Long Traveller Poems
Long Traveller Poems. Below are the most popular long Traveller by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Traveller poems by poem length and keyword.
The very first time
my mother's healing touch
tapped my forehead,
I felt God's travelled down
here in this peculiar earth
to heal me up from the fever.
A sunken soul released out of me,
turned as rejuvenated as a fresh lemon leaf
and I touched the toes of my mother
as per God's very secret advice
from the previous night.
I wasn't a vivid worshipper of travel
until and unless I felt the presence of God
everywhere slowly trickling down
through the silver streams of time.
Time's travelled a lot, even I call it the best traveller
it's seen Jesus dying without any vice
just like a poem dies without a reader's embrace
and time's probably poured all the sobs out
freezing the moments and collecting the snaps
as if it was to unravel the malicious truth in front
of an ignorant crowd, later, very later
to repeatedly portray
the sickening death of its precious child
and people have travelled enough to size
these epic memories up in a 24 hour, "Christmas"!
It's tasted the same poison Socrates drank
for his cruel deed of renaissance
among the youth of Athens,
and yes time has travelled through
a sickening era of its huge loss
like a hollow human body without its organ!
It's seen through the ages that
the countries suffer in a subterraneous syndrome
of travelling and entering into each other's territories
to stand as the best fitted emperors
and suck the last drop of blood from its innocent folks.
Time has seen a lot,
freedom, battle, idols, ideologies,
love, hatred, blood, responsibilities
and then with God's appeasing
permission shaped itself up
to the pages of history ;
Now history serves as the best traveller!
and we, humans know the utilization of books.
I find the books as avid tourists
as they skillfully make rounds of the world
and then coalesced with the satisfying words, curious pages to turn as books.
And all these existential procedures,
God's evolutionized in as many forms as he could
to insert the mesmerizing journey
of this universe since its very creation.
We, humans aren't except of the flow,
each and every moment we breathe,
we travel, as a traveller voyages from a place to another like we do through
the voyages of emotions.
The next time if someone asks,
"Are you a traveller?"
Nod your head, singing the lullabies of a nomad.
~ ©storytellersuchismita
Jawab-e-Shikwa
THE ANSWER TO THE COMPLAINT BY ALLAH ALMIGHTY SIDE TO PIOUS PEOPLE OF THE WHOLE UNIVERSE:
https://youtu.be/EXRl5VKq39M
When passion streaming from the heart turns human lips to lyres,
Some magic wings man’s music then, his song with soul inspires;
Man’s words are sacred then, they soar, The ears of heaven they seek,
From dust those mortal accents rise, Immortals hear them speak;
So wild and wayward was my Love, such tumult raised its sighs,
Before its daring swiftly fell the ramparts of the skies.
The skies exclaimed in wonderment, “Some one is hiding here,”
The wheeling Planets paused to say, “Seek on the highest sphere.”
The silver Moon said, “You are wrong, Some mortal it must be,”
The Milky Way too joined converse, “Here in our midst is he.’’
Rizwan alone, my plaintive voice began to recognise,
He knew me for a human who had lost his Paradise.
And even the Angels could not tell what was that voice so strange,
Whose secret seemed to lie beyond Celestial wisdom’s range.
They said, “Can Man now roving come and reach these regions high?
That tiny speck of mortal clay, has it now learnt to fly?
How little do these beings of earth the laws of conduct know;
How coarse and insolent they are, these men who live below.
So great their insolence indeed, they dare even God upbraid!
Is this the Man to whom their bow the Angels once had made?
Of Quality and Quantity He knows the secrets, true—
The ways of humbleness as well If he a little knew!
That they alone are blest with speech how proud these humans be,
Yet, ignorant, they lack the art to use it gracefully.”
Then spake a Voice Compassionate: “Your tale enkindles pain,
Your cup is brimming full with tears which you could not contain
Even High Heaven itself is moved by these impassioned cries;
How wild the heart which taught your lips such savage melodies!
Its grace yet makes this song of yours a song of eulogy;
A bridge of converse you have formed ‘Twixt mortal man and Me!
Behold, my hands arc full of gifts, but who comes seeking here?
And how shall I the right road shew when there’s no traveller?
My loving care is there for all, If deserved but by few!
Not this the clay from which I can an Adam’s shape renew!
On him who merits well I set the brightest diadem,
And those who truly questing come, a new world waits for them.
