Long Trackers Poems
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Trackers follow the animals,
herd them towards the waiting guns.
Big money paid by lazy hunters
who just want some trophies.
Not for them the slog through bush
they want an easy kill.
A bit or two taken to hang on walls
meat left where they fell.
Uncaring if they are endangered
they drink their beers in the hides.
Not wanting to get dirty or sweaty
they picnic on delicacies and wine.
Bodies of the slain beasts pile up
to be dragged away by scavengers.
While the men toast each other
proud of the day's work.
Tomorrow it will all be repeated
who I ask are the real beasts here?
While rambling like a vagabond in a seraphic poetic submersion, in a remote region, witnessed the most captivated sight ever,
a sleeping valley rippled in wild blooms, as sparkling in mystical celestial beam, in the mesas of the clouds, the Dzukou Valley,
a remote dale at the border of Nagaland and Manipur,
in the untrodden tableland of India's Northeast!
The picturesque landscape was ringing with the
once in a lifetime scene of emerald shades of hillocks
paving the way for azure mountaintops,
luminous flowers waving in the winds amongst the tall grasses!
The vale was tweeting and twirling amidst the virgin vegetations enriched with the spectacular sights of verdant forests,
exquisite flora and fauna,
serpentine streams, myriads of panoramic pink
and white wild blooms that dot
the vast caldera of the valley and its' verdant meadows,
alongside the meandering rivers of Dzukou and Japfu,
appeared as the absolute paragon of serenity and tranquility!
Surrounded by the whispering platonic hills,
with numerous colorful flying creatures,
the valley seemed as smuggled over
the dewdrops' fragrant feral fruits,
Oak and Rhododendron forests are a feast to the eyes!
Half way up and any signs of tracks disappear,
and one is just left with wheezing enigmatic bamboo thickets!
Botanists' delight, trackers' paradise, seraph's psyche,
rovers' riddle, is reclining placidly ,
the untrodden earth's lulling lullaby,
in the abode of the divine Lily's
anomalous nature's absolute pamphlet,
a rich biodiversity hotspots
of endemic species, the Dzoku Valley;
an uninhabited unsullied phosphorus valley
Note:
The Dzüko Valley is located at the borders of the states of Nagaland and Manipur in Northeast India. The valley is known for its extremely rich biodiversity, seasonal flowers and flora & fauna. It is situated at an altitude of 2452 m above sea level.
© Silpika Kalita
We want to heal-
scab stealers wont allows us too
sneaking up on us-
giving us new busy work
side trackers –
killing us
the only hope we had left
invested in our progeny.
progenitors
Our children become our ancestors
Arrested -
Denied freedom.
assaulted,
Degrading us our offspring.
They make examples out of noble men.
Leaders not knowing what day will
be their personal doomsday while
They recite a healing prayer on balconies
Thinking “is this my end”.
"As they risk healing folks in large crowds with
un-trusted friends watching their backs
Let me get these words in As
We begin to heal from
the power of love.
These "scab thieves’ who snatch
scabs off the old wounds.
Create and open new wounds,
As they dare us to heal.
We fall to the ground.
as the targets keep
Dropping they
Kill the mighty to
Control the weak.
We are angry -No time to heal -
Angry People
Bopping ignorant
Pop ups- Bobble heads, popping up
like bobble heads at a carnival.
We needed the big black men-
who soon after that
Perplexed us
Who were they that stood
on Hunter street?
In front of Paschal Brothers
Over near "Don Clendenin’s"
surrendering
Waving White hankies
at tricks and enemies
We are bleeding now...
The scab makers are winning
where and from wince –
Do they come from?
or go to?
Wall Street or colleges-
White collar preppies-
promoting separate causes.
We still chant
Free Mandela
“we loved him too
They all were gone
to the grave or to prison.
Many wounds open
blood everywhere.
Perplexed.
Things fall apart again in...2013
2013 is here.
We are still with open wounds
Remember now wonder
can we heal if they?
keep re-opening our wounds.
My tolerance is no more for
nincompoops and
Poot—butts, chastising
Empresses and Kings.
Knowing nothing....
While pulling off scabs
Who am I, if I lose focus?
There will be no us-
So, I relent,
Leaving them where
they are - or at least
where I found them!
I really feel that until I die
I have a connection to someone’s
future I have wounds to heal.
