Best Trackless Poems
( An old poem, slightly modified)
How I wish my poems could,
soar higher and higher
like a bird of limitless wingspan,
dashing into horizons far!
But they skim like web footed water birds,
tilting their wings in vain,
unable to fly to any desired destination
helplessly watching larks and eagles
flying to the far edges of the sky.
How I wish my poems could,
sail across the limitless expanse
like parting ships bound to distant lands
carrying my fancies to the ends of the Earth!
But they remain like paper boats
set to sail by mischievous kids
that drift hither n’ thither on muddy puddles.
How I wish my poems could,
wind their way down slopes and dales
like a fountain stream running down
to join the sea, travelling miles.
But they slither like snakes,
struggling to move on polished floors.
How I wish my poems could,
grow out from chrysalis to butterflies
to flit around flowers and feed on nectar.
But they ever remain such creepy worms,
destined to hide behind blades of leaves.
How I wish, like an inspired artist,
I could paint on my canvas, with deft hands,
the luster and glory of the setting sun,
the freshness and beauty of the spring flowers
the scary grandeur of the mountains
the silence of the lonesome lagoon
the dark majesty of the unlit groves
the sunlit glades of trackless forests
and scenes and sights, so varied and myriad
that I could array before you in magic shades,
the wonders of an unseen paradise!
But, Alas! What I leave on my canvas
is just a banal scene!
My poems, like kites tangled,
among the branches of trees
are denied forward movement!
Still I don’t regret my efforts…..
Like the lyrics of a half forgotten melody,
my poems delight me,
in my sequestered hours of loneliness!
The Many Ways God Speaks To Us
There are many ways God’s seeking
To make Himself known.
But is man listening and looking
To understand Nature’s revealing crown.
It talks to our human senses
Every waking moment of the day.
And in the night so deep and dark,
His starry heavens come into play.
In the smile of a new born baby
And those tiny hands so sweet,
God shows us His creation glory
Our own image to repeat.
In Spring it is the flowers
And their aromatic perfume;
The lambs frisking with each other;
Birds and their babies singing the same tune.
In the lakes and babbling brooks
He speaks to us as well.
Full of fish and waterfalls—
Many ignored stories to tell.
The wind whispering through the trees
But never can be seen;
Sways the tallest of the forest;
Then disappears like a dream.
We see Him in the thunder storm
And in lightning bolts so bright.
They light up His majestic heavens,
Even in the darkest night.
In the white snow of winter,
When those flakes begin to fall,
Gently in their uniqueness
They rest to cover one and all.
If we would but look and listen
To see God’s many ways
Of teaching us precious lessons
Of obedience and praise.
Stars in their trackless courses
Follow their appointed place and time.
Why does man think he’s so different;
Self-sufficient, yet needing the Divine?
The many ways God speaks to us
Are far too many to name.
How can anyone say, “There’s no God”,
Such blindness should be put to shame.
God’s creation is all around us
In the sun, moon, stars and sea;
In everything beautiful He’s created
That surrounds us lovingly.
Copyright © Maureen LeFanue 2012
www.maureenlefanue.com
A trackless wind scatters his mind
leaves fly away where no leaves are.
A hummingbird inside his chest drums,
the evening is escaping down roads
long plowed over with remorseless change.
It never used to be like this;
he had once been the bold pirate of his fate
his ship sailed away one day only to return in flames.
Sometimes you have to shrug,
keep walking around a small municipal park
until a parked car follows you home
The city will swallow its many tongues
then bury its hummingbird mind
until the dawn
retrieves a life once more.
I put my arms around you, your heart melts into mine;
the borders of your anguish I can easily define.
There is no need for language explaining agony,
I perceive a griever’s heartache in black telepathy.
Your landscape is familiar, I know one similar
in the trackless barren places, in the lonely city spaces
where people neither know nor care.
I gleaned shriveled fruit from withered vines,
crushed, distilled, and drank the acrid wine.
I climbed the treeless summit, trekked the tundra of despair,
heard the mountain winds dark harmony
to a mourning mother’s keening prayer.
