Whitman Poems | Examples

as Walt Whitman

If you don’t take your time,
If you never slow down the step by walking,
You’ll never see the sun
Lay his gold leaves on the tops of trees,
You won’t pay attention to the fox
Conversing with two horses in a field,

If you never slow down,
You’ll never know if a girl thinks of you,
You will never feel the dew
which inclines the daffodils and harmonious petals
you will crush the innocent snail on the purple road,

If you don’t take your time,
If you never slow down the step, while walking,
You will never see the fishing sloop working at sea
You will not hear the merle in the fig tree
Sketch twelve notes of a baroque cantata,

and worst of all, if you don’t slow down the pace,
You will never write poetry,
You will never fall in love with the countryside,
With the sea or pretty girls with breasts of pottery,
You will never become as smart as Walt Whitman.

On Blennerhassett Island with Walt Whitman

He sat on this patch of turf,
and if not this exact place a piece of a place nearby.

Naturally, I try to feel his companionship.
Did he write a line of poetry on this small island
or was he simply being Walt Whitman,
honored guest,
a person he hardly recognized from his youth.

I feel his old bones not his youthful step
also, his spacious poetry,
that storied ever travelling imagery
passing-by 
upon these Ohio river currents.
His sweeping insights navigating 
slow wide bends,
and the churning history
of these waters.

I imagine his hand on the ground,
it heaves my body up from the deep grass
and quilts me to a shared terrain
a place where beating heron wings
count the pulse of two lives.

I feel the mutuality of crossed roads,
the cadence of restless breezes
as they ruffle a coat
he left draped over a rail 
of this same wooden jetty.

CLERHEW whitman

Walt Whitman junior,so sensual
with poems&essays so influential
Transcendental writer&realist
with verse libre did insist

Emagi Whitman America

Walt Whitman 'I HEAR AMERICA SINGING'
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Emagi Whitman Leaves

WALT WHITMAN  ' Leaves of Grass'


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Emagi Whitman

I         I
         I
   I   
             i
                   I
I    
          me oh mi

Clerihew Whitman

Walt Whitman raised by Quakers in Brooklyn
with typographical poetics did begin
'Leaves of Grass&Song of Myself'
devoted to the US commonwealth

After Reading Whitman, Gathering Airs and Tasting the Garnishes

I am the wind
the textured curl of clouds
those specks of glitter
silver and gold are my
illustrative gleams

the foiling wings
that flutter and flap
feathers ripe with color

complementing all rosy hills
a rolling kiss a splash of
blush a dash of spicy dish
the pepper and the salt
of a morning's stirring serving

see me in the meadows
there where wildflowers overflowing
bees and butterflies how they gaily
bob take lick like little children
at the serving tops of apples candied
making funny faces where those more
tart chasing rainbow tails the
fond remnants of showers

I made this day for you
now do me honor
save some acres from your cities
and roads
one or two at the least
as I keep sacred
your plot through the heavens

Walt and Emily's Virtual Sky

Written by Gail R DeBole
on March 16, 2022
Updated on March 21, 2022

What would Walt Whitman do?
Would he tweet poem after poem
If today was part of his lifetime?
Tweeting Leaves of Grass to the masses 
Or would his poems be lost to the world
Amid the millions of poems posted?

What would Emily Dickinson do?
Perhaps, still a recluse, but with a technical spin
That jettisons her words throughout the virtual sky
To the masses amid thousands,
Floating amid millions of other poets’ words?

Would both their words compete for the virtual sky?
Words are competing, poets scrambling for
The attention, the connection to others, and, perhaps fame,
That the poets who came before earned
Without the Virtual sky.

A Poem For Walt Whitman

Heroic spirit,
      fervent soul,
      wild river conscious
      that fulilled the sea of liquid ideas...
      You were further than a hero,
      you were a poet, you were a man
      bigger than the mountain
      higher than the space..
      you are
      Walt Whitman poetry.. !

Oracles

A secret is granted
any curb captain
listening.

To speak rarely and
with roots.

Blake wears a hardhat,
drives a forklift for
Metal Products.

Whitman collects
unemployment in the mail.

New words
are mined coal.

They are the drink
from bags,
the suicide in jail,
and
the housekeeper
called only by her first name.

Keeping pace
with a secret at
the speed of light
is the wisdom felt on crowded subways.

On Blennerhassett Island With Walt Whitman

He sat on this patch of turf,
and if not this exact place a piece of a place nearby.

Naturally, I try to feel his companionship.
Did he write a line of poetry on this small island
or was he simply being Walt Whitman,
honored guest,
a person he hardly recognized from his youth?

I feel his old bones not his youthful step
but also his long poems
as they ride Ohio river currents
at ease with the next slow bend,
or some quick kink and churn of its history.

I imagine his hand on the ground,
it heaves my body up from a deep grass
and quilts me to a terrain
where fingers meet on a shared wrist
a place where heron wings beat.

I feel the mutuality of crossed roads,
the cadence of shore eddies
as they unbutton a coat
he left draped over a rail of this wooden jetty.

Wit Man Not Whitman

Wit Man

I have wit
I am a man
Call me Wit Man
Not Walt Whitman
Nor Walt Disney
Call me sarcastic
A real know it all
Call me conceited
Surely, call me anything
But don't call me Shirley
lol
\o\
/o/
\o/
I am a man
I have wit
Call me Man Wit
Not sandwich
Nor Sand Witch
Call me arrogant
A real confident kind
Maybe call me brazen 
I just want to dance
How about you?

Whitman Unread

. for public domain

I fear each Winter's ascendency.
I loathe its long and formidable reign.
I yearn for Spring and Summer showers,
Autumn's chilling wind and brutal rain.

Winter's doom, long on once fertile ground,
entombs a broken stem and decaying limb,
mutes leaves of grass without a sound,
hovers our land like a deadly hymn.

Each preceding Season's history,
embalmed by each Winter's dreadful sound
says, "Endure well your austerity.
Words worth hearing shall be once more found."

Fp Whitman A

A TRIBUTE FOUND POEM IN 5 PARTS
INSPIRED BY PHRASES FROM INSCRIPTIONS

Part A

oneself
a name
a separate
     being
what destiny
awaits
in this puzzle
of life
what bygones
around
the idea
of me

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