Best Walk Up Poems
I wanna walk up a mountain
swim in the wide blue sea,
walk across life’s busy highway
just to taste of that which is me.
I wanna drive on tracks of steel
pilot an aeroplane,
sledge on slopes of ice crystal snow
be a fireman of a steam train.
Lord please grant me mobility
attach my legs an arm,
I am a freak of chemistry
a product of a human-farm.
There was so much morning sickness
the tablet in array,
yet society lives a lie
chained in subjective disarray.
I wanna travel to the moon
trial zero gravity,
go where there is no resistance
fill the void my life’s cavity.
I wanna have a chance to live
the human way a wife,
to love and cherish have children
normality without the strife.
I wanna sing a hopeful song
forget there’s so much worse,
tell don’t take all things for granted
nor heed that of the siren’s curse.
I wanna earn an emotion
feel the way you all do,
build a bridge to understanding
and give you all my point of view.
© Harry J Horsman 2018
It was during WWII
Japan ruled
Koreans obeyed
Japan ordered
All Koreans
Walk up to Shinto Temple
And bow down to the picture
Of their emperor
Are you kidding?
My father scoffed
My God is god of Jesus Christ
Him will I only serve
My father was taken to prison
My brother Hi-Seung volunteered
To join the military
To have his father released
He left home
As a vibrant 15 year old boy
He returned home
As an injured 18 year old man
He died a year later
Before he died
I looked forward
To every tomorrow
When he died
The light went out of my life
He was my best friend
My heart still yearns for him
More than sixty years later
I wish there is a place
Called heaven
So that I can hold his hand
Look up to him with smile
When I get there
Getting your attention I am sure
Right now we are having Intercourse
Some fear this word in conversation
Hidden for lack of education
Man has perverted this word
Placing sex above conversation
If I were to walk up to any women and say
I think you are very pretty may we have intercourse
What would her first thought’s be
This simple example may open your eyes
To how man has complicated communication
We take our evil thought’s and pervert our words
We over use our words this waters them down
Love has lost love and hate has gained
Gay no longer means happy
We change our meanings to our words
So how can we understand or have
Intercourse when we mix up our words
This may sound silly and not to important
look around we all have been separated
From lack of Intercourse
The cold night air wraps around my shoulders like a moth-eaten shawl.
A rasping rain pelts the bitter sidewalk below.
Visions of what once was flash in and out of the headlights passing by.
How did it all go so wrong, as lovers become nothing more than mere strangers?
Your heart has grown so hardened to my pleading touch.
Ghosts we have become, passing through each other in our home that has slowly become our tomb.
Words have become a foreign language to each other's ears.
How did this divide go from small fractures to seismic shifts?
We loved each other so, now we lay next to each other like phantoms.
How do we bring back the light within our souls,
Before we slip through the cracks of this cold, lonely cityscape?
Shivers run up my spine as it's getting close to 2 a.m. now.
I stick my hands in my weeping pockets and jingle my freezing keys,
Look at the blank screen of my phone, waiting for you to call—but you never do anymore.
I guess it's time to start walking home; you'll be long in bed.
I try to tell myself we can find our love again, I just know it, if we try hard enough.
Walk up to the rain-soaked building, enter with silent tears in my eyes.
Put down my keys, take off my coat, and crawl into bed,
Hoping that when the first rays of sun peek through the blinds of the windows,
The space between us will slowly evaporate like dewdrops on a flower petal.
I open the book of time once more and again,
where pages are engraved in my mind;
the worn old pages- all tattered and yellow,
oh, here is the house of my childhood;
and my memories come twirling . . .
The smell of old wood and the stained glass,
the french doors and the long curved staircase;
my little room overlooking the garden,
and the big claw foot bathtub- a lake to a child;
the kitchen old and cozy with wonderful smells,
mom humming as she cooks . . .
A little girl (me) playing quietly on the front porch,
with long hair in tangles and rosy cheeks;
and grandma rocking and rocking and knitting,
and I hear dad busy in his workshop;
my baby brother in his stroller sleeping,
oh, the happiness . . .
