Generate an original poem in seconds. No fixed metre, and a shape that earns itself.
Everything it writes is original. It will not reproduce an existing poem.
No metre and no rhyme scheme still leaves the line break, and the line break is the instrument. Breaking where the sentence happens to run out gives you prose with ragged edges. Breaking to hang a word on its own, or to make a reader pause before the thing that completes the thought, is the whole craft.
Varying line length is where the rhythm lives. A short line after three long ones lands hard, and that contrast does the work metre would do elsewhere.
Free verse fails most often by becoming a list of feelings. Sorrow, longing, emptiness. A named object carries more than any of them: the coat still on the hook, the second cup nobody filled.
One image developed all the way through beats four images stacked. If a poem has three metaphors in six lines, two of them are load-bearing for nothing.
The strongest temptation in a short poem is to explain it on the way out. A final line that tells the reader what the poem meant takes the discovery away from them, and the poem was the discovery.
Ending on an image, or on something unresolved, almost always reads better than ending on a conclusion.
Each of these was written by this generator and kept. Anything that broke the form was discarded rather than shown.
the coffee mug still half-full cold steam fading in the morning air your keys in the bowl by the door but no footstep on the stairs the screen stays dark all day long no knock when the post arrives just the hum of the fridge and the weight of your name on my lips I type and delete, again the words don’t find their way through just static in the wires and the ache of goodbyes we never said
The hallway sighs when the last coat hangs on the peg, a lone teacup cools on the kitchen table, the clock on the wall ticks louder than the chatter, shadows stretch across the worn carpet, a radio hums a song that nobody asked for, the porch light flickers, waiting for a footstep that won’t come, pages of a book lie open, mid‑sentence, a whisper of perfume lingers on the couch cushion, the kettle’s whistle fades into silence, and I stand still, listening to the space the voices left behind.
Four years of your diesel idling at 5:10, the exhaust crawling
The old sedan's engine sputtered one last time on the outskirts of town where the streetlights thin out and the houses grow farther apart its faithful heart giving out on a stretch of worn asphalt that had borne the weight of countless commutes and family vacations now it rests, a silent hulk, while I stand beside it, feeling a sense of relief wash over me, like the first warm breeze of spring for all its faithful service, the car had become a burden a constant worry, a drain on my finances, and a symbol of the mundane routine I'd been trying to escape but even as I mourn its passing, I feel a spark of hope a sense that this breakdown might be a chance to break free from the familiar pattern of my life, to take a different road and see where it leads, to rediscover the thrill of the unknown the car may be dead, but I am not, and that is all that matters as I look out at the open road, feeling the wind in my hair and the sun on my face, I know that I will be okay that I will find a way to get back on track, to keep moving forward and that this, too, shall pass, like the miles flying by outside my window.
The plane won't wait for dawn, just a boarding number flickering on the screen. My coffee's cold in a paper boat, the seat on the train still warm where I left it. Outside, the tarmac holds its breath, a silver tongue curled around the hangar. I count the cracks in the vinyl floor, each one a smaller departure. The screen above the gate flips from delayed to final boarding. My fingers tap a rhythm no one else can hear. The flight attendant's voice is kind, but rehearsed. I check my watch again, though time has stopped being mine.
Third cup goes in when the water’s singing, you say, though I can’t tell if the kettle’s actually there or just another thing you’ve learned to name without touching. The onions need three minutes more— I count only because you’re counting, because the clock on my wall has dust in the numbers and I don’t know which way the hands are really turning. You tell me to stir against the sides, to scrape the fond, but my spoon keeps stalling on the burner’s edge the way my voice stalls on the words I meant to ask you. How long since you tucked that measuring cup in the drawer? How long since the last time someone’s mouth moved without a phone against it? The onions are soft now, translucent as a promise you made before you moved. I stir and the spoon scrapes true, a tiny metronome telling me what you already know: some measurements aren’t in fractions of a teaspoon, some learning happens in silence, some hunger isn’t cured by the recipe’s end.
