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Best Harry Horsman Poems

Below are the all-time best Harry Horsman poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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         Oh I am but a simple leaf
         withering within the gutter
         one summer of bliss
         now! Just an autumn flutter.

                   For some; destine to fall
                   upon stony ground, a part
                   of life’s infernal gyration.
                   Yet for those that fall
                   within your reach, to live
                   on within your soul!

         While limbs that stretch
         towards the solstice, create
         vivacious veins as channels of hope,
         a pledge of foliation continues
         to endure what spring has
         furnished; autumn expires. 

                   Yes! If we can but learn
                   from nature’s complex simplicity,
                   that life be of a cycle
                   from the seed we are conceived,
                   then let spring be my beginning
                   winter my exultant eve!

         Let our two cultures
         merge as one, the
         decomposed humus
         to become the sustenance;
         our transfusion the
         new beginning.

                   Let us breathe the
                   fragrance of born again;
                   let each slender limb,
                   stout body bear our
                   tenaciousness, each lyrical
                   leaf our life’s blood.

          Let us mollycoddle each
          precious tear that falls from a
          angry sky; dance gracefully
          upon the wind, embrace
          on moonless nights, bathe
           in summer madness.

                   Let us hear the bluebell call,
                   the daffodil pray, the apple
                   blossom bear witness; the
                   clamour of the field mouse
                   the pitapat of the butterfly
                   the silence of lovers in love.

             Let us be sanctuary to the
             symbolic songstress, scuttling
             squirrel, vulgar urchin;
             a fortress for the warrior
             a haven for the pacifist
             an inspiration for the poet!


                  The call of springtime
                   we will invoke,
                     logging representative
                      we will gladly choke;
                        nature’s guardian.
                          “This! Obliging old oak.”

Copyright Harry J Horsman 2000



Copyright © harry horsman

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Leader Of The Pack

why bark for oneself
when gullibility rules,
the runt of the cur
rushes to aid one’s master
rogue awaits to shuffle pack.

©Harry J Horsman 2014

Copyright © harry horsman

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To Dance The Night Away

Visual #2

A symphony of moonlight illuminates the night sky
Waves of emerald jade dance in ripples upon the summer breeze
While tracks cut deep lead me to you to waltz the night away.

For Andrea Dietrich contest

Copyright © harry horsman

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Sometimes I believe you
to be a vision, fading,
only a reflection of the
warmth I used to feel.
Today my memory of you
locked away within a
clenched mind, like grains
of sand perpetually
slipping through the cleft
of time. A memory scattered
along the highway of
despondent souls, soon
to be washed away by
the rising tide of oblivion!

Copyright Harry J Horsman 2010

Copyright © harry horsman

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No flame within! 
      do I hold for you
no delightful delicacy
      shall I put to rhyme.

No picturesque words
      in italics of your
woeful wildlife, no
      acknowledgement of
the ancient mariner, he
      that crossed the margin
of our “Atlas of the world.”

     (Still in use, [I believe] in the
old stone museum.)
     One can easily live in fear
of your many mordant moods,
     to see you capture the
embracing horizon, where warring
     clouds fondle the sunlight,
and the departing QE 2 is
     reduced to microcosm.

How can one live in awe of
      you, when at the end of each
day you snatch at the light of
    sustenance, therefore
giving license to the veil
    of damnation, soon to be cast
out of the east, driving impending
    fears to languish upon the
unholy waters of the Styx?

 (An extraction of the mind,
an evaporation of the memory
     the spray dried brain
tossed into oblivion.)

   Yet each morning an
interval to one’s ongoing
   nightmare, when with renewed
levitation, the new light reprieved!
   Begins avidly it’s universal
journey across Manukau’s
   “Pack ‘n’ Save” Car park.

Oh yes! It is so easy to hate you;
      you that brought the rest of
the world here, you that constitutes
    a world within a world, that,
where the cycle of life creates it’s
     own constitution, each player
judged on cue, to become an act of
   fodder, mobile supermarkets
in ferocious competition with
    nothing at all to give.

