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Jay M May 20
People cautiously walking the sidewalks
Masks of all sorts over their faces
Cover the mouth, cover the nose
Keep away, far away
Heed the warnings, as they say;

Stay 6 feet away,
Cover your mouth,
Cover your face
This is no way to live
But to survive
Or before you know it
You're already dead...

People shuffling past
Lift up their head
Groan as they stand in last
Hoping not to rot in their place

Once inside, they took what they could
Doesn't mean that they should
Only to leave others with scraps
Like kids playing with bottle caps

Finally, signs saying to take less
Ease a bit of that good ol' stress
Save it for the lines of insanity
And all that is left of humanity

Walk the streets, get outside
For the time you can, no longer hide
Return soon to thy shelters
Keep busy, maybe become painters

Walk along the ocean shore
Then return home, what a bore
Paint the barren sands,
Once with so many people, holding hands
Now with little to none
Go home and be done

Scarcely utter a word
To those on the street
But over the phone, loud as a bird
In conversation, the shuffling of feet

Open slow, the lesser things
Whilst still some folks are getting wings
Soon enough, renew the world
Let it all come unfurled
Only to consume us all once more
Just like before.

- Jay M
May 20th, 2020
The purpose of this poem is to display the current state of the world, and leaders attempt to slowly bring things back to some semblance of normalcy.
They say don't go out walking
in the woods nearby
You'll reach a point where it's so dark
You can not see the sky
It doesn't matter much to me
And here's the reason why
I listen to the wind out there
It speaks to me on high

One wrong turn and you'll be lost
They tell me, still I go
I know where I'm heading
The wind it tells me so
I listen to the wind out there
It say's I'm glad you came
The wind and I are such old friends
The wind it calls my name

Elemental friendship
From another time
Silent Conversation
No words, just thoughts in rhyme

Snowy winter afternoons
out walking all alone
Making trails for no one else but me
I listen to the tree and how they groan
The wind it makes them talk some
Not one tree sounds the same
The wind and I are such old friends
The wind it calls my name

The darkness closes in so fast
The winter days are short
Walking on in silence
Like a library or court
The wind says night is coming
Go back from whence I came
The wind and I are such old friends
The wind it calls my name

Elemental friendship
From another time
Silent Conversation
No words, just thoughts in rhyme
Tangerine May 4
𝒩𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 π’½π’Άπ“ˆ 𝒻𝒢𝓁𝓁𝑒𝓃,
π“‰π’½π“Šπ“ƒπ’Ήπ‘’π“‡ 𝒢𝓃𝒹 𝓁𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔,
π“‡π“Šπ“‚π’·π“π’Ύπ“ƒπ‘” 𝒢𝓃𝒹 π’»π“π’Άπ“ˆπ’½π’Ύπ“ƒπ‘” 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 π“ˆπ“€π“Ž.
𝑅𝒢𝒾𝓃 π’Ύπ“ˆ 𝒻𝒢𝓁𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒢𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒 π“Œπ’Ύπ“ƒπ’Ή π’Ύπ“ˆ π“ˆπ“‰π’Άπ“‡π“‰π’Ύπ“ƒπ‘” π“‰π‘œ π“Œπ’Άπ’Ύπ“.
π’œ π“π‘œπ“ƒπ‘’ 𝓉𝓇𝒢𝓋𝑒𝓁𝑒𝓇 𝒸𝒢𝓃 𝒷𝑒 π“ˆπ‘’π‘’π“ƒ π“Œπ’Άπ“π“€π’Ύπ“ƒπ‘”,
π“Œπ’Άπ“π“€π’Ύπ“ƒπ‘”, π‘’π“ƒπ’Ήπ“Šπ“‡π’Ύπ“ƒπ‘” 𝓉𝒽𝑒 π’Ήπ“‡π‘’π’Άπ“‡π“Ž π“Œπ‘’π’Άπ“‰π’½π‘’π“‡ 𝓉𝒾𝓁𝓁 π“ˆπ’½π‘’ π“‡π‘’π’Άπ’Έπ’½π‘’π“ˆ 𝒽𝑒𝓇 π’Ήπ‘’π“ˆπ“‰π’Ύπ“ƒπ’Άπ“‰π’Ύπ‘œπ“ƒ.
-π’―π‘œπ‘œπ“€π“π’Άπ“ƒπ’Ή (πŸ§π‘€π’Ύπ“π‘’π“ˆ)