I must remember-
“I cannot get angry for you”,
Lest I get stuck fighting your battle.
“I will get angry with you”
I will fight aside of you.
I miss the me before my hope was stolen in broad day light
Sadness impressed it's will on my mind
Making my mind sick
So, to all the kids "take your vitamins"
My mind doesn't feel like mines
I have a couple of time trackers that I try to race from time to time
Feeling like I just can't find the energy to simply live a normal life
My mind is often moving too fast for my body
I feel like a nobody when I'm around everybody
Knowing it's not true
Mind tricks have me thinking maybe my time is coming to an end
Telling myself you know that's not you
It's your shadow
The dark side trying to finish you
My shadow is my best friend that I never wanted to meet
A constant battle
I wish I could cut my shadow off
But I can't get rid of it without killing myself
You need the dark side, past, and future in order to grow
It may not be a part of the life you want to show
But the show must go on
And then I receive the count down
On in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1...
Hello vengeance let's kill my depression
p.s. the shadows only cool me down now, I won't let the darkness take over...
This is an age of blood;
an interesting era,
corn and potatoes rot in the fields
or are sold into slavery.
Money walks inside a Viking helmet,
Mars is rising red with anger.
This a time for poetry,
for the old and young
to scribble over burnt stones,
to whisper into hurricanes.
The world spins on
but an axis of madness reigns,
its spin is out of kilter,
drugged by addictive illusions.
Only the wild child
with a charcoal pen
can write down the pain,
can see the fire simmering bright
in the chilling snow.
The path is crazy
it has lost itself in a concrete maze
of insane ideas and frothing words.
It babbles, it has only spears
to shake, as if such weapons' were
as sharp as clear eyes.
The soft neural tentacles of poets
wave in the ash filled air,
gather reasons,
moments to sew together
incautious words
on the edge of a dire dawn.
A pale light feeds them
they report the storming storms
camouflaged as they are
by the in-between;
their small testaments
writ upon scapes of scorched insights
for the readers and trackers
of lost footprints.
If i could talk with Kelly.? What would the convo be.? About; the times he ranged the
Bush, shot his own game; and tuckered free.'
He was only young, a hero now.' Who handed back
Mortgage papers, he'd liberated WOW.' good
Action Ned, you did not just sling lead! And
There ' were also some lowlifes who wanted
You dead' I reckon what Ned would answer me.' Is i did, what I could with what I had the
Rest is history..Had a few more stood? We
Would have shattered the chains.' That held
Us under, I reckon thats pretty plain.' Do you like
A drop of whiskey..I'd have to offer him you see.? to
This free strong Aussie spirit, I'd say that he'd agree'
We both could take a shot.' And i would embrace the man, who rode really With his
Familiy, rode against an (evil gang) made up of
Some blackgaurds.. they called themselves
Victoria constabulary, they would oppress, and shoot
And hang; way;way too many.' Not the type who worked
For real peace, they hired cannibal black trackers, that said upon Ned should feast.' No wonder he was bushranging .' Much better than being eaten, after death.? Yet as we
Know he shot it out..Against a great mob of these scummy
Cops.' Ned you did your best, mate stay at rest
I raise a glass today.' I toast the memory of
Ned Kelly.' One more true hero, of a whole and hard country.!
There will come a time
Maybe today, or tomorrow
Where a soldier of fortune
Will gloat in his sorrow
For his trackers and he
On a mission to tame
Will hunt him down
And leave him in maim
Through the wires of code
In binary bite
This soldier of fortune
Will, with all his might
Where will he start
It's for his prey to guess
When he knocks on his door
Instant distress
Before he is taken
A justice is served
For some times in this world
Some things are deserved
He is handed over to their FBI
In the land of the free, their justice he's tried
For if he was left, with the soldier of fortune
He would remember that day
His day of misfortune
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/war-4.php
The moon is the compass to more than lunatics
the world shines forth on course to break the habits of Heretics
The void, the miasmic zone
The desert a monicker of mine to show
what on an empty canvas I can do, or to leave desolate as an epiphany to grow
Nomadic trackers seek me out in the signs
in the sands of
the
Mountains of the moon
they brave the desert to find, signs written in the dunes
Craters, calligraphy written of the Creator
the sands of time just rivulet capulet capitol letters
of loves endless sea where miracles are all the better
skylined wink of nursery bard story shine, on
the starlight makes the moon an adorned and pregnant bride, from the Sun
having a little me time as the nativity hears the tales
The sun, the moon and stars
they make nimbus across the sky as the Battle En tales
The stardust makes for night light, blink of the divine
to shine and shine and shine
the light of the stars, and fill the dark like fruit to the vine
Like star and moonglow on the desert snow
The moon and sun meet as two stars adjoined-to each other to know
in marriage,
one shines to, as the other beams, with child, aglow.