“Unless death itself is a gift!”

    Upon the surface your
treachery still lingers, there,
    tenacious tentacles lurk
within the sedulous surf,
    groping blindly at sedated
rocks, those pinnacles of sanctuary
    that harbour the weary,
support the rod.

   Only when gravitation truly
intervenes, does the perpetual
   invasion subside, leaving one in
no doubt about your promiscuity!

         © Harry J Horsman   

Copyright © harry horsman

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The Cut

A country yearns industry
from assiduous minds revolutionary,
cities conceived with mind set and skill
yet lay insipid in the body of Britannia
those in need of life’s blood,
akin to human organs
served only; by arterial veins.

The first sod to lift an unfolding nation
the first cut the inauguration the call,
have a thought pleasure seeker
enduring men with pick, shovel, some did fall,
his sweat given freely or not as the case may be
to mingle with earth removed
or deep within copse ghyll may well be for a tree.

The Dales emptied, of its men
famine ravaged Ireland too,
drawn towards the rush of new born adrenaline
a creation of foresight
when the need for this an artery to flow
through lock, tunnel aqueduct,
transforming her virgin land
albeit out of trades of old,
an era steeped in tradition
tools an extension: of one’s own hand.

Adverse weather geography
this realm having found fame,
complexity from above, below,
the elements the environment
nothing to stand in obsessions way,
from soil to solid rock, energy sapping
clods of clay negotiated all
amidst many tongues, yet same laborious conclusion
wheeled away by the barrowman; 
horse and cart.

This precious land host to many heroes
those upon columns stand tall,
our sons live on in remembrance
a memorial for them all,
so to this symbolic structure
craved through hostile terrain,
a burly navvies sculptured cleft
within the very earth
his body one day to lay.

Oh the city Leeds, city Liverpool and those in between
the bargees upon the cut there now do dwell
living within the ideals of another time sown
but of ease it is with just a memory
conservation the historic debt on loan!

copyright Harry J Horsman 2013

Copyright © harry horsman

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Old Tea Bag

Such pleasure it gives yet thrown away
believe me it will happen to us all one day,
the only way out sadly is not alive
the secret being when in; how to survive,
my place of abode the teapot nice and round
in it one needs to ready the journey bound,
to leave one’s comfort zone mashed and up the spout
there’s always a way when need’s be; to get out!

© Harry J Horsman 2014

Copyright © harry horsman

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Last Flight

Squadron leader to his Sergeant.

Another fatality Felicity,
another regimental letter of commiseration,
another space to type in with a name a rank
another space to enter our lives,
on this the darkest of days.
He was my friend Felicity,
an old school chum; we joined up together
for the cause; for dear old Blighty
naively for the thrill.
Here, the earring he wore around his neck
soon to be reunited with the one
his sweetheart holds most dear,
her tatty old airline ticket, also soon to be reunited
with his the one she holds, a memento
of their first meeting on a flight to Paris ‘38’.
Sergeant! Empty your ashtray it’s disgusting.

Harry J Horsman
© 2014

Copyright © harry horsman

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I meander through verdant valley
where meadows collide in windswept jade,
hillsides bathe in summer sunshine
and oceans of clouds, commit to shade.

Moorland sheep laze in woolly clusters
creating footpaths upon the hill,
busy hedgerow a rural city
scar of an era, is town head mill.

Vibrant coppice alive with creatures
leafy towers caress morning mist,
sunlight shines on distant window
across the valley, a sapphire twist.

Crag and beacon rise majestic
standing stone a monument to thrall,
sculptured by marauding seasons
an ancient culture’s, rocky stall.

Yet to chance upon misty patterns
softly sketched upon the hill,
I will savour these happy moments
awakening to, a distant trill.

Wharfedale, Yorkshire England

For Dr Ram's contest My best poem 2012
placed 1st in Matt Caliri's contest anything 19 0f jan 2012

Copyright © harry horsman

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You May Not Agree

Oh the cock may crow
but hens deliver the goods...
more to life than sex.

© Harry J Horsman 2013  

Copyright © harry horsman