𝐹𝑒𝑒𝓁 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒸𝒽𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒢𝒾𝓇,
𝐻𝑒𝒢𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒 π“Œπ’Άπ’Ύπ“π’Ύπ“ƒπ‘” π’Έπ“‡π’Ύπ‘’π“ˆ π‘œπ’» π’·π’Άπ“ƒπ“ˆπ’½π‘’π‘’π“ˆ π“…π’Άπ“ˆπ“ˆπ’Ύπ“ƒπ‘” π’·π“Ž,
π’―π‘’π“‡π“‡π‘œπ“‡ π“ˆπ“‰π“‡π’Ύπ“€π‘’π“ˆ 𝒽𝑒𝓇, π“Œπ’Ύπ“π“ π“ˆπ’½π‘’ 𝒻𝒢𝒾𝓃𝓉 π‘œπ“‡ π“Œπ’Ύπ“π“ π“ˆπ’½π‘’ π’Έπ“‡π“Ž?
π’ͺ𝓇 π“…π‘’π“‡π’½π’Άπ“…π“ˆ, 𝒢 π“ˆπ“…π’Άπ“‡π“€ π‘œπ’» π’Έπ‘œπ“Šπ“‡π’Άπ‘”π‘’ π“ˆπ’½π‘’ π“Œπ’Ύπ“π“ 𝒻𝒾𝓃𝒹.
π’―π‘œ π“ˆπ“‰π’Άπ“ƒπ’Ή π“ˆπ“‰π“‡π‘œπ“ƒπ‘” 𝒢𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒢𝓁𝓁 𝒾𝓃 π’»π“‡π‘œπ“ƒπ“‰ π‘œπ’» 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝓁𝒢𝒸𝓀 𝓇𝒾𝒹𝑒𝓇'π“ˆ π“ˆπ‘œπ“Šπ“π“π‘’π“ˆπ“ˆ π‘’π“Žπ‘’.
-πΈπ“ƒπ’Έπ‘œπ“Šπ“ƒπ“‰π‘’π“‡ π“Œπ’Ύπ“‰π’½ 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝐡𝓁𝒢𝒸𝓀 𝑅𝒾𝒹𝑒𝓇 (πŸ₯𝟀 π‘€π’Ύπ“π‘’π“ˆ)

𝐿𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝒢𝓃𝒹 π’Άπ’Ύπ“‡π“Ž,
𝐡𝓇𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝒢𝓃𝒹 π’Έπ’½π‘’π‘’π“‡π“Ž,
𝓉𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔 π’·π‘’π“π“π“ˆ 𝒢𝓃𝒹 π“ˆπ“Šπ‘”π’Άπ“‡ π“…π“π“Šπ“‚ π’»π’Άπ’Ύπ“‡π“Ž.
πΌπ“ˆ π“Œπ’½π’Άπ“‰ 𝐼 π“‰π’½π‘œπ“Šπ‘”π’½π“‰ π“‰π’½π‘’π“Ž π“Œπ‘œπ“Šπ“π’Ή 𝒷𝑒,
π’©π‘œπ“‰ π“ƒπ’Άπ“‡π’Έπ’Ύπ“ˆπ“ˆπ’Ύπ“ˆπ“‰π’Ύπ’Έ 𝒢𝓃𝒹 π“ˆπ“ƒπ‘œπ“‰π“‰π“Ž,
𝒢𝓃𝒹 π“†π“Šπ’Ύπ“‰π‘’ 𝓉𝓇𝒾𝑔𝑔𝑒𝓇-π’½π’Άπ“…π“…π“Ž.
-𝑀𝑒𝑒𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒 πΈπ“π“‹π‘’π“ˆ (𝟦𝟣 π“‚π’Ύπ“π‘’π“ˆ)
I found these poems while I'm going through my posts in Nerd Fitness. This was when I started completing steps on the app, Walk to Mordor and I wrote poems when the mood strikes me after reaching a destination.
Poetic T May 1
I was always moving around,
a step that stops isn't
meant to be moving anymore.
Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β  Well I'm always being told.
So I carry on walking.

But in my line of
work, I'm on the road
more often than I'm not.
Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β And some times I'm
in places just mere hours.

Could I stay, would I
want to ever settle down,
don't know really, I sigh.
If I were to quit
Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β my day job, I laugh..

Go on as you mean
to, tread faster than
the foot behind you.
I'm always on my toes,
Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β A trail of breadcrumbs.

That's all I leave them.
Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Wish you were here's,
wrote in blooded pride.
Β Β Β Β Β Β  Silent but deadly, leaving odours.
A new man walks in pride..
My palms in my pockets jingle
the keys to my cave as I make
my way to wherever I’m going.
My legs propel me, and my feet
dodge cast-off gum and dog dung.

