Best Nomad Poems
I wanted to be alone tonight,
to shuffle my thoughts in the ocean's breeze,
when the sun sets sail, with the lights going out
While I search the sky, in my solitude
and ponder my place in the scheme of things...
I wonder again, how I fit within...
How the dreams I dream, and my many wiles,
fit into the human chain
In my lone meditation, there rises a sigh
with a windswept aria, reaching my ears......
while one turtle I had noticed, is unmooring itself,
heading back to the ocean, without hesitation
not asking for much, not even for reason why
I watch him slowly swagger along, no rush to marry a shell with the sea
And envy how strong the urge can be, knowing his place in the throng
His cares are so few, and with years to go, such tenacity captures me
I wanted tonight, to be alone with thoughts, alone to doubt
alone with my questions, and alone with my fears
To hover in the shell, in the cave of my tears
To ponder my place here among the stars.....
Of time and space, the archaic shores
Unmooring myself, across the sands
If the turtle can see it, then I'm not alone
in this span of a life, there is a journey long...
a destiny that the nomad just knows
__________________________________
7/28/14 For Cyndi's Contest: "Turtles"
*** NOMAD ***
(For Ian and Bryan)
The gifts just out of reach…Always?
Scoping the search?
With the contentments
Of peace to be found,
Buried like treasure…And
Hunted?
Beloved nomad
Seeking place
Among the ridges
Of the lost caves your eagles
Scan horizons
To discover, while watching
constantly over you —
Traveling with your long stretch
Of discontented camels,
Snorting and spitting,
Their loads grown heavier than
The darkness near descending;
Their eyes forever looking
Over the empty distances —
Perhaps as feared
As Earth’s edges —
For any, any possible oasis
Appealing to you with
Some hope of settling.
So do
Stop periodically,
To recall all you love. And
Bend, to measure sought ends,
Letting run
Handfuls of unfamiliar sand
Between your fingers — not
Worrying over spent years
Yet to come —
As you watch the grains of sand
Drizzling down, falling
To a familiar dune
To continue their endless rest.
Nomad, continuing the search
For that similar someplace
Of origin, for re-starting on
The pathways to the where-
Evers far from any ends…or
Before finding then truly
What was held all the while.
Consider that the sought ends
Could assuringly be meant
To wait for the journey’s close,
With much to be said for
Actually moving through reality
While the mind, too, may wish
To avoid doubts or deliberations
In stillnes —
Most happy to feel new breezes
Touch past; or to hear unfamiliar
Voices sing out greetings; and
For incongruities to shake
The soul closer to God.
The journey’s progress (surely
With some luck in the going,
Or help from a greater
Force if while staying)
Does occur in the there
Or the here, hopefully to be
Concluded in a spot for
Body and mind, which
Your eagle has eyed
In many fewer than forty years…
For you are loved, your way blessed.
————————————————————-
(c) sally young eslinger 2/25/22
Thanks be to God
Nomad fought for a fabled gap in the skies, adrift.
Seeking solace in the unknown, a soul to uplift
The sun casts an even brighter sphere in the air.
Guiding the wanderer with a gentle flare.
Ravens fly into the void, tearing sadness apart.
Their wings, a symbol of hope, ignited the heart.
Like a nomad trespassing woodland's edge,
I rip moonbeams apart ; drain the pulp
of my marrow , shapeless—
wandering along tracks of old interludes
in mid Autumn's light.
And as the elixir of a world dilutes flawed refrains
through a self-alienation endured; a pounding
gust turns midnight into a wayward trance.
I was so close to the rhythm of myself,
this navel unbuttoned and numb
by aimless wanderings still, still...I took
absence of me; again.
11/13/2015
The Journey Begins
Matt Calliri's Contest
Tide of river and love of woman,
Exhausted me to make a nomad,
Had ceased the flow of life,
After thirty years of acclivity-declivity,
Hath merciless allegation to the river
And mind with woman.
Oh, aggressive river,
So mighty hungry you got!
Robed the last sign of my homestead,
What bygone takes you in that killing revenge?
Heavenly peace made my childhood to youthful days;
You robed the last memento!
