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Best Poems Written by Harry Horsman

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

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The Old Oak Tree

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!

 EPILOGUE 

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

       © Harry J Horsman  1997

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Death Is Not the End

like nature in spring
begins the season of life
winter a blessing
where memories are best kept
waiting the resurrection

© Harry J Horsman 2018

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Eyes

Father’s of sky blue
mother’s of deep hazel brown
a blend of the two
sunlight on dew in meadow
or moss clinging to the stone

© Harry J Horsman 2016

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Phobia

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 1993

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Jesus Christ

Life ground to a halt
living down a dead end street
where there's no sunlight
and shadows of doubt linger...
Till your love blew them away.

 © Harry J Horsman 2021

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Thwarted

clement moons lose glow...
sun rises dries dewy tears
heart of mist broken

 © Harry J Horsman 2023

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An Agendaless Age

Often I drift back to my days of youth
to where life did begin; a rural treat,
those sharp brisk mornings a moorland uncouth
a naïve nakedness a one-way street,
simple things like the sun rise snow and sleet.
No timetables no worries to go wrong
tuneful mum dusting the blues in a song,
where fences were constructed to lean on
over which chat neighbours when ties were strong,
A relief thinking of those days long gone.

 2021

Entered Mark Toney's
2022 Poetry Marathon Mile contest 15
30/9/2022

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In So Many Ways

Your willing lips encased entwined with mine   
The taste as soft as the morning cast dew,
Emerald eyes the clarity of wine
Brings to mind the wondrous Castle to view.
Your voice as sweet as Thrush in harmony
A chorus awakened to the sunlight,
Penetration of love in litany
In deep alliteration morn till night.
Embraced in shackled touch with bonds thus bind
Oh I will of words pen of this love found,
You took a sad heart upon like did find
Staid the exterior yet ardour sound.
Your love's reflection my happiest days
This need to tell you in so many ways. 

 © Harry J Horsman 2013

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The Bosses Son

you may try to make us feel inferior
strutting around with head held high and mighty
i wonder
is it for our sake
or just to cover up thy own inadequacy
fumbling your way around the factory floor
the bosses son soon to elevate to greater roles
i remember you 
on your first day the rawest of incumbents
silver spoon still protruding
from your mouth
i gave you the strength needed
taught you everything
now I sit across from you
your eyes never to meet mine
no apology
when handing
the redundancy paper that says goodbye.

 © Harry J Horsman 2021

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30th January 2016

fearless daffodils
awake to a brand new day
thrush hastens with nest

© Harry J Horsman 2016