A child's table set for tea and dolls sitting pretty,
a real teapot and some china cups (a gift from grandma);
my kitty cat Snowball asleep on one chair . . .
I walk up the shady street of my memory,
up that big hill where I rode my bike;
to the end of our quiet dappled street,
and into a park lush green and full of songs;
oh yes, the water lilies float on the pond,
and white swans and ducks drift . . .
Further down the street and up a hill,
is an old church with big ornate doors;
I enter the gloom in my mind remembering,
pungent the smell of candles flickering;
and the memories flood back . . .
The worn withered pages of my childhood,
all the pages tattered and yellowed with time;
then slowly- I close tight this book of time,
until the next time . . .
_______________________
July 7, 2019
Poetry/Verse/Withered Pages of My Childhood
Copyright Protected, ID 19- 1164-783-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest, Childhood Memories
sponsor, Chantelle Anne Cooke
First Place
Walking deep into the woods we stumbled on an old abandoned place
A white and blue farm house with a wraparound dilapidated porch
Tall grass was overgrown and with many shade trees of oak and birch
Plant pots of dried up and decayed ferns left on the railings in disgrace
The black roof was missing shingles and caving in on one side
The front door a pale worn yellow with a climbing red rosette
I start to feel more anxious as I see a freshly discarded cigarette
We walk up to a large picture window to peek in, all fears aside
We see some old beautiful antiques covered in dust and cob webs
Below the wooden banister staircase is a beautiful tall clock displayed
I feel a chill up my spine as I hear the clock ticking, now feeling afraid
An old worn oriental rug lay under it in faded patterns of muted reds
We decide to try the knob to see if we can get in to explore
As I touched it I felt a shock and heard faint whispers
I quickly let go as my hand started to feel hot and blistered
I tell my friend we need to leave now I think danger may be in store
We walk towards the back and see an old woman weeding a garden bed
She stops what she's doing and turns around to ask us who is there
and starts slowly floating in the air and says to come in for tea if we dare
We quickly turn and start running toward the woods, screaming as we fled
7/13/2020
Contest: Decayed House Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
A friend once told me
How he was fascinated by me-
By how I could walk up to absolutely
Anyone and be their best friend,
Switch cultures like t-shirts
Emblazoned with "I heart
Fill-in-the-blank..."
I'm not sure quite how to explain
How once you've observed society
For long enough you realize
That just about everyone you
Will ever meet acts just like
Your own teenage brother,
Like your mother, your father,
Like your little sister-
Like the best friend you've
Known for your whole life...
Everyone has heard the phrase,
"We're all God's children,"
But it seems like everyone
Is suddenly blind to their
Family resemblence
When one of them says,
"Que tal, manito?" instead of
"What's up, bro?"
Don't tell me that it's
Not possible for you
To communicate with
Someone whose birth certificate
Lists a country of origin
That's different from your own-
Don't say you can't pick up
New language when "YOLO"
Was not an expression that
Existed on the face of the Earth
Until a couple of years ago...
Besides, we both know how you
Always found a way to
Gossip in class, by shooting hand
Gestures and loaded glances
Halfway across the classroom-
Halfway across a globe never
Seemed all that different to me,
So maybe that's the reason
I was never fazed
By a language barrier.
Car doors slam, country quiet broken
A race ensues… front door flies open
Dogs start barking, excitedly running
A happy day... grandsons are coming
Overnight bags in a flash are dropped
Energy released can never be stopped
"Papaw! Momo! We're here!" they yell
All that is missing is a ringing doorbell
Hugs, big smiles, checking all rooms
We stay mostly outside all afternoon
A walk up the driveway for a short hike
Playing on porch or riding their bikes
At supper they tell all that they know
Story after story and swear it is so
Baths, snacks, teeth brushed and bed
Tucked in kisses after prayers are said
Tired dogs look at us with questioning eyes
Is this temporary or for the rest of our lives?