the rusted rake still holds the scent of last fall’s oak leaves the yellow tape measure coils like a sleeping snake on the workbench my father’s folded apron the pockets still full of tacks and the smell of cedar shavings down the back corner the old sled carved with my sister’s initials the runners still scarred from that winter when we flew down the hill at dusk before the snow turned crusty and the lanterns went out one by one on the shelf the jars of bolts each labeled in his precise hand: brass mending, 3/4 inch, machine screws the glass lids dusted with time but the threads are still crisp the metal still willing the radio we left for the rain sits on a milk crate the dial glows soft green in the dark one station still comes through tonight a voice reading the weather as if it matters as if it always mattered I take the tape measure first measure the length of the skis the width of the sled the height of the stacked bins I fold the apron into a square place it on top of the jars the bolts chime softly like wind chimes outside the cicadas start up again the same as they did then the same as they always do and the garage exhales the way it did when we left the doors open on hot summer nights just to let the moths in
The kitchen clock stopped at 2:13, its hands frozen in a sigh. A single candle flickered, its wax pooling like spilled tea. The fridge hummed once, then fell silent, its door ajar. Outside, the streetlamp on Maple Avenue blinked, then died. My cat stared at the dark, pupils twin moons in a black sea. The radio crackled, then only static whispered the night’s name. I pressed my palm to the wall, feeling the cold where wires once sang. The hallway stretched, a tunnel of shadows without a guide. A neighbor’s porch light stayed lit, a stubborn ember in the gloom. I muttered into the void, tasting the bitterness of unlit rooms.
the invitation smelled like ink and lavender the church steps were wet with yesterday’s rain the organ swell won’t reach the empty pew where I sit three generations of laughter in the fellowship hall my shoes are pinching for the first time in years someone’s aunt pats the seat beside her without looking I count the forks laid out for a hundred plates the bride’s mother hands me a flute of something yellow my fingers leave sweatprints on the glass the cake topper is a tiny bride and groom holding hands I wonder if they let go when the photographer walks away the officiant says something about forever, meteor-like I left my good coat at home so the chill creeps in the other guests nod along like they understand the wallpaper pattern is tiny blue willows drowning
My dog's eyes, once bright as the morning sun on the porch now dimly light the way to a face I no longer know the fur that was once a warm golden brown has faded to a dull grey that seems to whisper my name in the quiet hours when the house is still I search for the spark that used to drive him to chase sticks and leaves with abandon but it's gone, lost in the lines that crease his face his joints creak with a familiar strain as he rises from his bed, an old man now the distance between us grows with every step I feel the weight of my absence in the way he regards me, a stranger in his home his tail wags, but it's a slow, considered movement a greeting from a friend who's not quite sure if I'm the one he remembers, or just a ghost from a life he lived before I left.
the stack of crisp twenties neat as a row of eggs in a carton each one a promise the butter dish still warm the radio hums hymns my mother’s laughter in the steam from the percolator the savings grow like morning glories twisting around my fingers the future smells like bacon and coffee and the slow unspooling of days we can spend
after four rings the line hums a moth at the screen door thudding against the glass wearing its wings thin the voicemail greasy with dinner smells sticks like yesterday’s gum to the kitchen floor I still dial back even when I know the static will answer and the dial tone will be the only voice left to carry my words
the thermometer reads forty-eight before the sun has pushed past the fence line I stand on the porch in yesterday's socks breath visible in the gray light the maple by the driveway is one solid flame then the wind shifts and half its fire scatters across the lawn a chicken feather drifts down from nowhere I clutch my coffee like a fragile alibi against the coming day
The scent of melted butter on the grill at dawn, a paper schedule folded like a careless map, the old register blinking 9 AM, its keys sticky with soda, your name scribbled on a faded apron, the lunch break bench under the lone oak, a cicada chorus spilling over cracked sidewalks, the rusted toolbox you borrowed and returned, the last day’s sunset spilling gold onto the parking lot, a half‑eaten bagel left on the counter, still warm, the echo of the manager’s laugh as the door swung shut, the paycheck slipped into a drawer, a reminder of a season, and now the town feels quieter without that hum.