I know because my heart has heard
within its depths your soundless words.
Copyright, July 11, 2026
Hold and veer revolved career, the way by man alone on trails unknown, across
trackless stone, to follow where? across prairie’s bare! traveling light with bellies
tight, on rocky shores its lore was sure, to follow, follow across crag across hollow
your roads were strung as songs were sung.
To the moonlights gleam your face a'sheen within an allegorical necklace of emerald green,
over the lush deep pile of grassy miles
in shades of juniper deep in a darkling sleep,
to the rising of suns and a compass point all journey's run.
the tales untold of companies bold
that (you without) had much to doubt, for you've
shown the trail helped set the sails, the Mayflower
knew your north point true, in part America is! Because of you!
Jim Bridger held you in his hand as he mapped
a path to the Rio Grande, George Washington, Sam Houston,
Davy Crocket and Daniel Boone, stood for
Liberty, Truth and elbow room.
So what of now! the why when & how? Can the trail point of a nation, validate its creation?
in these days pitch dark can you strike a spark
are there men like Kennedy or Martin Luther King, women,
like Amelia Earhart whose spirits point forward in adversity, and continue to sing.
Milton Brown
1822 – 1917
I knew C. W. Harvey.
Knew him and liked him.
I lived on the first floor of his Greenleaf Hotel
By Bailey Street.
Lived and thrived on the flowered verandah.
Sipped lemonade and gummed soft bread
In the swank dining room.
Talked and listened into the long afternoons
With the fine folks from Illinois and Iowa.
Most of the time,
I rocked and thought back,
And I remembered fondly
The old times in the trackless wilderness,
Seeking a permanent woman and a permanent home.
I found both with a pair of leather boots, a spade and a torn Bible.
Ye Kings and Princes of the Earth!
And to all the rich and the powerful:
“What doth it profit a man
To gain the whole world
And lose his own soul?”
We are truly nothing.
As nothing as the still wind.
As worthless as the dirt
That presently covers my still bones.
Yes, I knew C.W. Harvey.
Knew him and liked him.
He was the richest man in town when I arrived here.
And yet,
He taught me humility and dignity.
Lessons learned with a kind word
And a daily tip of his derby hat.
And after my passing into the eternal night,
He honored me with a kind eulogy at my burial
Here in Artilissa’s flower yard.
My forever resting place
Under these countless stars!
How big is this great universe?
How far do the stars traverse?
Let us think in terms of sunbeams’
Travel-time on the photon streams.
Beams seen from Pluto at night
Take five-and-a-half-hours at the speed of light.
Just think of crossing the Milky Way
In a rate-per-second of one-eighty-six K,
Would take thousands of years to span
This misty nebulae admired by man.
But it’s a mere fraction of size,
Galaxies seen in distant skies.
From our perspective down here on earth
Of the universe and its unknown girth,
Infinitely larger than it appears—
To cross it would take millions of years!
How can we, God’s created, keep pace,
With the enormity of trackless space?
Overwhelmed by its massive magnitude,
We simply savor it with awe-filled gratitude.
Writers and poets take special delight
In capturing these dazzling scenes at night
Transfixed with keyboard, or hand-held pen,
Mesmerized by galactic adrenalin.
HARRY WEST
The Kadaitchi (Witch Doctor) Knight
Harry stood alone and sniffed the breeze
a pongy hay smell, Japanese
Harry sheltered there beneath a tree
a gum tree dripping sap
The Black Knight shed his lap lap
joined the natives from Rabaul
he took the weight from one sore back
when a native carrier fell
Samurai sadist with a sword
shouted at this poor man
The carriers head then went forward
Blood rushed out oer the sand
It was Kokoda 1942 our Harry West had seen,
the timeless trackless mountains all made of jungle green,
yellow peril so sadistic take a life with casual ease,
slaughter in a jungle where Aussies fought with Japanese
At nightfall all lay down their load
And drifted off to sleep
But Harry slyly watched the toad
Then upon the Jap did creep
The blunt pocket knife did cut
The yellow perils throat
The carriers then were free, but
No time to stay and gloat
Harry went back and got
sugar bag full of grenades
machine gun pit blown, the dead to rot
Harry reigned on their parade
You couldn’t follow Harry
He’d learned his craft too well
Cassowary moccasins would carry
Harry left no track or smell.