She came upon me in a dream deep down from within my destination
Which coursed the mind and soul of years for my memories' inspiration
The path was crowded with bouncing hooves and wagons decorated
With fantasies ornaments adoration painted with merriment unabated
Echoes' subconscious sound of wild horses drawing cart wheels' canter
A symphony's reminder of nectar's flow from a coloured glass decanter
Bewildered I reminisced on sentiments nostalgia and what lies ahead
Fanfares of homeliness adventure passion to pounding of a drumhead
Heated stallions ran wild with mares and took my innate flight of fancy
Less trodden though in modern times a covert path offered me fragrant tansy
Potions of wild garlic lavender and bouquets of aromatic blue sage scent
I grabbed the message by the horns and galloped to my heart's content
One face stood out and reached my fired feelings as I took off one blinker
A nomad girl dressed in rags whistles bells whom you might call a tinker
Olive skin and amber eyes beyond all reason teasing all sensual needs
Her hair like forests full of tangles I must touch her locks lest she proceeds
Around her neck dangled an amulet crafted from ivory and ancient oak
Grant me a whiff of freedom give me one chance to embrace and stroke
The skin's wilderness and passion which may save me from my strife
A single breath or little smooch from cherry lips to give me the kiss of life
She shone as bright as ruby petals and took her path along the lane
Of elderberry flower and hawthorn hedges which made me go insane
Her chest adorned with orange curves she wore a crown of quince
She's been imprinted on my summer screen for more and ever since
And still the magic rings hooked on her ears of nectarine shaped silver
Stir the image when I hear a voice singing the praise and beauty of her
A scintillating Roma bride sculpted from nature of the purest sense
Prophesy omen oracle and metaphor in one quite magically intense
When sunshine arises red and purple with violins and tambourine
I pinch the moon in thanks for right next to me slumbers my Fairy Queen
Once upon a time I handed her a golden peach an oath and sacred bond
She calls herself a gypsy and kindly waves to me with her magic wand
11th April 2020
She kept walking, kept travelling...
A Traveller by profession, she kept exploring.
With a pure and kindest heart inside her soul,
She was pretty easy to pick, easy to be fooled.
Her feet reached a small town,
Tired, she was happy to have it found-
And hoped for some water and food,
With her kind eyes, she now intrudes...
In a small village, with no roof.
She asked for some food,
If she gets, she will pay them good.
But All they did was to cry in front of her-
A pure soul, sang a song there,
Her heart couldn't keep up with the utter cries-
And she gave them what was with her, to see their eyes dry.
With everything given, she proceeded bareheaded and barefoot-
All she got was the happiness from helping those troops.
With sparkling eyes, she headed forward-
And saw an old lady, sobbing, cuddled up.
Not noticing the suspicious air around, she thus proceeded-
With nothing, but a body- bare and naked.
Didn't want to appear in front of others,
She ran to the nearby forest, in the southern.
She walked shivering, yet with kind gaze,
And met the forest demons, hungry and desperate.
She noticed, yet she smiled, as a mist.
She opened her arms, inviting them for the feast.
All she did was to help others, she did her job well, I guess.
In return, got nothing but more and more pleases.
She offered her arms, her limbs, her feet-
As she pitied the hunger of the demonic beings.
All that was left was her head, rolling around-
The last demon took out a kind eye and licked it, very much bound.
"Here is a gift from us demons" he said and flew away-
Leaving a piece of paper, leaving the one-eyed head for decay.
She rolled out her eyes, with the strength she had left with her-
To look at the gift the demon left as an honor.
'IDIOT!' it said, said the piece of paper...
Tears rolled from her eye; she couldn't feel more satisfied from her works.
"Thank you!" a mumble came from her mouth, and she smiled-
"It's my first return gift! Thankyou!" Were the last words that came from her mouth.
Her one-eyed head now rested for eternity, no more kind deeds to be done.
Ah, The cry! The song of the dead bird sure was a pitiful one.
Never heard a pure soul rest so peacefully in this world.
??????
“Good Morning! I know you are busy. Will you stop for a while for an interview?”
Sir, what do you want to know? If only you are keen,
And do not look at me with prejudice, I shall explain,
How I ended up here and tell you my whole story_
The story of my journey from the cliff to the plane.
“Yes, I know you are a traveller, tell me all about it. But before that, I wish to know about your origin and background.”
I was part of a big rock, so static without motion.
I used to watch birds in flight on feathered wings,
Going from one end to the other, merrily singing,
Buoyed up by the force of the wind as on swings.
Like them I longed to be free and roaming
But knew I was cradling just a fanciful whim.
I slept most of my life with my dream tucked in my heart.
As time rolled by, my dreams and fancies grew dim.
It was then a tremor shook the very face of the earth,
Loosening my mother boulder from her strong hinge.
She moved and rolled down from the great heights,
On the way a chip got broken, in pain I did twinge.
Thus, I was born. Painfully, alienated from my mother,
I felt so orphaned and lay silent in a dark corner,
Lost and hungering like a dream waiting to wake up.
But my grief gave way to joy, no more I was a mourner.
