Long Wanderer Poems
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poem submitted to "The Pensive Poet" poetry contest, Constance La France, sponsor, August 1, 2026
“A poet is a quiet wanderer, a gatherer of light, a wordsmith of the unseen truths that rise only when the heart listens.” quote by poetess
Morning finds me at an open window,
coffee cooling beside a notebook
I’ve not yet convinced myself to open.
I watch the light consider the room,
softening the corners
as though it knows I need gentleness
before the words arrive.
I think in long, slow arcs~
thoughts drifting like migrating birds,
never rushed, never forced,
just circling until they choose
the right branch to land on.
By noon, a memory stirs.
It brushes my shoulder
like someone passing behind me~
a small reminder
that the past still wants to speak
if I’m willing to listen.
I pause,
and the pause becomes a doorway.
Afternoon settles in.
I write a line,
then cross it out,
then write another
that feels truer,
closer to the pulse
I’ve been hoping to name.
I’m not chasing brilliance nor perfection;
I’m tracing the shape
of what the heart remembers
but rarely says aloud.
By evening,
the page holds a quiet constellation~
not a finished poem,
but the beginnings of one,
bright enough to keep me company
as the day folds itself away.
I close the notebook gently,
the way one closes a thought
that will return tomorrow.
I am a pensive poet~
one who knows that meaning
doesn’t shout,
but leans in softly
and waits to be found.
This is the time I need
Unexpected as always as faithful
Always fading away, never to keep
As always as only an instant to be cool
I give to time an unwelcome me
And I tell to time that this is my moment
Nothing now can keep me from being free
This spur without promises to never be broken
Seeing further then where seas end
Hearing distinctively a silent stillness
A stranger amongst humanities elusively blend
A friendly amongst strangers in absolute bareness
I am he in this moment without a name
He who disappears beyond for a way to remain
For ones who knows me… knows me not
One can never think for I… I need be thought
A traveller isn’t my brand but a wanderer bears
A title exacting in a world no one cares
There were, there are and there is time
Do the ones and I still bother to find??
And I live my moments without I and me
Giving moments to me and I a lasting be
Tis be the time I seek
Unexpected… yet as always as faithful
A fading away before my leap
As always as only an instant to be cool
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ the stars are out
and the breath of the night is sweet,
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ time when wanderlust should seize ¦¦¦¦ my feet.
¦¦¦ I'm glad ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ to leave the splendour of out-of-doors for a human dwelling
place.
I ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ a vagabond who ¦¦¦¦¦¦ liked to
roam
¦¦¦ up and down the streets of the world and not to have a home:
The tramp who slept in your barn last night and left at break of
day
Will wander only until he finds another place to stay.
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
He'll sit on the grass and take his ease so long as the sun is high,
But when it is dark he wants a roof ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
And the only reason a road is good, as every wanderer knows,
Is just because of the homes, ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ to which it goes.
They say that life is a highway and its milestones
are the years,
And now and then there's a toll-gate where you buy your way with
tears.
It's a rough road ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ and it stretches broad and far,
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ leads to a golden Town where golden Houses are.
(Blackout of Roofs by Joyce Kilmer)
Something goes wrong with the purifier
Someone must go on and activate the code
But whosoever risks deadly levels of radiation exposure
Fawkes volunteers, after all he is a super mutant, what should he fear?
The purifier sparks, creating a radioactive explosion
Two weeks later the lone wanderer awakes with nothing broken
He finds Fawkes raiding the nuka cola vendors
The lone wanderer limps feeling tender
He says to Fawkes 'I need a vacation'
Fawkes laughs and says 'Be Patient'
The lone wanderer asks why and Fawkes responds 'Because we've nearly stopped the Enclave Invasion'
He laughs and grabs his sword, gatling, and magnum
Fawkes tosses him a Nuka cola quantum
The lone wander chug it down, tipping up the bottom
Traveller
I traverse without a clock,
Hoping the sun lingers
A little while,
As her rays accompany
My shadow and me.
The dust of the desert anchors my soles.
I hear the cutting chorus of the owls,
Piercing the silence of the air.
I do not want the wet hedges of trees;
They offer no comfort
To the bones of a man
Who never met rapture.
The cloud blushes in cheap costume
And scares the sun into bed,
Like Charlie's grandma.
Allowing the moon to watch midnight horrors,
From Neanderthal actors upon the stage of my imagination,
While I burn within my own furnace.
May you never lose your way,
Led astray by hundreds of tracks on the map
That seem navigable without a compass.
For humanity's race is a journey,
But not every terrain leads to the same destination.
I am just a traveller;
I am not a wanderer.
~ Uche Chidozie Okorie
I brought the rent home
after a day of work in the heat.
The homeowner was gone.
His uncle who he took in
was yelling
I went away.
Clothes cluttered
the living room floor.
Sometimes I had to admit
to myself I felt this
was not a home to me.
Last night I searched
my laptop for images
of women once loved
and allowed my mind
to wander.
a wanderer
maybe that was who
I was meant to be
The moon looked in
the window while
the television in the living
room played the same thing.