The ecliptic a carriage and around we go.
Family, children, Husband, Wife, Creator, its written in the stars.
Heaven a front row seat in a vast ampetheatre.
God has his actors His scripts and His laws, that plan for the Future.
They say their lines without flaw, learn to love!
The main attractions and the special features.
West Texas is a vast, wide-open area, dusty, windy, and dry. Many a time I hid the mostly unbranded calves I took from the herd on the XIT ranch behind the tumbleweeds that had built up in the small valleys across the open plains only the moonlight could see. I tried to move at night as much as I could because rustling cattle had become a dangerous occupation as I was finding out. Cattle barons had hired gunslingers and trackers to bring justice to outlaws like me and they were on my trail. Hoping the wind would erase my tracks I moved as many miles as I could, stopping only when water was found which wasn't often enough and the cattle, I stole were gettin' weak. I was halfway through New Mexico territory trying to get to the Magdalena cattle drive to sell my stock to wranglers I knew but I had to let the calves go and save myself. I could see four mounted cowboys on the mesa under the clear blue sky with me in their sight. I ditched all the weight I was carrying except the rifle and Colt on my hip as I headed into the Sawtooth mountains when a shot rang out. My horse, spooked by the noise reared up, throwin' me off onto the hard ground below as another shot rings out. I feel a burning sensation in my side as I get up to run for cover in a grove of gnarled trees' close by. Bleedin' from a gut shot, I know I won't recover as I hear the four cowboys drawing near. "Give it up boy, you aint goin' nowhere, this is the end of the line" the cowboy said. I replied "go to hell lawman!" as I fired from my Colt hittin' one of the riders. I tried to run further in the brush when I was struck again through the back. Mortally wounded, I thought about home and the woman I loved there. The cowboy on the black steed said "your rustlin' days are over son, anything you want to say?" "Give me a drink will Ya". The cowboy dismounted and handed me a bottle of whiskey, I pulled the cork with my teeth and took a swig. Handing the bottle back to him, it was getting hard to breathe as I said "grant me my dying', wish will Ya". "What is it boy" he said. With my last struggling breath, I said "bury me in Datil".
Great country rich, land of my birth, that cradled my childhood and taught me of
Worth.'
Land of struggles, and dreamtime lore.'
A country of invention, and of weathers raw.'
Do we have an easy history.? I must answer no.' I owe us; that much at the
least.'
In my mix of emotions, i shall try to so'
Well, to put a relief of our history in this
I'll tell.'
Of a crowns avairice, of some humans in
Chains, others free agents who came to
Make gain'
They came to Australia..with expectations
And dreams, some of great horror' they did
Create scenes.'
Then there were the existing, the Aboriginal
Mobs, living for millenia with their corroberee councils..
Hunters and trackers, survivalists and they paid their costs, leaving newborn infants, in
The open to die.' If the extra life would be too much? This was a part of their bush lives; to oft..
Then there were the guvenors, and officers of the crown, instructed to tame the country.'
With their own views.' As they built the settlements, and kept their convicts
Down.'
There were lashings and hangings, And genocide too.' All tasmanian Native
Peoples wiped out..Its quite true.'the decades advanced..
( The boomerang factor )
From the past collision of cultures, a new country was emerging..Herb Elliot was to become a champion, Lionel Rose Evonne Goolagong,
Shane Gould..We were really flying.'
In the 1960s and 1970s there was an atmosphere of change and hope.' A wish
To be more unified, and a regret.' I tell
No jokes.. I ask all Aussies can we
Go back.? And fix the wrongs we did not
Do.'
Or do we move forward on Australia day.'
And all the days that follow too.? Can we
Be free of trauma.? Yet refer to lessons past.? I advise resume in the ' true blue spirit ' and give the world a blast.' Avoid the
Forigen influencers who want to rake dead
Coals..' Only to enslave us all..!!! Now
get up' be your best; be really bold.!!!