Long Nomad Poems
Long Nomad Poems. Below are the most popular long Nomad by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Nomad poems by poem length and keyword.
I love the month of February,
The shortest and coldest month of the season,
For an array of personal reasons.
And yet, it feels like Feb is the longest,
For the events that happen haphazardly,
Amidst treacherous winter storm blasts.
Quasi everything is frozen and solid near the nest
Of the American bald eagles,
Except the Mardi Gras masks under the rumbles.
February is the season of love,
The month of Saint Valentine,
A quintessential paradise cove,
Where lovers take refuge. Pure, Pristine,
Snowy, short, Pure, dark, and lovely; Feb’s now
The celebratory month of Black history,
One wonders why and how
We get the shortest one. It's another story
That we should let the nomad seagulls
Decipher. No bathers on the sandy beaches,
Solely, a few birds are perched on the branches,
Far away from the cribs of the bald eagles.
February is a month of a kaleidoscopic contrast,
Where snowfalls happen quite often,
And hardcore lovers dream warmth under a heaven
Full of hope, love, beauty, and ice.
Copyright © January 2022, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
A belt of blue cheese at the feet
Makes the mountain beyond Bachuma gate
Glow in that mysterious hues that all distant
Mountains carry upon their crooked humps
A wall behind which the Mombasa sun sheepishly hides
Until the herders of the low lands suffocate it with dust
From a thousand pairs of hooves, then it rises up the mountain
That splits a people into two Counties, a farmer and a nomad
The watchtower of our fore fathers
Against animal and fellow man
That mountain saved lives
And became a shrine
For the exaltation of HE who curved it
From raw matter, embellished with caves
That invites humanity from E and W to drop jaws
A fair day will beckon from this mountain
With orange smile of a sun eager to ascend into sky
A dreary one will keep you waiting, encumbered
By a shroud of fog, that smoky mesh that covered
Burnt sacrifices in the golden days, yet a day
Of profound beauty, as colourful as a people tending a field of crops
Watered by the mountain spring, will emerge
The mountain of peace, for the elders swear by it
While mending feuds, Will remain forever
Its work among the creatures of earth undone
Interminable strife betw’n man and beast
Getting louder by day in the corridors of Tsavo Park
May the stony humps echo the survival anthem
Before the giggle and belch of hyenas drown it
Herders of low lands, for a century, scrutinize the mountain’s shadow
To stay off hoof breaking haste driving their speckled animals to rest
That mountain will be standing there tomorrow
Waiting for the sun and rain
It will hear man sobbing
It will listen to birds singing
The hyena will growl
It will not hear
Coming Back Home
Called home my nomadic heart yearns to unpack scattered shadows,
Ornaments of blue Orion winds and souvenirs of summer place passions,
Mirrors found in attic reflections - refraction's hallmarks of nostalgia,
Image mirages of battered milestones shed like outgrown skin -
Nests of hidden pleas and prayers in locked trunks as abandoned minutes -
Garlands of tangled seasons and dried bouquets.
Home awaiting unspoken future days when trying on again
Outgrown masks of jeopardy discarded - crannies of warm hearths -
Making room for nascent triumphs to tickle laughter no longer stooping
Even as my nomad heart wanders only to return in magic primal circles.
4-12-21
N/A Contest: Acrostic 10-12 Lines- 4-16-21
12/6/2023
The wild winds tossed my hair…
without mercy and in various directions.
I desired a beautiful place to live, but in an
auspicious,free and in a hilly location!
I couldn’t remain a nomad, I had visions for
a world that I was certain could be!
Justice, kindness and mankind, all existing
in harmonious reality.
Knowing I would never, ever, bow or walk the
path of life as an obedient, passive follower!
But be a beacon of light and hope, even bearing
social isolation, and life’s thundershowers.
Like the great eagles,I am the happiest when free
and in individual,free flight.
I can create, and fly in total freedom ‘neath the moon
and my twinkling, star-sister’s light!
Gypsy Heart
Gypsy heart aimless wanders galaxies,
Astral hideaways, callow time, fantasies,
Tunnels of amnesty – mercy’s galleries
Through agnostic atrophy heart agony,
Frantic nomad rips at denial’s repeats -
Cleaves to the rock of prayer’s sweet vitality
Reverberating stillness parrots heartbeats
Like a watchman with whimpered unsung pleas
Graces benedictions in crystal womb retreats.
