Short Walking Stick Poems
Short Walking Stick Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Walking Stick by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Walking Stick by length and keyword.
I must now write a limerick;
Those dogs lined up is such a trick,
It's just a feint
To make me faint
So they can nick my walking stick!
the
cantankerous old man
who
gripped a hand carved
oak wooden walking stick
stands firm
upon the ground
and
witnessing
the
hourglass of time
A pickpocket named Dodger
lived to become an old codger,
alas a walking stick and heaps of pain
his getaway speed sadly on the wane.
© Harry J Horsman 2010
Slender branching twig
Swaying on summer morning--
Stick insect waiting.
Written 9/4/2017 for Chris D. Aechtner's Premiere haiku contest II
Limping Ron was limping on,
In-grown toe nails aren't much fun,
Two on one foot hard to bare
Doctor said they'll need much care,
When will his walking stick be gone?
Patrick lived in Great Britain, his wick,
But when he was sixteen and quick,
Was captured by pirates horrible,
Taken to Ireland adorable,
Where he found god, his walking stick.
A old tree branch that had fallen to the ground
Polished it up, mended all the cracks, looking good as new
Now we can both walk
Form:
Beard bent over his walking stick
each step cautious
twitching side to side
left hand trembling, along for the ride
Tapping out the narrow path every morn
to the place his soul was reborn
robust wanderings
bring you near
walking stick and old canteen
britches, boots, all unseen
walks forever in the woods
chocolate bars
smoky fire
pull me out
a tent at night
and in the afternoon
sweet hay smell wispers
to the moon.
Form:
The full moon was
rising. November nght.
I throw away my walking stick.
*
A shiver runs
through my thoughts.
I had lost you in the thick fog.
*
The large fig tree.
Had not tied the black thread
round the big trunk ?
Satish Verma
To town,
from town.
Clay patta,
saffron civara.
Smoothened walking stick,
the companion of the unlonely
alone.
Downhill,
uphill.
Through clouds,
through fog.
Soles worn,
robes tattered.
Wake, rise...
Weary, rest...
This flesh, in truth,
the begging bowl
we each were issued.
Someone shot a sloth-
in time-lapse photography
Descending a tree
with Charlie Chaplin movements
minus mustache,
its tail hooked over its arm like a walking stick
The eye never moved–
like a dancer's in pirouette,
sunlight flashing like a million paparazzi
Overcome by clouds-
a most un-sloth-like creature.
Loyal companion carved from a sturdy oak.
This eternal gratitude will never be revoked.
You've been there for me more then
some human folk.
I think I may be in love with you and that is no joke.
Please stay by my side until the day I croak,
if perchance we come upon a very nasty bloke,
I will turn you upside down and give him a poke!
He watched daily, and waited.
Time became a slow train,
inching by in uneven jerks.
The poetry journal lay nestled
among bills, circulars, catalogs.
He devoured it front to back.
His mind absorbed its gems
as eagerly as his teeth
mangled the peach.
The cat lay at his feet,
tail swishing side to side,
and watched a walking stick
snake up the windowpane.
From the ground I seem to raise
Staggering towards the green pastures
Blood oozing out of the unhealed wounds
Wounds from the piercing thorns
A slim cow is what I am
To be fat is my aim
But why the fats still fight over my handful pasture?
No answer seem to come my way
To the gold mines I dream to be
Where I dwell only stones in my sight
For how long will I need a walking stick?
Form:
Ancient mahogany walking stick
Blue jay and gold finch duet
puffs of pearls on downy wind
God must be playing violin.
Painted turtles surfing mossy logs
honeybee hovering Queen Ann's lace
saxophone blowing emerald frog
maple leaves flaunting silver face.
Hummingbird on the edge of mind
lavender seeping from the glade
crimson flashes from blue pine
eying violets on a black earth day.
To poetry soup
I shall stick
Until I start walking with a stoop,
To and fro patrolling with walking stick.
On my fingers the soup
Forever my fingers I lick:
My fidelity to the group
Until my still bragging shoulders droop.
What I see in poetry soup
Are buxom hens in a coop
You can’t but many yearn to pick
And not a single one aside kick.
On her Good Poetry you snoop,
Soon, round your neck a loop
Walking stick stroking limestone paths
sunshine warming these patina hands-
A fleeting chorus of gold winged finch,
God sashaying over cherry wood violins-
Turtles playing dominos on mossy stones
amidst cattails and croaking saxophones-
Cardinal splashing in blue spruce pines
emerald hoppers popping out a nursery rhyme-
Maple leaves flaunting sweetened faces
blue jean angels sowing quilts for earth's day-
2/16/19
At the surgery
Here we are at the clinic`s
waiting room,
a fat lady with bandaged big toe,
and an old man leans on his walking stick
he lives alone.
An ancient couple from the upland,
dressed in their Sunday best,
hold hands and look endearing,
a youngish woman who keeps rummaging
through her bag, and me.
Six pairs of feet in a slow shuffle,
Electrocardiography doesn’t
mend a tired heart, only tells
us we are mortal
A wedding dress in Oxfam’s window.
The Laughter and the tears were not included.
A well-worn walking stick just 50p
The memory’s and pain are gone.
Baby cloths the price tags still on
Oh the heart ache we will never know.
A doll without a child to cuddle
A teenager who needs a friend.
A business suit upon a hanger
A career no longer pursued.
High heeled shoes with fancy buckles
He now go’s dances all alone.
All treasures they let go.
My Walking Stick size 6 foot.
My trusty old walking stick.
It helps me walk with my sore hip.
I like to call it my magic staff.
If trouble comes I will use my staff to kick some ass.
My staff does many things.
It helps me walks, it keeps me safe from thief’s.
The last thug that did something wrong.
Has gotten two broken legs and one broken arm.
Me and my old walking stick are best of friends.
Sometime my stick walks me while I am following him.
Paws paddlewheel a roundness.
Mouth wide in the sluice, a sodden rudder
pushes sideways braiding a foaming wake.
Pond and dog orbit an ocular sky,
watery eyes memo the turning scene:
a bobbing hat floats beneath clouds,
a heron fishing over its stooping shadow,
a nodding woman upon a snorting horse,
a stroller, a mother,
an old man shaped like a walking stick.
The delirious dog bites a wave and sneezes,
while to-and-fro, a bobbing ball seductively,
turns his world.
You said the man you talked with is blind
But he pointed out fingers to someone he's then unkind
You talked with a blind person
But he can give someone poison
You said he walks kind and tender
But cannot you accept as true he's a pretender
You give him eyeglasses and add him a walking stick
But worthy of someone who'd frequently kick
Someone who'd frequently kick your relative
Though positive we'd frequently make him contraceptive
He'd not be literate or limit him being un-educative
When the storm clouds gather
and the thunder rolls,
when the chips are down and the blood runs cold,
I hear the click of the walking stick
and I know I'm not alone.
Your life with us was long
and now you live
elsewhere but still your calm and strength you give
To us who miss you right down here
for I know I'm not alone.
So as the sea swells high
and the birds take flight,
and the still is gone from the starry night,
I hope that now you can see,
how much you mean to me.