Japanese thought he was evil, when
He didn’t give em any chance
Just threw grenades amongst them
To watch em scream and dance…..Don Johnson
Harry’s best friend had died fighting and Harry swore revenge and went native
behind the Japanese lines, naked he carried a few hand grenades in a sugar bag.
The Japanese thought a black demon was stalking them in these green mountains,
On the Kokoda trail. Harry West an Australian Aboriginal Soldier from Goodooga got the
Military Medal, he should have got the Victoria Cross he earned it.
Dougal Cameron 1900s
by Don Johnson
Brisbane..Australia.
Old Dougal Cameron was the man,
the cruel red desert country crossed.
Drove cattle cross the trackless plains,
out where Burke and Wills were lost.
He'd travel o'er a hundred mile ,
with bawling cattle parched with thirst.
He'd find em water bushman style,
though dry creek beds made him curse.
Little crippled Murray's' loved him best
he'd find em on a water hole.
Lost they'd perish nature's test,
yes old Dougal's heart was gold.
Fed on sugared damper with a grin,
and a drop of billy tea.
Dougal cared enough to take em with him,
got them homes with friends he'd see.
Rodger Beadmore came with Dougal,
till they found the Bollon road.
Was there adopted by old Beadmore,
and a swapped horse Dougal rode.
Many children lost to perish,
owe their lives to Dougal's care.
Many of these Boori's cherish,
one old drover who was there
Cameron's corner is in the center of Australia...Dougal had a station(ranch) Camlet west
of Bollon...Dougal found lost children and brought them with him hundreds of miles .
He used pack horses and these small children rode in the Pack saddles.
Maud Billy was one child Paddy Mellon and Roger Beadmore are some of the many names ...
Upon the dusty shores I watched
the calming waves of sea debauched.
They seem to whisper in my ear
then motioned me to venture near.
Now had I known to swim not sink
I could have held the salty drink.
I drifted deeper into sea
then felt my spirit wander free.
I saw a phantom fierce and wet.
His ghostly ship was sailing yet.
The sea surged up, its laughter hard
and caught the seaman off his guard.
I felt the blow of pounding waves
that pulled me deeper into caves.
Above me, trackless waters grew
then turned the sea a blacker blue!
If only I had learned to float,
I could have grabbed that raft or boat.
The paling smile of sandy beach,
grew far outside my grasp or reach.
When doomed ships wreck when oceans flare,
a ghost must turn the swells that scare,
and sail them first with haunting kiss
then cast the winds that howl and hiss.
I dare you brave this unknown vast
to see a specter raise her mast.
Sea goers know who's at the helm.
For it is I who ride the realm!
But had I learned one swimming stroke,
I could have wrote this as a joke!
A shrunken, bitter fruit
dropped from a brittle branch;
the summer rains have passed it by;
the harvesters have let it lie
and Winter stalks the field.
Numb through long days and star shy nights
beneath a void of trackless snow;
dull passersby may never know
the bounty death will yield.
© 1987, Faye Lanham Gibson
Hopes unsung and
left to question,
my imaginations emancipation.
An unsustainable fantasy,
no history,
no one left to please.
Trackless paths so overgrown,
now unknown,
a life over-owned
Beaten down,
forced to listen,
contradictions,
harsh conditions.
I'm breaking out of disrepair,
I'm getting there,
I nearly care
Moses was set adrift on the Nile in bulrushes,
The freedom fighter had encounters with God,
And trembled at the sight of the burning bushes
Mountains quake, earth trembles, heaven is a flood.
With rain, thunder peals, and the lightning flashes,
Exodus begins with the terrors of Gods wrath,
The storm in converse, moving to battle marches
End the endless servitudes that deny good health.
God is a deliverer, the most daring commander,
Write the laws for generations to understand.
Hear children crying from far, and draws nearer
In the clouds going by crossing the burning sand.
