Long Trackless Poems
Long Trackless Poems. Below are the most popular long Trackless by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Trackless poems by poem length and keyword.
Begins from the unknown caves,
Waxing and waning till graves;
Progresses journey; squints, slants,
Through rough rocks and softest sands...!
In its silent secrets, sweet,
Trifles turn tough; targets treat;
Trackless trails merrily merge,
Rivers and rivulets surge...!
Dearly deemed destinations,
Ease endless explorations;
To pilgrims of perfection,
Peace propels pure protection...!
I'll stay patiently trusting,
Each step to God entrusting;
I'll, my journey, enjoy whole,
Gaining solace to my soul...!
21 March 2022
Form J - Just Write Me a New Poem Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Some green; some grayish; some dark or brownish,
Grass-filled; grass-less; some portions clam clownish;
Ups-downs; zigzags; clumpy, ghastly, scary,
Beasts-like fringes clinging to dark aerie...
Herbs, shrubs, trees, climbers, creepers... in kinship,
Growing, like horses uncontrolled by whip;
Thorns, amidst wild daisies, as though saying,
Life, here, is no foolproof; it's tough weighing...
These cattle seem to prove dwellers nearby,
Cowboys, shepherds or nomads passing-by;
Birds of feathers, as though safe reserve found,
Seem settle amid fear from harsh wild hound...
Mountaineers and hunters, hike here-and-there,
Single-minded; their pursuit well aware;
Amid saints-looking thieves and burglars, walk,
With no fear within; chalk or block of knock...
Rocks are rough, tough; in some places soft, though,
I go on; though, sometimes, extremely slow;
Soil slips; stones crumble; feet fail to proceed,
Creatures breeding beneath dry leaves, sting-treed...
Sun is seen sometimes; hidden other times,
Moon and stars seem attuning to old rhymes;
Fogs, mists, ice and snows, as per, seasons change,
From cliffs I glimpse many a mountain range...
People accompany; yet, there's no crowd,
Someone from somewhere seem calling aloud;
Amid humans I'm, often, lone exile,
I know, yet, I should walk many a mile...
Though strange, all seem to give me company,
Each move of mine is in God's custody;
Fast or slow, goal of my life, I'll fulfill,
This trail will turn my voyage, full of thrill…
Though seem trackless my trail is not reckless,
Pure, fragrant breeze blowing here is speckless;
Each grass grows, here, is full of friendliness,
Nature cuddles all, in complete kindness...
The trail I travel, O friends, is holy,
Vistas around, are perfect and lovely;
Each glimpse I glance and clasp so zealously,
It's foretaste of all that is heavenly...!
16 February 2022
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
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!
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.
In Life’s old garden nations lived who all its fruits enjoyed,
While others longed in vain, while some the winter blasts destroyed;
Its trees are legion; some decay, While others flush with bloom,
And thousands still their birth await, Hid in the garden’s womb;
A symbol of luxuriance, The Tree of Islam reigns,
Its fruits achieved with centuries of garden-tending pains.
Your robe is free from dust of home, Not yours such narrow ties,
That Yousuf you, who Canaan sweet, In every Egypt lies;
The qafila can never disperse You holdest the starting bells9
Nothing else is needed, if your will Your onward march impels.
You candle-tree! your wick-like root, Its top with flame illumes,
Your thought is fire, its very breath all future care consumes.
And you will suffer no surcease should Iran’s star decline,
It is not the vessel which decides the potency of wine;
It is proved to all the world, from tales of Tartar conquerors,
The Kaaba brave defenders found in temple-worshippers.
In you relies the bark of God, Adrift beyond the bar,
The new-born age is dark as night, And you its dim pole-star.
The Bulgars march! the fiend of war in fearful fury breathes;
The message comes: “Sleepers, awake! The Balkan cauldron seethes.”
You deem this a cause of grief,Your heart is mortified;
But no, your pride, your sacrifice, Thus, once again, are tried.
Beneath your foes if chargers neigh? Why tremble you in fright?
For never, never, shall their breath extinguish Heaven’s light.
Not yet have other nations seen what you are truly worth,
The realm of Being has need of you for perfecting this earth.
If anything yet keeps world alive, ‘It is yours impetuous zeal,
And you will rise its ruling star, And you will shape its weal.
This is no time for idle rest, Much yet remains undone;
The lamp of tawhid needs your touch to make it shame the sun!
You are like fragrance in the bud, Diffuse yourself: be free.
Perfume the garden breeze, and fill the earth with scent of you.
From dusty speck, do you increase to trackless desert-main.
From a faint breeze, a tempest grow, Become a hurricane!
Raise you, through Love, all humble to greatness and to fame;
Enlighten you the groping world with dear Muhammad’s Name.
A STAIRWAY TO NOWHERE
I want to dream
A forever dream
In a world
You'd feel at home
Where the laws of time
Are abstract
Just the two of us, alone
On a trackless train together
Racing to the sea
On a stairway to nowhere
Under skies crying rain
Running to find shelter
On a pathway through the trees
Just to see you laughing
Things that cannot be
I never told you
I noticed
The silent mornings, so withdrawn
I never told you
I noticed
Your hand slipping from my palm
I never told you
I noticed
The endless ticking of the clock
I never told you
I noticed
How you'd sit by and watch
I never told you
I noticed
Every second, but it seems
Everything I wanted
Only possible in dreams
Some places
make you shudder
as your night train toils on by.
Sadness and nostalgia
bleed into each other,
both slip down the throat of time.
Now and then, you escape a prison
looking back, you see a gate locking
itself once more.
Time gulps as it breaths you in.
This is what the night train does,
it forces you to look at your journey
as if through an ever-fading light.
You wish you were back,
lightly hovering over sharks,
not bungy jumping
over veracious mermaids,
however, there is no stopping,
you are a night train
on a trackless way
and the rain is pounding
you through,
now only distant streetlights
reveal
the smudged print
of your passing
Signs that might be seen as omens
send me on my way
the daylight waning for today
and luck still virgin on display
flying close to danger’s coven
The wind blows fortune’s empty cast
as trackless dreams setout
dispelling hope and bringing doubt
without a name to even tout
caught within tomorrows fast
I see each warning clearly now
they speak much like a friend
whose words as tokens try to bend
rushing blindly toward the end
captured voices left to bow
Those signs that led me all point down
the road is changing fast
no clear distinction first from last
my future damned to be my past
— the devils fiddle calling loud
(Saint David’s Pennsylvania: February, 2024)
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.