Only survival is that innocent heart…
Cursed woman,
Take, I give you that innocent heart,
Keep carefully, if you can’t;
Break it into pieces,
Turn all a bloody tinge you bloodthirsty witch,
Get fulfilled your ever thirsty desire!
Withering wandering waves of a wasted will
The Nomad stands in solace within the silent still
Universal laws that lock and securely seal
Metaphorical minds that soon rebelliously reveal
Lachrymal light years that have gallantly gone
Pensive prisons meticulously molding a mortal pawn
Methodical madness mocking a soulless vessel
Where the deceived desiccated lie numbly nestled
A spirit stimulated by satiated slings and arrows
Barely escaping the narcotized narcissistic narrows
Vigilant valorous voids pleasingly passing through
To help distill the poisoned biotic bacterial brew
In the realms of the Nomadic turbulent tribes
Stands one alone with votive vibrational vibes.
June.08.2016
For Contest...
DISTANT THINGS...By John Lawless
Miles across hot sand
Trying to reach the cool surf
His home on his back
caress me delicately
as my fragile skin pulsate
nomadic with each touch
a discovery
23/05/2011... 13:50
Awake, alone, the hours after midnight
when thoughts like gypsy spirits roam about the world,
traveling through past, present and blank future--
no maps, no boundaries, no roads.
Free to roam, a nomad of earth's centuries,
along unbarred corridors, uncharted seas,
viewing both the close and distant perspectives
of nations, thrones, and kings,
captain of a time kaleidoscope turning
in the curious capsule of my head.
What could we be and see if not restrained
by gray barred cells of time and place?
Would wisdom rule because we ascertain
the whys of old cultures' swift declines?
I doubt we would choose any better
even if we knew all there is to know;
we would find we are determined rebels,
for we are fallen beings after all.
Copyright, August 27, 2014
Faye Lanham Gibson
Navigating nervously through our natural neighborhood, our native nest away from the noise and neon nightlights
No need for the numerous noxious normality's named nectars of necessity
Neurotic nightmares of numbers and names; knickknacks, nukes, and narrow-minded ways
Nauseating and never-ending
Noble is the nomad; nimble through the netting with no need for its negativity
A new narration away from normal to the nurturing arms of nature
Neutral and nocturnal, novel nuances for the nameless and the neglected seeking nirvana
Negate the noose nudged forward by our nation and nullify the negative, bare naked in numinous nascent
They say, home is where the heart is.
But, what of those who carry their heart,
Never to leave it behind?
Nomads forever are they.
I
wear
around
under
my
arm
A
villager's-
woven
shawl.
I
pipe
in
a
pompous
pride,
My
big
beautiful
wife
is
sitting
by
my
side
Oh
naked!
Down
to
the
shoulders
and
broad
chest.
Red-
hot
cheeks
and
dishevilled
curly
hair,
Is
baking
breads
on
stony
chola.
And
with
every
puff
of
smoke
I'm
seeing
at
my
hundred
bufaloes
herd
Spread
to
the
far,
Grazing
under
the
cliff
there
near
the
meadow's
rocky
wall
And
there
deep
in
the
grove.
They've faced life's trials and tribulation
Regardless of their age or station
While travelling they have no peer
At making friends, imbibing beer
They look at things and see no problem
Because they've solved so many of them
They only see the good in life
They know there is no joy in strife
They travel round our wide brown land
To see the desert bloom is grand
It's something very few have seen
The rarest time, the brown land green
The time they spend in a country town
For shops they are the jewel in crown
They buy their fuel and food and drink
And then move on in just a blink
They may be old and not so sprite
May be forgetful, but they might
Be far more than they really seem
As they carry on and live the dream
In Australia, senior citizens who travel the land by camper and motor home
He carries his life inside a backpack;
Tumbleweed rolling off beaten track.
A New Crystalline - Any Theme - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Tania Kitchen
Syllables checked at HMS
Date written: 03/03/2023
No place to call a home,
never putting down roots.
Navigating the world,
not knowing where or when.
Novel way to live life,
namely gypsy life-style.
Not the life I would choose.
4/29/17
a Pleaides