Long Trekked Poems
Long Trekked Poems. Below are the most popular long Trekked by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Trekked poems by poem length and keyword.
The hunter set off just before the gloaming
adjusting the straps of his high powered rifle
it was a long way to where the stag usually fed
a majestic stag sprouting twelve point antlers
Climbing high up the rugged mountain side
he trekked fast covering the many miles
at last he was where the stag usually fed
casting around for signs of his tracks
Finding them he started stalking his prey
up hill and down dale he carefully followed
until at last he could see him way up ahead
taking care to keep down wind he got close
Now about one hundred yards apart, he settled
nestling into the thick bracken patiently waiting
The stag climbed onto his favourite outlook
and stood there poised as the gloaming lit the sky
Truly a wondrous sight he was in full prime
the hunter sighed as he took steady aim
then with a click it was finally time to shoot
the stag hearing the sound took to his heels
The hunted checked his camera, yes he had him
a perfect picture well satisfied he packed up
this one picture had taken days of trailing him
now he was forever captured in magnificent splendour
Fifteen years old…I trekked the river-bend, dived
Around balmy ledges, held by a curiosity
Nourished in toddler years,
When Father would tenderly utter of lighting
My adolescence anchored on the salty
Yet fragrant curls of a bay’s fathomless wave
Now imbued within: Viewing the shift of clay,
The marvel of paper boats leaning on rocks--
This soul became fearless calm noble,
Until modernity drove an islet to the ground;
And as I take a long, last gaze at a crumbled site
A part of my innocence rushes out with it...I wail.
The Last Contest, for Silent One
12/1/2018
I go from positive plus to in the basement negative in forty minutes.
I thought it was going to be okay when Cyrus hugged my legs.
He had a huge grin on his face, he acted like he loved me.
We went to recess. He was a train wreck but gave him many chances.
Easier than trying to corral him because if I tried that I would lose face.
No one can corral him.
I am practically carrying him back inside where he….
Throws scissors, spits in faces, yells and runs around the room.
I feel like I have trekked a mountain and ran a marathon.
It is truly taxing that one child can do this in a mere forty minutes!
In the City of Pines, vendors are everywhere. High and low prices are everywhere. The once cool region of overflowing love somehow narrowed its space for the younger generation because of commercialization.
Commercialization, on one hand, helps. On the other hand, synchronization is tantamount to compression, which can be a sign of evaporation.
Nevertheless, many people visit the City of Pines, a wonderful site in the East. Foreigners from everywhere troop to the place to witness and feel the beauty of the living pine trees around the city of Baguio -- "bag-iw" in Ibaloi, indigenous language of the region.
I had my chance of visiting the City of Pines, the home of the famous Rice Terraces. I trekked the rough roads and cliffs of the mountains. So cozy and so relieving. The scent of innocence above the mountains and serenity in waters below the mountains. An ethereal scenery with the breeze of resonating heritage.
The City of Pines is rich in culture and tradition. No one would ever wonder that an indigenous tribe can still exist up to the present time.
The musical instruments being played by the people, the indigenous materials sewn and worn by the people are the pride of the said city.
Many beautiful things and memories can be said about the City of Pines. Like the pines of my birth, very close to my heart.
Living in the concrete jungle of the city’s thermal island
My five senses were stifled to almost dead and bland.
To perceive if all of them are still alive and working or not
I went from the city to the lap of nature I nearly forgot.
I trekked in the high Himalaya along the deep Tista valley
The floating fragrance of orchid on hill slope greeted me.
The cascading streams on eroded boulders made a murmur
I heard the sound of music created by the pristine nature.
The clumps of cloud curled up the valley soaking the green
My heart mellowed at their soft touch seeping through skin.
Up above the tree canopy the clouds melted in cool rain
The drops were like elixir of heaven my taste buds still retain.
The crimson sun painted gold on peak Kanchajangha at dawn
Enthralled and awed, I saw the Himalayan splendor being born.
I was then floating on the astral air of grand ecstasy
And deciphered my five senses still survived within me.
August 6, 2018
The volcano leveled
then a great wind blew the rest away.
Early humans came late.