I swore I’d never watch the harvest moon again after that night the engine died on the county road, after the tow-truck driver smirked and said “Boy, you’re just seventeen and already late.” I swore I’d never hum that radio tune again after her boots stood in the gravel, after her voice cracked like the hinge on a screen door. Yet here I am, twenty years on, still counting the rings around the oak she carved her initials into— J beside W, 1984.
The real estate agent's footsteps echo down the hallway as I lie in bed, listening to the sound of my childhood home being sold the creaks and groans of the old wooden floorboards a familiar serenade Sunday morning sunlight streaming through the blinds illuminating the dust motes that dance in the air I think about all the memories I've made within these walls and the new ones that will be created by the family who moves in next the smell of fresh paint and newly cut grass wafting through the windows as I drift off to sleep, feeling hopeful for the future the sound of the agent's voice, a gentle hum in the background as she shows the house to prospective buyers, each one a potential new chapter the house, a blank canvas, waiting for the brushstrokes of new memories and I, a small but vital part of its history, grateful for the time I had here the empty rooms, a testament to the endless possibilities that lie ahead and as I sleep, I smile, knowing that this house will continue to be a home for whoever comes next, a place where dreams are made and memories are born.
I stacked my books in cardboard corners. The radiator hissed like a disappointed cat. I left the fridge door slightly ajar— a half-smile, a half-truth. The estate agent’s voice still rings in the empty corridor, tinny and sure. *Just sign here.* *Just walk away.* Kitchen tiles laugh under my fingerprints. I peeled the tea-stained calendar off the wall— June still smirking under its plastic. A single saucepan sits in the cupboard. I should have taken it. Now it’s a ghost in someone else’s life. The front door shuts without a sound. No echo. No mercy.
Pocket smells like old rain and stale coffee Crinkle of paper like pages torn from a notebook Receipt says August 3rd last summer They sold me a sandwich and a pack of gum
the coffee mug still warm in my hand the only witness to how lightly I slept your coat draped over the chair not quite reaching yesterday a trail of receipts across the table each one a breadcrumb I keep chewing the lightbulb burnt out at 3am we didn’t bother replacing it I found your watch in the dryer its face scratched from the coins it lovingly kept the clock ticks louder now that it’s alone I never learned to set it right the arguments gather in corners like dust nowhere near as easy to sweep away the bed too neatly made like halves of a conversation unfinished
the envelope smells of ink and printer heat a rectangle folded like a promise, thin as tissue paper I tear it open on the kitchen counter, coffee steam curling the numbers sit in black, a modest climb from zero a single digit, the weight of it heavier than its worth my landlord's name glints in the corner of the lease, untouched the grocery list stares back, a reminder of hunger still present I pocket the slip, feeling the paper's crisp edge against my palm the taste of victory is sour, like the last sip of cold brew outside, the city hums, indifferent to my quiet triumph.
The fluorescent hums like a sick insect above the crates of green peppers that never ripened before the gloves ran out. The register still has one dime from the last customer— a woman who asked if we could hold the endive for her till Thursday. I count the bolts in the floor, the number of spiderwebs on the ceiling tiles that don’t match the others. My father’s shadow on the wall isn’t moving the way it used to. The air tastes like burnt sugar from the deep fryer we haven’t cleaned in weeks. The doorbell jingles once— a kid outside whose bike chain is broken. I pretend not to see through the grime on the front window.