“It sounds so interesting. How did it all happen? Please tell me…..”
Seeing me lying dejected and despondent, a small stream
Took pity on me and carried me along.
I enjoyed my ride and never more I was sad.
Now to a wider world, joyfully I belong.
Freed from all chains, I am out to view life and enjoy.
I stay in nature’s bosom, free to saunter wherever I wish.
Never feeling the need to pitch my tent, like a gipsy,
I travel along with the stream, with a merry swish.
“So glad to know that your life has taken such an unexpected turn. Now a last question.How do you respond to the popular saying- ‘A Rolling Stone gathers no moss.’”
Sorry, I have nothing to comment. Let men see it that way,
Enjoy life is my creed, my song is the song of liberty.
Leaving all cares and sorrows behind, like a tramp I stroll,
Taking turns and twists, sometimes cascading down in endless novelty.
“Thank you for stopping by to tell the story of your life and sharing your views and aspirations on life”
Five ducklings feeding
The back of the camper bus
proudly sported the family
seven yellow stickers ducks
five little ducklings in a line
feeding on life presented to
the world growth sustenance
nourishment and meaning
For every fellow traveller
to ponder smile anticipate
what little team was to alight
at temporary destinations
sheltered tented playgrounds
swings and roundabouts
cul-de-sacs and traffic lights
To get all ducks into a row
once they emerged enriched
our little feeding station
food bank vital well and
fields of plenty needed
diverse and un-divided
attention chaos letting go
Meal times at times with rubber
ducks in bathtubs burping
passing winds of change
incorporating kilojoules
compassion love and swirling
compromise uncertain certainty
floated in the ocean of life
yet to be swum and dived in
with the buoyancy of living
Little duckling was still small
and sat beside as older
sister eager helper supervisor
when our triplet power three
in one as courtesy of nature
and individual little mouths
to feed lay on their backs
on sleeping bags as wonderment
in waiting for the spoon with
apple mush and cinnamon
to take its turn to reach their gums
To complete the pentagon
of childish folly serious fun
and exploration another little duckling
observed from inside womb in
its fertile spring to yet conjoin the river
contemplated when and where
to splash out into beauty question marks
and tribulations sparkling brotherhood
and food for life and pleasure
whirlpools cascades and little ripples
The spoon went one to one
and to another next to here and
there forward backward and beyond
my wildest expectations of what food
and feeding holding precious gifts
in hand released from nature
into nature ingesting measured
unimaginable and definite provision
nurtures nourishes what was what is
The birds have flown the nest
they feed and feed me just the same
and it is not just those trivial stickers
sign posts on the buzling bus
and more than ever and for
every one who wants to see the
picture depiction metaphor
the unsurpassed experience
which reminds me of simplicity of
gratitude and feeling warm inside
24th May 2016
A Strange Man from a Far Distant Star.
A strange man from a far distant star;
Comes to teach us, to show us the future.
To show us a new direction, a new path to follow;
To stop us becoming, our own killer.
The future is orange, in this ungodly land;
The fire burns brightly, for this galactic traveller.
We must all learn, how to understand;
The message he left, which could change our future.
We must help him return, to the planet he left;
To let him show us the things, that are buried in our heads.
This psychedelic spaceman, with his orange platform boots;
Travelled to the moon and beyond, fighting aliens and fixing robots.
His special silver suit and his shades made him cool;
He's got some moon dust for his baby
And a piece of rock from Mars for her school.
Untouched land, heading back to his land.
From a forgotten traveler; from a psychedelic spaceman.
From the strangest of strangers, here comes the man from Obsidium,
With his tin pot space rocket, which runs on petroleum.
The spaceman's here, to show us the way;
To travel the stars, using his galactic space map.
One step for mankind, that was taken by a monkey;
Has let him take us to the stars, but he's never coming back.
This journey is one way, the destination is Obsidium;
He will bring us into contact with his peers and all sorts of aliens.
We can bounce on the moon, with a lack of gravity;
Finding new alien species, on the volcanoes of Mars.
This adventure will be joyous, with occasional tragedy;
But our mission will lead us, to travel to new stars.
The first question he asked was who will win the Human race?
And do you think Linford Christie, would win Britain first place?
Or would a pioneer win it, so they could claim it?
Like they claimed the native America; I guess they'd just steal it.
Then he said "Come with me and I'll open your minds;
Show you Jupiter, Venus and Pluto’s endless mines.
We can leave this place called Earth and explore a new galaxy;
We can race a shooting star, we can do anything.
But you must give up this life that you take for granted
And beam up with me, into my funky spaceship.”