Echoes of the storm warning through retribution,
After enduring advice with death and curse strife,
The end of grief made the brief choice of freedom,
A Passover for angels to hand out generous relief.
Ten terrible plagues did not cleanse their mild faith,
Only approves of pride where arduous sin survives,
Stubborn and steep, the rank street stank with death,
Sweeping aside the familiar and magical voices.
Exodus, going out of one mess into another wilderness,
To Mount Sinai, memories made the hardship escape,
When tabernacle blesses, holy war rebellion possesses
The ten commandments people’s mind could not keep.
Troops scattering and stumbling off their feet,
Fall upon civil heaps into the deep trampling waves,
Pharaoh’s host would lie silent forever in defeat,
Piled up at the bottom of the trackless seas.
Turn of events snatch away the cruel margin of duty,
Rest for the weary, in the land Moses never knew,
The wandering warriors finished foreign captivity
And after forty years the pleasant land was in view.
Conclusion, salvation is Gods promise blessing
Hope for the future that our offspring may inherit,
Egypt was left empty, the perils of a world becoming
A weaker state of humanity than Eden exhibit.
The idea of a living constitution
has the same forensic indeterminacy
as a committed dream.
I am content to trust this dream to the end
to have it fill my cup of hope all day and night.
I am content to receive its order
to hasten to obey without a pause.
But, the old voice sounds
unrelentingly in the chamber: Do not
compromise. Punish.
Crucify him.
The infirm musing of a perpetual dreamer
rising up with eyes wild for relief.
I am content with the terror and anticipation that
keeps turns by watching me:
Justice, once imagined, cannot be undone.
I have been left to think along these lines
to look for the abandonment of arcane unfairness
months after months.
The months
burn up as a fading lantern
homage to the majesty of the absurd:
A muse easy to bear, Camusian laughter to
suffering’s exalted well —
what single rule might break the dry spell?
Sometimes the unforeseen, the unpredictable
springs in the heart of justice
bending its way upward
again and yet again
towards a distant point
all unaccountably, into the strengthening clasp
of fresh now-born idea,
nearer to binding faith
than wild dismembering injustice.
When the far-distant element
of suffering humanity
looms out more clear;
the faint, far, complex notes of hope
its head moves near
and new flicks of justice’s well
unfolds beyond the known.
Is there any new depth to this well?
Say, what is its true nature?
Quietly nature covers over
the dying bird and the dead rover.
If justice’s dead, it is as though
a robin died beneath the snow
tucked away neatly, whose bright eyes
once stared with impudent surprise
at every tit-bit flung to her.
Now every season we must bear
to live without its whistled air,
for law lives beneath the Spring,
like a sequestered paradise
exiled from the steady hammer of faith,
a trackless rice field
ever trudging through groves of
crouching, unconquered territories.
Oh enchanted universe
conqueror of earth’s stadium
in your wild, singing glory
the faults you committed live.
Come hear my sharpened cries
surely, you can hear my note of crisis.
Ceaselessly I raise my cry.
My cry ascends and floats away
scattered by whirling winds afar.
* “Endure what you suffer as being a father’s punishment.” (Heb. 12:5b-7)
Author's note: written on the anniversary of Harvard's abuse of my human rights
Don't be Slave to your mind
Don't be Slave to your mind
Alluring and Appealing , the desires are
Desires will play when the mind is away
Make you fall in the Blind
Don't be Slave to your mind
Don't be Slave to your mind
Illusion stairs and trackless roads there are
leading you down the garden path
In a great ditch of blind fall
Don't be Slave to your mind
Don't be Slave to your mind
Empty promises from the empty vessel
It's like, in the air, building a Castle
Reason is dying, leaving empty mind behind
Don't be Slave to your mind
Don't be Slave to your mind
Luring to heart, alluring to mind
Desires will unnerve you in a bit of a bind
Doing away with it , a challenge to mankind
Don't be Slave to your mind
Don't be Slave to your mind
Letting your reason drive your heart and soul,
will make the world under you as a whole
Don't let others control your heart and mind
Don't be Slave to your mind