The walking stick and Elon Musk
I was a galley-boy on an old tankship
that docked in Liverpool for repair
I think it was in May, and I was sixteen
at a second-hand shop, near the docks
I bought a walking stick and happily used it
the stick going ashore to the pub or
to buy fish and chips, unaware of how odd
I must have looked, no one said a word
Coming back on board, it was the second
The officer who said I looked ridiculous, no one
uses walking sticks anymore, you are not
a ing lord
Enter, into my self-contained world, what
other people thought of me
I became self-conscious, and it worried me
What did other people think of me personally
His words brought on a shyness that stopped
My plans for the future
Who knows, I might have become the first
Elon Musk
He has freed himself of what other people
think, or so we believe, but deep down, he
likes to be loved
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!
Slender branching twig
Swaying on summer morning--
Stick insect waiting.
Written 9/4/2017 for Chris D. Aechtner's Premiere haiku contest II
A rich and monied man,
He is the village headman,
Poor his kindness to his fellow village men,
If one dies from his village he takes no pain,
He sends his walking stick in the hands of his servant,
But fails to walk letting his stick to do the work,
Living long this man and died of age,
Aware his death the whole village,
No one turned to see his dead body,
They all collected sticks and sent to his house,instead,
A battle field like his house with full of sticks,
Tit for tat all what all learned but stick for stick a new lesson!
Walking Stick
Drifting thoughts roll
Through my mind
Full of rhythmic tones
Pulsing in eternal rhyme
Arriving in scattered words
A trove of jewels glimmering
Floating before me as rare birds
Basking, I begin shimmering
Picking out each golden word
Carefully placing them on paper
Choice nibbles of songs unheard
Safe from being a useless vapor
Every word is power packed
Heals hearts or cuts to the quick
Can move us on or set us back
Words are a writer’s walking stick
Carole Cookie Arnold
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
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.