Best Wanderer Poems
Mark
The earth turns its face from you
as if ashamed. You
who tilled the soil, now marked
by what the soil received.
Your brother's blood—
how it murmurs, how it screams.
Deafness would be a mercy.
Wanderer
At Babel, you watch them build
their tongues a discordance of hope.
You know better.
The tower falls. Always, things fall.
In Athens, questions hang in the air
like ripe fruit. You reach for one
find your hand empty.
Constantinople burns.
You've seen this fire before
in your own heart, in Abel's eyes.
Love
Her laughter—sunlight on water.
For a moment, you forget remembering
the weight of your name.
Time, that relentless thief,
steals her breath, leaving you
with pockets full of silence,
her absence echoing in your eternal night.
Witness
Verdun. Mud and blood
indistinguishable. You've carried this earth before,
will carry it again. In Selma, voices rise.
You join the chorus, unseen.
Your story spoiled, yet written
in every cry for justice,
a testament to your own unending quest for peace.
Grace
The sea spilling secrets
waves crashing against the shores of your soul.
In a quiet cell, you contemplate forgiveness—
that impossible shore.
Your heart is a vessel of unspoken prayers.
Each wave a reminder: the divine
as elusive as your peace.
Mortality
She sees you—truly sees.
Beyond the mark, the myth,
to the man who carries centuries in his bones.
You learn to love in moments, not millennia.
Each breath a gift, each touch a benediction
her presence a bridge to your humanity.
Return
The earth no longer rejects you.
You lay down, finally
into the arms of the brother
you've carried all this time.
Abel smiles. You close your eyes.
The silence, at last, is sweet.
As winter trees exhume their leaves
for spring
and Autumns' sacrifice
retreats in memory
Summers of sangria blossoms
drape their crimson blooms-
exhale against an arc of sighing skies
Seasons conspire
to tempt the wanderer on,
but it’s the stolen thoughts of childhood
that bring the wanderer home.
© Suzanne Delaney
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
whispers carried on the wind,
a rustling of leaves,
a bird’s fleeting song~
all guiding me east, always east.
the soles of my boots,
worn thin,
mirror the thinning veil,
the one between here
and… elsewhere.
each sunrise brings a fresh baptism,
washing away the dust of doubt,
the clinging tendrils
of yesterday's fear.
I carry no map, only a compass
that spins wildly,
then stills,
pointing inward.
The light, they say,
is not a destination,
but a state of being,
a resonance within one’s soul.
so I wander, not lost, but guided,
by the echo of a forgotten prayer,
the promise of a light
that already knows me.
and with each step,
the distance dissolves,
and I am
closer to home.
Dead leaves are all you left behind
To break beneath my feet,
I hate to see you leave this land
Now banished by defeat.
A wanderer you have become
A wounded creature gold,
You leave red blood and bits of soul
A pathway for the cold.
You stumble on the roads of life
Each year we meet again,
And passing by you take my hand
And touch my heart with pain.
Old memories come back to me
Of years before the war,
The days before you fought the cold
And taught the winds to soar.
You were my friend, we danced each day
And laughed in storms of flame,
I heard you cry each starlit night
Until the winter came.
One morning when I called to you
You did not answer back,
I searched for you all through that day
Until the sky was black.
Then just as stars begun to rise
Upon a field of frost,
I found a puddle of your blood
And knew that you had lost.
Hey, sir!
Why did you stop and look awhile?
Amazed by flurry fleeting fog,
or seeking sacrosanct solace
behind the calming chiaroscuro
of boundless beguiling beauty
in front of you?
Hey, sir!
Will you look back at me awhile,
and gaze upon my eyes?
I wonder if ...
a mysterious monarchial mind
I see from your back
is depicted in the way you look at me;
I want to know.
Hey, sir!
It seems you got miles to go;
Will you stop and hang awhile
to have a drink for two?
Hurry not...
And we both will ponder
on the misty haven
before the night is through.
Notes:Wanderer above the Sea of Fog, or Der Wanderer über dem Nebelmeer, to give it it's original German title, is the most famous painting from the career of German Romanticist painter, Caspar David Friedrich. It was finished in 1818 and now resides at the Kunsthalle Hamburg in Hamburg, Germany.
Photo and info credits to: thehistoryofart.org
10 August 2022
'A BRIAN STRAND PREMIERE CHOICE' Poetry Contest
1st place
Desert Wanderer with not a cup-
I'll hold you tight and lift you up-
I'll give you aid and lend my strength-
And take you far, to a great length-
To see your safety and a healthy smile-
You are worth life, have no self- denial-
I promised you in, a time now gone past-
That my love forever, surely shall last-
For you are my Desert Wanderer dreary-
Take this sorrow and be your eyes so teary-
I promise you now, and in the here after-
You will find love, placed inside my laughter-
We will stay one, toghether and all-
Always shall I be waiting for your call-
My Desert Wanderer with not a cup-
Hold my hand, I will lift you up-
I'm a solitary wanderer
Guided by the winds and the sol rays
I roam through lonely valleys
Sipping from streams to streams
Riding on cascade , up and down
Sleeping under stars and silver moons
Night’s canopy as tent
Wandering in the verdant fields
Rolling on soft grass
Swimming in colossal oceans
Climbing onto the mountain cap
Motleying acme of the sky
Drowning into the heavenly showers
Lay supine, dreaming
Of the sparkling stars
Holding them in the eyes
Life sparkles with glee and gaity
Solitary wanderer is I
Accosted from the crowd and streets
Blancbec meadows and gardens
I encounter with four seasons:
Frigid,blood-Warm,green ,and mahogany
Salutes and welcome me,a solitary wanderer.