And on my head rests a fishbowl.

An extra load on my skull,
but I don’t mind. I rather
like this bowl. It gives me
a barrier, and though thin,
the glass has yet to crack.

I hear my voice resound,
bouncing around the tiny
space, and I smell my breath,
minty fresh and foggy, and
through the fog the world and
its creatures are phantoms.

When I’m addressed, it’s like
floating in frigid freshwater
as they call for me from
the sheet of ice above.
They suspect I’ve lost
my soul in the fishbowl,
yet as year after year
goes by, I feel just fine.

I am an astronaut taking
a space walk, drifting around
and watching the universe
unfold under a sheet of glass.

And when I close my eyes,
I am in a womb, or a coffin,
and I often can’t tell the
difference, nor find much
of a reason to tell.

by Aleksander Mielnikow
If you want to hear me read this poem aloud, check out my Instagram @alekthepoet !
Ψ―ema Apr 20
For then a lost wanderer approaches ,
locks his hand in mine,
and as he trembles in nerves,
he promises to save me
from anything
like the hardest game
of hide and seek
I’ve ever played

On the whole,
I love my fellow man
but the walk was the thing
that kept the humours balanced

So if I know you
and our paths cross out
don’t be offended if I doff
and move on

Unless you are a bumblebee
or the trill of a spring visitor
you aren’t what I’m looking for,
for now
Zoe Grace Apr 14
Is anybody else
Getting dragged out for walks
Like a dog?
The whole family comes.

"Mum I have homework"
"You have to be active"
"We're in quarantine"
"I don't give a ****, get up!"
Isolation ***** i don't like it
Amanda Apr 13
Some days I feel dead
Carcass walking and talking
Ghost of former self
How strange it feels to be half alive and half.. something not alive...
I always enjoyed walking, more than the average person. In the right hands, walking is a powerful statement that can strike the notice of anyone. When I look at my mother, walking is a precious thing that many people take for granted. I am different from her, not in looks because we look alike. I am different from her in the fact that I am younger. I have two feet to take me wherever I want to run away to. My mother does not, and yet it has never stopped her from her destination, wherever that might be. My mother, so strong, has lost a lot. A lot is so broad in terms, it does not nearly come close to the loss my mother has suffered. But this is how she sees it. Something that happened in her past that changed everything, except her will to live and continue on. My mother, with no feet to speak of (and one knee), cannot dance like a person who takes for granted walking. Instead, she dances with her words and her wit. She rolls on wheels like a normal amputee. But ah! She is so different. She taught me to appreciate life, and she taught me to appreciate walking.Β Β 

I sit here, imagining what it would be like to see my mother with legs that I’ve never known. Then I look in the mirror. I look so much like my mother, so could it be that I walk like her as well? I asked her, she said no. I guess I have my own uniqueness since I am half her and half my father. I know that she probably had a walk that was as seductive as I can make my walk, but I will never see it. I can only imagine… Later on, my mother told me if I really walked like her, I’d have more stalkers. I have enough problems with stalkers, so maybe it’s for the best that we don’t walk the same.

When my mother was 15, she burned severely. Nine months she suffered after, forever scarred. Forever handicap. Yet not handicap from life. Never once did she see this as her own personal burden. She is my hero because of that.

I do not walk the way I use to. When I was younger, I walked like a child. When I was a teenager, I walked like a dancer. Then I had the car accident that would bruise my hip. Now, I think I walk at a slower pace than the people around me. But I have the power to change the way I look walking. I can be as aggressive as a swan if I wanted to, and just as graceful. But modeling on the runway is probably not in my future. Though, who knows really? Walking is harder than it used to be. I use to like walking…
I don’t remember when I learned to walk. My mom says I was 9 to 10 months old. Before that, I climbed on things. After that, I unlocked doors. I used walking as a weapon of opportunity as a child. Walking was my liberation, my first step in going wherever it is I’m going. It was the beginning…

I asked my mother if she misses walking. She told me she got use to not walking, and adjusted. Her life changed, but not in a way that she missed what she use to have. Her mother, my grandmother, became a pillar of strength to her as my mother is to me now.Β Β I wonder what kind of relationship my grandmother had with her mother. I cannot ask her about it now, her memory escapes her. I’ll have to ask my mother and listen attentively when she tells me.
This is one of my UA poems. Written 1-23-2011. Walking is something I think about since my mom doesn't walk anymore. I have a different opinion on walking now. Maybe I should write another poem.
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