(C)2005 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Form:
blindfolded he came close to the edge of the cliff
that he was sure of because vertigo taunted him
decision time sprung open like a grandfather watch
on his knees he felt the spray of a thunderous sea
swirling foam covered his soaked quest for direction
but all side of escape seemed to be covered in spindrift
the journey so far had been kind yet now he was helpless
a flock of puffins shouted ‘move at your perilous fancy’
they mocked the traveller now for past transgressions
‘if only I had taken a different route’ he roared in despair
‘should have stayed closer to the confines of my home’
he regretted that he exposed himself for adventure
he nestled the silver chain that suspended the time piece
prayer beads on his lost mind and clouds with no lining
puppet strings attached to every conceivable move
one wrong step and he would free fall and instantly crash
shatter into reckoning under the impact of judgement
join the underworld without reprieve and atonement
a beacon of meaning in waiting he felt thorns of wild gorse
it smelled like coconut sun lotion on a beach of no return
maybe he could hold on to the scratched withering soil
in the thicket of memories and tribulations he was not aware
that his corrosion had positioned him on a stacked rock
surrounded by the ocean beyond measure of safety
he listened to the ticking time bomb in his scorched hand
resolved to accept the verdict with no leave to appeal
surrender and throw caution to an all knowing wind
just then a tornado lifted him up into a sky full of pressure
defied gravity as an appropriate response to lost choices
wondered whether he joined seagulls or the call of a dolphin
eternity transcendence and levitation ensued in split seconds
of fragmented solutions of high waters and heavenly respite
maybe he had lived his whole life for this moment of bliss
turbulence and commotion tore away the camouflaged mask
revealed his true persona as feet touched the very same spot
sleepwalking had taught him another lesson of letting go
19th May 2020
. "‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,"
As we lay behind the moonlit door;
So many years we waited
For the voice that would settle the score.
The secrets we held within our hearts
Brought us back to this silent place;
Where for many days, in these lonely rooms
We expected to see your face.
But the forest darkened, as the days became weeks
And the weeks, gathering moss, became years;
You lost our trust, and we lost our youth
In the salty dust of our tears.
Many was the time we would listen
As a noise broke the vacuum we filled;
And one of us would climb to the turret
To call out to the forest now stilled.
Descending the stairs where hope slowly died
Afraid to return to attest;
To our hollow faces and our fear filled hearts
This would not be the day of our guest.
You bade us wait and we honoured our word
The ferns have witnessed our bond;
The thing we promised not to be spake
Has never ventured beyond -
These crumbling walls and rotting beams
As the house itself slowly died -
and one last time we prayed in the hall
That into the glade you would ride.
Our flesh is no more and our bones will not last
But our spirits have entered these walls;
Keeping vigil beyond this time of men
Until he who’s waited for calls.
So, if ever your grey eyes should rest on this place
And your knocking should go unheeded;
Our ghosts will see and we’ll sleep in peace
In the knowledge we did as was needed.
Inspired by:
The Listeners
by Walter de la Mare
Entered for: the Masters Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Tracy Decker.
Home is where . . .
The heart and reason mould into one and the same mirror of harmony
. . . the Golden Mean and centre of gravity as long as life’s turns spin around
. . . where dents in the mind do not mind but care kindly about gaping gaps
. . . when time juggles dis-synchronous consolation in the face of chaos
Memories and anticipation caress the wayward traveller into the harbour
. . . the ancient light house guides pirates of doom into tender submission
. . . where hidden treasures are felt beneath a dented compass’ rusty needle
. . . when jubilation overwhelms caved in darkness at the point of confusion
Vision and hindsight blend ambiguity and opposites of fragile consonance
. . . the myopic lenses lead the way from afar towards what can be touched
. . . where shattered glass causes new puzzles and chards for luminous mosaics
. . . when an empty canvas is shredded but gives way to a collage of dreams
Deafness and laughter combine to a symphony of understandable voices
. . . the auricles are pierced and adorned with truths and rings of delight
. . . where an ear for an ear is not an empty promise but sharing the way
. . . when the few want to listen to an old man’s attempt of feeble wisdom
Bones creak on the spiral staircase and master the voyage downwards and up
. . . the attic hold enough trinkets and memorabilia for a flea market or two
. . . where moths in the cellar feed happily in symbiosis with trodden dust
. . . when paradise is being in love and sharing glow worms and outlooks
Home is when the Self is good enough and life’s companion is gratitude
A Golden Mean happy to eat from enamel plates one spoon and a tin whistle
Light shines through cataracts of wild water and cascades of living surprise
Nostalgia is a way forward on the path one step at a future step in the making
Shades of eye sight observe perceive reflect condense highlighting the soul
A child’s whisper registers more deeply than cacophony of ubiquitous hatred
And the bones of one’s hands can still read a book and write the odd poem . . .
17th April 2019