Souvenirs of opaque shadows run - releases
Breath of grace for weary prodigal’s return
To open arms where battered heart grief ceases
Through milky ways glowing milestones reveal each turn
Bruised heart bursts in raptures of sweet grace nocturne
2-5-21
Contest: Heart Universes
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
Tomorrow’s going to find me in another place
I never had the urge to settle down
There’s so much of this world that I’ve never seen
Another mountain, another valley, another town
I get those urges every time I hear a train whistle blow
Or the sound of a ship pulling out to sea
Staying put is killing me and I’ve just got to go
That open road is calling out to me
My memories take me to my youth
Just living for each day
Reveling in the joy that freedom brings
Flew from Spain to Corsica
Saw Ajaccio but I couldn’t stay
Listen to a mermaid as she sings
Barcelona then the other side of Spain
Pull cinderella liberty for New Year’s eve
Take the liberty boat back at Two AM
With a bottle of cognac up my sleeve
Walked around an old castle in Patras Greece
On a warm and sunny day
Stopped in town and had a few
Then it was time to be on my way
Remembering all the places that I’ve been
Look at the lines carved in my face
Wishing I could sail again
Memories time cannot erase
Dreams take me back to the open sea
Stop for a while in Kingston town
See the Southern Cross at night
Pour another tequila down
How do you go from what you know
To a place you've never been
I trusted in the flow of water
To quench thirst again...and again
This time is different, without a grid
To weigh and measure progress
No anchor for this vessel
To feel safe where a nomad could finally rest
Provision changed to daily bread
The system of fear is finally gone
His mercies are new each morning
Bringing peace from darkness to dawn
It's the judgment that kept me away
It stymied movement in what should be
WORD requires one to follow
Without confirmation from brothers in ministry
No money, no car, no home, no job
The four walls have become flying air
What is the point of true freedom
If no mark in time can define when soul is "there"
Just over the threshold of the new
We wait for the water to move us on
So difficult, for thoughts to cease
When the old ways are still not gone
Written by Trudy Schrader on 06-01-2026
In the tapestry of time with eyes of crystal, I travel through dreams,
My words are birds of smoke, flying through unwritten expectations.
With sharp shoulders, I slice through the air, hunger is my companion,
I dreamed of writing in every corner of the world, to open a delicate flight.
In the cardboard suitcase, papers quietly gather their desires,
Each host, with a heavy heart, patiently asks me:
“What do you do? Are you a writer?” and in their voice, pity and wonder,
Sharing apples and nuts, fleeting fragments of kindness.
But wine, a strange friend, when the sky closes in at night,
Chases away the cold from my soul, though it leaves me in solitude.
It's hard to be a starving writer, but harder still to be a drunk,
In their eyes, a paradox that finds no justification.
They climbed the stairs, heavy, silent rulers of my world,
Without them, I was a lost nomad, without doors and stars.
Under their roof, words came to life,
While their footsteps filled the mornings with a sweet nausea.
I awaited answers from those who built their comfort in ignorance,
My letters, ink traces on paper, begged for a chance.
But refusals flowed, their silence, an incomprehensible music,
And the thought that I might be a fool, a bitter thought, a too familiar truth.
Yet still, in the silence of the hours, I rose to write again,
The birds of smoke returned, and I dreamed once more to be.
In the empire of words, I found myself always,
A living paradox, a lost poet, a seeker of God.
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
The Amnesic Liturgy of Nomadic Gestures
we keep on our foreheads impatience sharp as a lunar scythe
the mulatto day laid its tired body on the cold flagstone
in the transparent eye of the horse the velvet raven startles
beneath bear furs we carry the three bodies of morning
the thornbush remembers the ceremony on the yellow millstone of newspaper
three crystal wings for each nomad with their mechanics
the tree inventories our voice when its trembling crown
gathers sensations in a translucent orbit of smile
we inaugurate the hour of love on the collarbone when green sky collapses
how we transform the bent knee into severe balance
the die with glowing numbers rolls the player's palms
fertile whisper slows the burning tongue of the white thigh
silence unties its deep wells I hear the sky with fingers
the transparent clarity of the eyelid signs the violet evening's pupil
great monuments fall drowsy in their fanatic dream leaning
you keep the red apple on your head the error of foreseen arrow
the prey has hidden in the hunter's ankle without dangers
I with mouth full of seaweed with nostril snowed by ice
unprotected by fear I dig with the comb's teeth the exile of names
on the bell in its monotonous beating remains the golden pollen
on the rough bark of words a hoary forgotten breeze
weathered by rains at the radiant dwelling of lightning
slow multiplication pulverizes meaning and about this
your nape brings back the penumbra of serpents discus throwers
you throw the umbrella of echoes far like a liquid miracle
proportional trunks for the almost confluent sleep
advisory restlessness has left us for the silent ball
with its hay mask stuck to cheeks paled by moon
tomorrow anyway you'll resume the journey across green plains
in the shrill acclamations of the grasshopper the forgotten lamp
the fork twists itself toward velvety darkness
the warm wax of the kiss protects us from dizzy grass
we breathe deeply listening to the memory of drowned waters