They had callused soles and rough hands
they knew how to dig,
run and hide.
When the flood came
they were at ease feasting on stringy meat and bones
in the makeshift camps of their tribes.
The locust eating priests
declared it was everyone's fault
but theirs.
Contrite, and greatly diminished in number
they began to scratch the history of the world
on random stones.
Volcanos grew testy again
smoke and fiery fumes scorched the sky.
They packed up their meager possessions
and trekked. The tribes did not stop walking
until they found a lost scripture in the dust.
Some called the find a bible
written by soothsayers
yet unborn,
but in truth
it was yet another mystical footprint
to follow -
a sign to track
out of this inexplicable land
that kept blowing away
on the shifting sands
of bad times.
I was so inexperienced, gullible, and childish.
Ah youth's folly, so brave and yet wildish.
So witless and terribly naive
Sometimes I feel I can’t believe.
We smelt the fragrant whiff of pine needles,
crunched crispy as we sang the songs of the Beatles,
as we trekked alone up the hill
that towered majestically with thrill,
a few miles from our hometown.
The fragrance of Fall, followed by leaves brown.
Love crept in losing all our senses,
Little serious thoughts of consequences.
We were too young, actions should not be
But a fool who could not foresee
the imminent prospective on the horizon
that stretched so far, far away as the sun was risin`.
I did not care, who did in those days?
A child was born, and we were in a haze,
A baby that needed money nowhere to be found.
We toiled, we worried, and each debtor a hound.
Help was scarce and youth a thing of the past,
My wife fell sick, and death came too fast.
I cried as I lost my dear wife but will not forget
The mists of the hill of our first love where we met.
Today I trek that same hill behind our town
remembering our lost youth though the grass was brown.
I almost stumble on the dewy grass of dawn,
I feel strong arms helping me on.
My love, my little Angelina, she saved me from a blow,
the daughter that was born so many years ago.
1 December 2021
''Y'' Contest
Youth
Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Three truant scholars spending our sabbaticals
in crisp Colorado, we all re-read Walden,
dared to drink from streams so icy clear
the fish seemed suspended in mid-air.
Our flimsy nylon shelters shielded us
from what weather there was to worry on,
as summer slipped to autumn
and autumn waned winterward.
Four full years past we trekked those trails
through stands of timber frequented by fox,
by birds, by deer -- and by growling grizzlies.
We walked well-wooded hillsides
of mixed conifers and broadleaf.
In deep drafts we breathed the earthy air.
Now, when my son hugs his honey bear,
red-jacketed, black-button eyed,
I see the hellish maw, the bloodied claw,
of the darkish-brown raging beast
that tore off my arm and maimed
two sages, amid the yellow quaking aspen
where, yet, that gory grizzly ages.
We looked out across the Canyon
It looked like a painting from above
Like you'd fall onto it, not inside.
The farther in we trekked
The more 3D everything became.
Like hiking an optical illusion.
The canyons wall were gray,
But you'd never know it.
Painted red from the canyon dust
The cactus flowers at full bloom,
Next to yucca plants and prickly pears.
We moved downward to Plateau Point
Like an island underground
Surrounded by the rushing river
Down via Devil's Corkscrew.
A route that lived up to it's name
Until we got to the bottom
Jumping into the icy water
Looking back up to the top
I wonder if I looked like part of the painting
Of this Canyon, so very Grand
March 22, 2022 Sponsored by: L MILTON HANKINS |
A baby's birth, a tale to tell,
Of a day when riots rocked the land.
Hoodlums and fire, chaos befell,
As Nasya's arrival was at hand.
Her mother, anxious, in labour pain,
With fear for her life and the baby's too.
To the hospital, she did remain,
But the journey there, a dangerous road to pursue.
The gas station burned beside the place,
Where doctors would bring life to the earth.
But transportation gone without a trace,
So they trekked, with their medical gear's worth.
No baby food to nourish the child,
In a world so filled with strife.
Yet the doctors worked, with hearts so mild,
And brought Nasya safely into life.
A story of love and hope untold,
In a time when chaos rules the day.
A mother's strength, a baby's hold,
A reminder that peace will come someday.