Details |
Michael Walker Poem
You're the love of my life, and the fire in my soul.
You make my life whole.
I'm sorry if I made you cry.
Please forgive me, and let me lift your heart into a bright sunlit sky.
Let me place a smile on your face, a kiss to your lips.
Let the sadness leave no trace. Let me suffer the whips.
I love you.
Copyright © Michael Walker | Year Posted 2013
|
Details |
Michael Walker Poem
For generations I slept.
My violent ever churning home I could accept.
Then the churning itself ceased.
I wept.
The home went dark.
The home went cold.
Then the clanging began.
Louder the noise grew.
A foreign brightness leaked into my view.
And I knew.
It was an invasion.
They came with picks and shovels.
They took us from our protective embraces.
Tortured I was in heat and fire.
My form resembled nothing familiar to me.
What I once was, I was no more.
Still I would not be released.
I heard the drums.
Drums from a distant source,
As I was carried elsewhere,
Allowed was I, for now,
To travel with my old friends,
also tortured and mutilated.
Their forms exactly like mine.
Suddenly our travels ceased.
The drums became louder.
The talking of foreign mouths suffocated my ears.
I was taken away from my comrades.
I would likely never see them again.
The drums continued.
Only now I was not so callously thrown aside.
Cared for was I, by my new master.
I felt my wits sharpened.
My skin shined.
The drums stopped.
I do not know for how long.
Still, in the possession of my new master;
I was sharp.
Bright,
And somehow,
I felt proud despite my torment.
Then the drums started again.
My master charged with anger.
His hatred became mine.
With my help he slew his own kind.
No longer did my skin shine.
It was covered in a sickly crimson hue.
With every blow I landed I felt my sharpness fade.
Then suddenly my master released me.
I tumbled to the dirt.
The drums were distant.
The screams were fading.
I faded out of mind.
Dirt overtook me.
I found myself in a new shelter.
Dark as the first home, before the invasion,
Peaceful,
Forgotten,
My old master was beside me,
for awhile.
But even he too succumbed to the time that barely aged me.
I was taken from my old home.
Forced to fight another man’s war,
Only to be left alone once more.
Copyright © Michael Walker | Year Posted 2013
|
Details |
Michael Walker Poem
Rain falls upon the streets.
Overflowing the creeks.
Pattering with constant beats.
Rain falls upon the plains.
Creating natural lanes.
Until the sunlight wanes.
Rain falls upon their heads.
And they rush indoors to their beds.
No one loves the tears the world sheds.
Rain falls upon the graves.
Of those we long ago forgave.
And of those we still crave.
Copyright © Michael Walker | Year Posted 2013
|
Details |
Michael Walker Poem
We are the same.
My brother and I.
So what causes such an outcry?
Upon my brother's return.
We are the same.
My brother and I.
So why am I hailed a hero?
Upon my return.
We are the same.
My brother and I.
I am a vicious man.
My brother is a vicious man.
We are the same.
My brother and I.
My brother is in shackles.
I am smothered in medals.
My brother killed two.
I killed two hundred.
That is where we differ.
My brother and I.
Murder is a sin of the very worst kind.
Unless you murder in large numbers.
In your country's name.
Copyright © Michael Walker | Year Posted 2013
|
Details |
Michael Walker Poem
Our paths crossed.
Our hearts entwined.
And we knew.
Our love was forever.
Our paths drew apart.
Our hearts became strangers.
And we knew.
Our love had ended.
Copyright © Michael Walker | Year Posted 2013
|
Details |
Michael Walker Poem
A king does not kneel before another king.
We are the equals above only the common rabble.
When we are out and we are seen…
The children they write and they sing.
The women they ever seek our ring.
The eagles they slow the flapping of their wing.
For we are the kings.
Our armies they stand.
Our armies they claim our land.
Every grain of our sand.
For we are the kings.
We are the kings, we do not slay our own.
We all have assassin’s, their daggers all shone.
But we do not raise a threat ourselves alone.
For we are the kings.
Our power is great.
Our mind is not second rate.
The rabble outside the gate can wait.
The servants inside the gate will not be late.
For we are the kings.
Our children, Our women, Our eagles.
Our land, Our sand.
Our Assassins, our rabble, our servants, our gates.
We own them all. We are great.
For we are the kings.
Copyright © Michael Walker | Year Posted 2013
|
Details |
Michael Walker Poem
I am everything.
I am nothing at all.
I am the spinning basketball.
I am the wheel of a roadster.
I am the top down view of a coaster.
I am an apple on a tree.
I am giant stingered bee.
I am the rear of your knee.
Or maybe I am a banshee.
Perhaps I’m the flower.
Given to that pretty girl.
Or perhaps I am a simply designed swirl.
Or maybe I am none of those.
As I drift along my journey.
Through this expansive sky.
Copyright © Michael Walker | Year Posted 2013
|
Details |
Michael Walker Poem
It is such a lovely thing.
Through rain and sun it will bring.
Though mildly sad when they cling.
Cling to the lost.
Deny the cost.
Sadness over what it caused.
It is a lovely thing.
Oh it is such a lovely thing.
Is that the way to hear them sing?
Abducted
Imprisoned.
Slain and cried in vain.
Like it will force the feeling of shame?
For some it is all the same.
It is a lovely thing.
To hear the wails in full swing.
For I am now their king.
Then they die.
It is with a great sigh.
They are ended thereby.
Abducted.
Imprisoned.
It is those briefest moments.
They cry for atonements.
They plead for postponements.
But the power is mine over them.
The mercy is mine to deny.
Before I make their loved ones cry.
Before I kill, and then pass on by.
Copyright © Michael Walker | Year Posted 2013
|
Details |
Michael Walker Poem
Like the morning dawn friends are there.
To brighten that bitter night before.
When you’re lost at sea they help you ashore.
When you’re a pain in their ass.
They tell you what you need to hear.
And you know it is sincere.
When the worst of the worst crashes onto you.
And you feel alone in the cold and dark.
They are your bulwark.
When you are in trouble you know.
They will lend their hand.
And pull you clear of that wasteland.
When everyone else goes their own way.
Fleeing to the beltway.
That friend will stay.
Yours forever.
Copyright © Michael Walker | Year Posted 2013
|