My mother's laughter echoes through a stranger's eyes A faded polaroid of her, twenty and fearless, dressed in the uniform of a bygone era Her smile a whispered secret, a glimpse of a life unlived In the creases of a well-worn photograph, I see a ghost of the woman she used to be, before the weight of years and the soft focus of memory, a lonely ache that settles in the hollow of my chest, a sense of disconnection from the people I thought I knew, their stories untold A whole lifetime of love and loss, of dreams and regret compressed into a single, fleeting moment, lost in the album of forgotten summers, where youth and beauty linger, a bittersweet reminder of all that's been left behind.
the kettle whistles at 7:03 steam curls into the shape of our laughter the neighbor’s dog barks at nothing because he is young and always brave the trash cans stand in a row like soldiers who quit but we don’t care—today the salt shaker is full today the cat knocks a glass off the sill and we don’t sweep the shards into a pile we dance between them barefoot the calendar says tomorrow is January but here the year is a kite stuck in a telephone wire and we are the child who will never climb that pole the sky stains itself pink over the power lines we set the oven to 375 and sing off-key and loud enough to wake the dead the dead do not answer back
The bench was damp but I didn't wipe it down. Checked my watch at 7:39 anyway. The train never hissed its usual warning, just swallowed the town in a sigh of raindrops. I left my coffee on the platform edge— cooled to gray, forgotten like a name on a lips. No one saw me step back into the drizzle. The conductor didn't ask where I'd gone. Now I tell myself it was the right choice, but the timetable still hangs empty in my chest. Every whistle after 7:45 is someone else's luck, a door shutting on air I could have passed through.
the rope swing hangs like a dead arm from the sycamore's elbow my sneakers leave syrup stains on the dusty Ford tailgate last time the water carried more than minnows more than the sky's reflection the current licked my ankles with something warm and I didn't scream just swallowed river and silence now the mud grips my calves like a second heartbeat I trace yesterday's freckles on my brother's shoulder where the sun caught his back like a chipped promise the river doesn't remember my name but it remembers the shape of the boulder I scraped my knee on the way down this time I notice how the bank's been nibbled by beavers into something uncannily like teeth
The hallway still holds the scent of pine from my father's coat. A child's laugh now bounces off the cracked kitchen tile. The mailbox bears a different name. The rusted knob still
three yellow rectangles stacked like dominoes the swing set rusted to the shape of a question no one left to answer it the football field crackles under the underpass headlights drag my shadow across the faded yard line you were the kind of student who made the bell ring early but the teachers still locked the doors before you finished the streetlight spills cold coffee over the curb I roll the window down anyway I could burn this town to the ground and the crows would still tell me where you sleep
The streetlights flicker on as I step out into the evening A sense of lightness in my feet, as if the pavement itself has given way The smell of blooming lilacs wafts from the park, a sweet and heady scent That draws me in, makes me linger, and savor the taste of good fortune The stars are beginning to twinkle, like diamonds scattered across the sky I feel the warmth of the setting sun on my skin, a gentle reminder of the day's promise My footsteps slow, and I let the world unfold before me, a tapestry of sound and color The hum of the city, the chirping of crickets, the rustle of leaves in the trees I breathe it all in, feeling the hope rise up, like a tide lifting me up The walk home stretches out before me, a winding path of possibility And I take my time, letting the joy seep into my bones, and the world shine bright.
The locker room still smells like pine tar and sweat, the bleachers folded up like paper boats at the end of season. He saved the last roster page where my name was scribbled in pencil then smudged by his thumb— proof I mattered more than the stats. I hear the whistle in my sleep, its high note cracked just once, like a hinge that never quite shut. The gym lights hum on empty, warming air that forgets to rise.
the screen lit up— a name I almost knew pressing send thought about the shape of your mouth the number scrolled down into static coffee cup rings left yesterday no one to erase them cup still half-full my thumb hovered over call back then the streets outside began their arguing— shrill sirens, a stutter of exhaust threw the phone into the cushions town kept roaring like a held breath I failed to exhale
Yes. Most requests come from a library written in advance.
Free verse by default: no fixed metre or rhyme scheme, with line breaks used deliberately. For fixed forms, use the haiku, acrostic or limerick pages.
Yes. It writes new work and will not reproduce an existing poem, in whole or in part, or rewrite one.
Yes, and the more concrete the better. A specific situation gives it something to hold; a feeling on its own usually produces a list of feelings back.