Beside each child they settle for the night
On alert for a sign something's not right
Exhausted, we smile at our pride and joys
Grateful to have this time with the boys
8/10/16
Pure Childlike Fun and Enthusiasm Contest by Carin Krutsinger
Third Place - June 2018
Lenny was 30 and still living with his old cheese, everyone called, Lenny’s mum.
She was always on his Cadbury Snack to go find a trouble and strife for a chum.
“Geez, leave off mum, I’ve been looking down at the Punchbowl rubbity Dub”.
“Well Lenny, go to the grab a granny at the Rissole, Fridý night will ya luv”.
Friday came, Lenny put on his best bag of fruit and fired up his old VS Dunny Door.
With his pay in his sky rocket as he hit the frog and toad with the peddle to the floor.
Mum put some of dad’s old brill cream in his Fred Astaire before he left the house.
“Be good Lenny, me little china plate, if ya need a lift home give me a Wally Grout”.
Jenny was on the rock ‘n’ roll so she saved up her oxford scholars for a big night out.
She wasn’t flash to look at, with her bifocal monkey’s arses but she had a good jam tart.
She walked into the Rissole, tilting her leg as she let rip a decent Royce Hart.
Her dad would’ve said, “A bit more choke and it would’ve made you start”.
Jenny met Lenny at the near ‘n far, knowing he was giving her the old Captain Cook.
Introductions made and Lenny thought she was a bit of alright, as he had a second look.
They hit it off after Jenny’s Third vodka and Lenny’s fifth schooner of pigs ear.
Feasting on bar snacks of party dogs eyes, Jenny dripping the dead horse in Lenny’s beer.
A couple of young blokes walk up to Jenny and tried to give her Reg Grundies a flick.
Jenny started throwing cut lunches, smashing him on the Lionel Rose, then gave him a kick.
Lenny intervened, saying, “We don’t want any froth and bubble.” Before thing got nasty.
He took Jenny outside screaming, “He’s got a face like a half eaten pasty”.
And that’s how Lenny and Jenny met, Lenny’s mum was happy seeing Lenny with stars in his mud pies.
They got cash ‘n carried, had a couple of billy lids, that loved to eat burgers and fries.
It’s not at all romantic, but that’s how most Aussie love stories go.
Lenny and Jenny together forever, They’re mates most of us will know.
Dinner at eight
Winter soup and roast
both ready
A candle lit
table for two
An empty vase
without any flowers
My welcome carpet
awaiting you
Slow cooked mulled wine
fills the hallway
with an aromatic scent
of cinnamon and spice
The fire's embers glowing
a sparkle in my eyes.
Clothes, all the best I tried
Wanting to be perfect
when he gets by my side.
Needing to impress
I put on my make up
a sweetened perfume
and a strapless red dress.
I let my hair cascade
whilst thinking of my date
wondering if one can fall in young love
again
Am i not too old?
isn't it too late?
I walked down the stairs
and dimmed the light
Put on some soft jazzy music
and waited the night
Ready since four
Showered and shaved
Splashed on some Acqua Di Gio
Freshly pressed pants
Midnight blue polo shirt
Listening to some love songs
practicing my best dance moves
singing along
why does waiting take so long?
Thinking about tonight
My heart beats stronger
What will I say?
Will we embrace?
Will you ask me to stay?
Eight o'clock sharp
I walk up to your door
palms sweaty
throat dry
holding my breath
and a single red rose
slowly the door opens
our eyes meet
you smile
inviting me in
I think love is a lot like us.
In truth, it's hard.
At least for me. To reach into my heart and pull each thought
Like some sort of note, to resort to the most simplistic of notion.
It all seems so simple.
To walk up towards the one we love and tell them how we truly feel.
At least for me.
To be honest I don't think it's entirely the thought of being rejected.
But the actual declaration and the realization that everything that you hope and dream
stares back at you and it's not reciprocated where imagination meets reality.