Desertation is beatitude
I find meaning in myself
Meaning to sojourn in sole calmness
To sapid the sap of serenity and composure
That's how I turn myself away from crowd,
Wandering as long as meandering ogins.
__19/06/2018.
The Wanderer
By: Aidan Gilbert
People say time ticks faster than it’s allowed
I say we walk too slow
People say stop to enjoy every moment
I say some moments aren’t worth stopping for
Everyone says the storm already passed
That just means I’m following it
Everyday black and grey
It’s all the same
I don’t know which road I lost my soul
Probably lost it before I started this journey
People say death brings sorrow
I say it brings happiness because that’s when you finally get your freedom
I ain’t know mistake in life
Just the sad thing it coughed up
This world is my jail time
It locked me up for wanting innocence
I am not allowed to pray for a better time
Because these bad times are the only times I am allowed
There ain’t no sunshine in Hell!
Just me wandering
Wandering aimlessly around
From
wayward
wanderings
endless circles
lost.
To
hopeful
words of truth
saved by His grace
found.
Written on 3/6/2019
Depression is a Nomad wanderer, searching for a hope to break
In that place of heartless, smoke-filled rot where even laughter proves to fake.
The Darkness is a bold intruder, a critique of one's existence,
And hides in places, corners of gloom, an outcast from soul's resistance.
In the Café of Apathy, the face of dejection reappears,
Taking up cudgel in bedrooms and bars, traveling through streets of tears.
First time we met, you left your litter, my wanderer.
Choosing a fitting name, I thought I'd try 'Wanderer'!
So playful, your favorite game always Hide-and-Seek.
I'd search the backyard: "Where's my little guy, Wanderer?"
Sunday threatens rain; I find a hole under our fence!
"Are you playing a game? Where is my shy Wanderer?"
The rain rolls down, drenching my clothes and my spirits,
masking the terrified tears in my eye, Wanderer.
Knocking on doors, fighting back tears, hoping against hope.
Where is my pup? Why do you make me cry, Wanderer?
I put up signs, I call the local pound, I pray hard.
Three quiet, lonely weeks drag by. Goodbye, Wanderer.
written 14 Sep 2020
I grabbed her hand
Hope and love sweling
Mixing into an enticing brew
Whose flavor
brought forth
all the wild creatures
from the desert araound me.
They applauded m success
and ran back for their's
But I had the luck
of the blessed
I held her hand tight
Told her who I was
She nodded
Her light engulfed me
Suddenly my fright swelled inside
What if she left too?
The dark roadis too hard
for me now.
She grabbed my hand
Told me she loved me
In twelve seconds
she smelt my fear
tasted my love
Tired of my existence
and departed
I was rooted to the spot
Her flesh's warmth
had yet to leave my palm
when she passed into the sunset
Shock numbed my feet
Shock numbed my tongue
It was dark
Darker than it had been
Too dark to breath
Too dark to walk
I fell by the roadside
To the vultures
Even crawling was too hard
I poked out my eyes
So no more beauty could touch my soul
I cut off my feet
So I could not walk
It took all of two seconds
for the vultures to come
My end is here
But death is preferable to pain
I welcome the big grey birds."
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.
A Renga:
Still warm, 2 a.m.;
Deep night is another world,
An owl on a branch
Seven oak trees in the field
And the surrounding grass
From the canvas bag,
Which she always has with her,
She removes her lunch
In the cafeteria
Of the large office building
Janitors clean up
Under the light of the moon
In the high window
Moth wings that are dry as dust
Caught in ancient spider webs
The collapsing house
In a town that the young leave
The sound of the wind
Sub-freezing temperatures,
Ice here and there on the streets
"I am tired of this.
You always want to argue.
You go. I'll stay here."
A few petals slowly fall
From the blooming apple tree
Beside the old farm,
In a still rural section
Of a mid-west State
The wanderer registers
At yet another motel
Let the brief time be cast away,
Let the movable thread be loosely handled,
Let the shadow be cast on you,
Let the water flow over the distant edges.
But when you know you’ll never get the wanderer back,
Even as you cast him off,
When you tally the drifters,
They’re all misplaced and undone.
The Moirai will let him go,
Because, you know,
You only need him when the lights are burning low,
And sympathy wears veils no daylight wants to show.
His shadow is turning into a gyre,
Spin after spin;
Wearing lonesome attire,
Only his body is the circling machine.
His dreams come slow,
But they go so fast.
Perhaps they were never his,
Just echoes in the gyre’s turning shadow.