Another housemate slept on the couch.
A manager asked if I could
come in on a day off.
I told him no to protect
my time and allow myself
to drive around and write.
He called it a hobby—
never read the books I wrote.
My books were kept on a shelf
above the dresser in my bedroom.
In my dreams another was born.
The twilight, like a gentle lover, wraps the world in a soft embrace.
Its colors blend and bleed, creating a canvas painted with hues of dreams and memories.
Each stroke of dusk is a whispered promise, a secret shared between the fading day and the emerging night.
The moon, that celestial wanderer,
tosses its silver coin across the vast expanse of sky.
It dances with the stars, those ancient companions who listen intently to its murmured confessions.
They exchange cryptic messages, like cosmic postcards, bridging the gap between infinity and our mortal existence.
The ocean, forever restless, is a lover who kisses the shore with salty lips.
Each wave carries a love letter, etching its frothy ink upon the sands.
Seagulls, those winged poets, pirouette on the edge of existence.
Their delicate feathers brush against eternity, leaving traces of flight in the wind.
Mountains stand as stoic guardians, their rugged faces etched by the hands of time.
They hold forgotten tales and whispered legends within their stony hearts. Their peaks reach for the heavens, daring the gods to descend and join their ancient dance.
Earth and sky entwine, and we watch, mere mortals, from below.
And we, like threads in a cosmic loom, weave our fragile stories.
Laughter, tears, and longing blend together, creating verses in the symphony of existence.
Our notes resonate across the expanse, fleeting moments of grace that linger in the memory of the universe.
In this grand tapestry of life, we are both artists and observers,
adding our brushstrokes to the canvas of time.
Wanderer, at the crossing of these ways
well met! We have no sure knowledge
whence we have come or whither we shall go,
only we are here. But let us meet
in each other our own true selves,
forgetting lineage, confessing
we owe our being not only to great kings
but to tinkers tailors, beggar men,
thieves, to harlots as to queens.
Is Providence our parent, mere Chance,
or both? If Certainty you seek,
he will lead you to some cold place
by a bony hand. Seize the present
and make shared ignorance our bond,
frailty our strength, then
we shall not fear the fall of dice,
the sweeping scythe, for these release us
the very moment they would claim their prize.
Under the mystical veil of a moonless night,
I am but a leaf carried by the unseen currents of time,
A feather in the wind, anchored to nothing, bound by no direction.
Each day calls to me with its silent voice,
Each night whispers ancient promises,
And my thoughts flow like an untamed river,
A cascade of dreams, fantasies, and forgotten memories.
I possess no center, only an unquenched desire to explore,
To delve into every crevice, every hidden corner of existence.
I could step through the door this very moment,
Leaving behind all that is known,
For nothing binds me here,
Not even the pulse of my own heart.
In the palm of my hand, the lines of heart and mind intertwine,
A single path, an undetermined destination.
I find solace in the languor of a Sunday afternoon,
Sipping beer, losing myself in reverie,
There is no compulsion to embody maturity,
For all adults merely play their parts,
In an elaborate charade, a delicate farce.
As you feel, so do I,
My thoughts are but the mirror of my emotions,
I see you today, and expect no change tomorrow,
I will not fear your descent into despair,
For I do not see death as an ending,
Merely a passing shadow, a fleeting presence.
Women place themselves at the dawn of stories,
Then spread like whispers through the fabric of the world,
Enigmatic and profound.
"The great cosmetic strangeness of the deeply normal person."
Those were the people, and I, a wanderer without a homeland,
Tethered to nothing but a thin thread,
A segment of life without form or structure.
The photographer, dark-skinned, and I, the writer, pale,
Parted ways at this point,
He shunned the vision, but I sought it,
For it lay before my eyes, undeniable,
And death, neither grand nor trivial,
Just a presence, or an absence, a nuance overlooked.
God, the progenitor of fervent religious impulse,
Poetio, the hunter of bears, not trains,
For the train will crush him beneath its relentless wheels,
And I always believed there was another way,
A necessity to find that elusive path,
And we bear witness to this necessity.
The sole distinction between men and women,
Is a labyrinth of trials and failures,
An eternal dance of existence,
In which we lose and find ourselves,
Under the mystical veil of a moonless night.
Ash's afterlife, another elliptical ride behind the climb.
A course of strife, cursed by the past, forward in time.
The wanderer of worlds step aside the tracks onto paths laid over tombs,
Malevolent and malformed, misconstrued by literature words consumed.
Daylight that's not bright it's more like night without the empty space,
Moon bright is more likely to shroud facial features cast still in it`s place.
Grounded in roots, the symmetry decimates everything in chaos and in torment.
Laid out on the coals, a pure burn inside the mind that cannot awaken up the dormant.
Overlapped, nailed below the floor, wood barrier for the corpse'o.
Strike down the angel arc in lightning karma fire towards the torso.
And still I hate your face as well as your ways,
As before and afterward and eternal and always.
You disgusting being I daydream you misery.