At least for me.
Reaching back into my heart and scrambling around for another note.
The small things in an ocean of thought that could go wrong.
The sudden rush of thoughts that prevent such circumvention.
The first step of telling you that I love you.
At least for me.
Seeing your face again, makes it so much easier.
Knowing that you would never let me drown
deprived of a father to tell her that her skirts to small
she wore it to hug her hips and rise with every sway in her walk
her mother, another statistic of having babies to young,
was to whipped in her dip trying to be hip so she cheered her poor child on
she's dying to survive in a broken home
daddy not around to watch her spend a penny and mamas hardly home
she's dying to survive and she's put her school on hold
she's another undereducated black child with no priorities or goals
she careers soliciting her body, making it hobby to walk up and down blocks
waiting for the right brotha she can sweet talk and pick pocket
at the honk of his horn, she stops hot trotting
hopped in his car and found a quiet spot for lip locking
her hand rises up his leg, she feels for his man
he nods giving her consent
she prices her body for those new Jordan and dolce & gabbani
she'd rather rock the latest fashions then to feed her starving body
she's hopelessly devoted to being the hottest at the parties
she's dying to survive wanting attention to feel the space neglected by another
who makes alcohol a hobby
she's dying to survive rich living is her poverty
she's deaf to her inner voice that yells to her it's wrong
she confides in bad associates who cheer her on
she doesn't know this is how she's dying
she's dying to survive
Bent fingers trace embroidered leaves
on satin and long lacy sleeves.
Blush roses, twenty-six she counts--
A French word she can't now pronounce.
She blows dust from old envelopes
tied with blue ribbons and her hopes.
The letters penned by her true mate.
Over his name, she... hesitates.
A trunk in attic soon became
her refuge from days all the same.
Photos dwelling midst her daydreams,
and keepsakes of sweet seventeen.
She thought he'd walk up Dusty Lane;
he might appear, along with rain
and wash away her endless tears;
bring summer nights and happy years.
A wedding date that came and passed;
memories cut like broken glass.
A heartache like the roaring wind,
returning nightly without end.
She lived alone among the ghosts
of dances, laughter, champagne toasts.
Altho eccentric, she was bright;
looked forward to impending night.
Aunt Agnes passed at ninety-three;
still wore her ring for all to see.
Memories left for wind to tend;
they have beginnings but no end.
I am ignored. It hurts.
I walk along the promenade.
Relish the salt from the sea breeze,
wondering about all the people that
walk up and down, sniffing at pizzas,
hating chips cooked in burned oil.
A couple cling to each other
kiss and laugh, and hurry on
towards their secret tryst.
Families sit on benches green
discussing home affairs.
No one looks up or glances at me,
for I am all alone.
Ah, here comes an old friend.
"How do you do?"
A few inconsequential words,
off he rushes too.
Out comes a cigarette,
it may just soothe
my frayed bad nerves.
Then quickly proceed
to sit on a chair in an open-air bar,
order a beer and dream that
before me sits a girl.
No one asks to sit near,
despite the empty chair.
I am ignored. It hurts.
As you sit in your car
All dressed in black.
You know,
It didn’t have to end like this
Now as you think back you remember
The faint white scars etched in her fair skin
And the timid smile that hid years of despair
You remember that time your friends saw her crying in the hall
You sat there and laughed as they tortured her
The times you saw her sitting alone at lunch
She looked up at you with pleading eyes
“Hey, can you help me,” they said.
You thought about it , but instead you pretended you didn’t see her
And you left her there, sad and alone
That pleading look now haunts you
It begged somebody, anybody for help
But why should you commit social suicide for her?
You just kept walking away, selfish
Now though, you think back to those boring assemblies
About bullying and what it could lead to
Why didn’t you just listen?!
Maybe you could have spoken up, or found her help
Its too late now though, as you walk up to her casket
To say your first and last words,
To a girl, whose real name
You never cared to learn
“I’m sorry…”