gotham
The only thing he can't do
Is get me through high school
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 6:41 AM UTC
i don’t search for you
crescent moon
our love decays, half-life
freeman blue
my lonely doom
my missing slice
my pumpkin pie
sweet spice
our fingers entwined
cinnamon twist
i run from this
from my fate
from when we kissed
i run to a place
past time, outside space
it takes away
your face
takes me back
to better days
it takes away
our separate ways
your way
away
Sep 29, 2023
Sep 29, 2023 at 10:48 AM UTC
for the tricycle of a night, I conclude my life is becoming a literary event and I feel the poetry seep through every moment tinged with a beautiful narcissism some would call belief in myself or self-love self-help I'll-help-myself, thanks. I finally discover a glancing insanity of charm and wit- liberation, insanity, perspective, depends (on what) ?
I am slowly a freeman working freely in the free market freaking out in ecstatic *** for the world as a whole and even being kicked out of a pretty girls room for obnoxious insomnia gives me a reason to kiss the clear sky of melancholy happy-sad with another 'thank you' for making me *whoever the hell I am, GOD, THANK YOU*
it's another beautiful day in paradise, tossing dice to skew the probability in the direction of it's the beautiful whatever and you're welcome for everything
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 3:25 AM UTC
I try not to paint it in a pretty light because there is nothing pretty about it.
It is strong and it is beautiful and it will knock you on your *** but it is not pretty.
It is black and cold and poisonous, and it practices it's art with extreme prejudice.
Whether you say its your last time or whether you say nothing, you are lying to yourself.
****** the dark mistress, whom I fly towards like a moth to a light on a dark night.
****** the cunning sorcerer, who has caught me under his deadly spell.
I am not powerless to my addiction.
No, I am wrong, it is not MY addiction, I am the addictions user. But I will break free. Jeremy Freeman, the fastest gun west of the Sierra Nevadas.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 2:51 AM UTC
The prisoner, he is losing his precious eyesight, and he is quite glad
For years now, never had the chance to intrude,
The world he never knew.
To him, nothing left to see other than his crummy cell.
In rhyme, he prays every night
He asks for guidance and asked for peace
On unpainted walls he sees his reflection, dull and disturbing feats
In his flesh, there's a certain feeling he won't figure.
He is empty, lacks the soul, the will to go out side. The prisoner is actually a freeman. The prisoner is me.
Jan 8, 2019
Jan 8, 2019 at 9:18 AM UTC
Maybe God
Sends us nightmares
So our living reality
Doesn't seem so bad
When we wake up.
Until we wake up
And remember
We are living in a nightmare
We can't escape
Except by going
To sleep
-Megan E. Freeman, "Alone"
Mar 13, 2025
Mar 13, 2025 at 11:06 PM UTC
In that magic evening they have met
They were silent, remembering that
On a big ship they were under threat.
They saw the sky light up and a pat.
So slowly the ship began to sink.
Despaired, in the water they fell.
And when its image began to shrink,
They were in a boat, it was like hell.
They could swim even across the moon,
In despair, needing to survive.
They reached the shore of black lagoon,
They realized that they were alive.
She breathed new air like a survivor,
She became a stranger in night,
When her man, the ship's driver,
Died in the water of her sight.
There was about a great wolf ******
And their love story reaching their dream,
A sailor's song about a freeman,
A story with treasure and sea bream.
There was like another life for me,
When Geraldine, sneaking up on tide,
Was calling Frederick, couldn’t he
Know he left her with child inside.
That movie, when have met our eyes,
All things separated me from you,
Another era, love, life, other skies
Same souls, different masks in outward view.
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 9:20 AM UTC
I met her on the road
Exhausted just like me.
I asked her why she's walking
She told me she is free.
I told her I'm a pilgrim.
She warned me, don't forget,
You may be tired of walking,
But your end is 'lejos' yet.
I told her Santiago
Was now my Xanadu.
She laughed and said the Khan awaits.
I laughed and said I knew.
I've seen his horse on hills afar,
He canters while I walk
And Kublai champs his teeth and shouts
His sword spits while we talk.
He wears the forest as a cloak
And chains the wind as breath.
I see him chase me further on
He tracks me to my death.
I asked her where she's going.
To Santiago too,
But I don't seek the spires and peaks
I'm hunting one like you.
He's running as his boots get worn
And I champ my teeth and shout.
He's keeping eyes out to the hills
While my sword point seeks him out.
Her deep black eyes and strong disguise
Bled from her and she stood.
Kublai Khan afore me spoke.
I ran but 'twas no good
She spoke out strong and in a blur,
'You are not my prey.
For many men along the road
Flee demons every day.'
And she roared and drew her breath,
The wind took up her gait.
She took the time to smile before
Her horse flew fast and straight.
I watched her go, still for so long,
The road behind ignored.
I heard the wind blow on before
I turned and saw He roared.
The hill was crowned with forest
Drawn around his back.
He spurred his horse on and the steed
Cantered down the track.
I turned and walked, slow and calm
For I am used to demons.
Though on the road I keep him towed.
The Khan is still the freeman.
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 1:01 PM UTC
WELCOME TO THE MOON
THE COWBOY says as he walks into one more bar before heading further west
He sits down at the bar in the Bronx and laments the sorry state of
LOVE and her love the POET
How small and sickly they've become, he groans
He tips the brim of his hat further downward to spy a couple sipping wine
The MAN and WOMAN
Who finally discover the seriousness they need to chase out all of the monsters and ignorant ghosts that are invisible and chew
THE COWBOY rocks back in the stool to contemplate the unrequited love of a LONELY IMPULSE OF DELIGHT he remembers a womangirl who couldonly see one side of him and so gave him THE RED COAT so he wouldn't forget the importance of child hood to a freeman.
BETSY walks in
and he bids her a
WELCOME TO THE MOON
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 11:23 PM UTC
November of Sixty-five, at the X ray landing zone
men of the seventh Calvary were outnumbered far from home..
The casualties were mounting, Charlie held the heights.
Four massed assaults repulsed that day, Terror ruled the nights
In the high grass and the heat they lay,
the wounded men and dying.
They thought their fate was set and sealed: No med-e vacs were flying.
Through shot and shell, into that hell, two brave men came flying
into the hot landing zone for the wounded men and dying.
Thirteen trips in all they made to keep some hope alive.
There are men alive today who, without them, would have died.
Ed Freeman and Bruce Crandall flew where angels feared to tread.
They bore the wounds of valor where others would have fled.
His medal of Honor was bestowed for conspicuous gallantry.
today we mourn, Ed Freeman’s gone
and Freedom’s still not free.
this poem is written in honor of Captain Ed "Too Tall" Freeman. the action for which he received the Congressional Medal of Honor was the battle of La Drang, Vietnam which is the core of the Mel Gibson film " We were soldiers" the action takes place on 11/14-15/65
Dec 4, 2011
Dec 4, 2011 at 6:58 PM UTC
I could swim through wormholes until the universe ends and I'm certain I'll never find anyone like you. I'd be a billion light years away, still clutching that same photograph.
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 2:06 PM UTC