Trackless Poems | Examples

In The Tears Of A Stranger

I learned many things from him ... 

That the trackless path
is gifted
to those
who believe
That the distance
between thoughts
can only be connected
by words
That the idea itself
 is worthless
without the thing
it expressed
That tomorrow
is no more important
than yesterday
or today
That the bullfighter
must never die
with the bull
still alive
That revolution
is the truest place
where death
is reborn
That real courage
is only measured
by the one
sorely lacking
That to love her once
is better
than to love
her again
That you must
when you must
until the bugles
have stopped
That worshipping
oneself
is life’s fatal
devotion
That the jungle
we chase
is the jungle
we live in
That the willingness
to say it
frees a willingness
to act
That each great new
adventure
begets a greater
new ending
That in the tears
of a stranger
bleeds the heart
— of a friend

(Key West: January, 1994)

The Devil's Fiddle

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)

I And Me

Fighting against external enemies is natural.
Isn't my fight against myself a Herculean task?
Desires and drives that decrease me into an animal
In my predicament, my consciousness is in a mask.

Values and valuations, like heroes and villains, fight
Benumbed by existential angst, I resign to the fate
My conflicts between power, peace, and patience reach their height.
The poles of physique and psyche pull off in a hate state.

Discord between desires and deceit, like lane dividers
Divert my inner equilibrium from its axis
Even thick kith and kin seem out of the blue outsiders.
There's no logic between my philosophies and praxis.

As though unbridled, my horse of existence runs trackless.
I run fight battles within and lose hapless and helpless.

The Fortune Teller

I wander in a trackless desert
Eyes squinting, scanning the desert horizon
Parched land, and so does my heart seem
Oh where could I find an oasis to cool my feet

Desert storms blow, I close my eyes
Some shadow approaching me
What is it, my love gone by?
The wind whistles, nay it is a fortune teller

Her wrinkled face smiles, hands me a card
What is it? A camel print?
Says she, it is a symbol of love
You will have a second chance

I safely hide the card within the folds of my diary
15 years have since gone by, the print faded
I look at the man by my bedside
My fortune cookie, I inwardly smile

The Musty Halls of Our Endeavors

Open the clasped and ancient doors!
There are mountains of footage
to peruse.
Thousands of long years to sift through.
Who did what or who did nothing
are of great import - apparently.

Who was that fellow
and why did we follow?
That despot killer
where was his karma?
We must seek clues in the dust of ages.

Pages must be read and scrutinized.
Order and reason sought
for we are nothing
without a history that teaches us.

Yet, here there are just trackless words,
statements, records,
testament's from blind witnesses
and towers of hearsay.

How to proceed?
Should we file away the sane
and burn the insane
or will the sane in the end
drive us into insanity?

Somewhere at the very bottom
of a mute pile
wise men have been muffled
have dried-up under layers of faded ink.

Dig on must we?
Or should we close those rotted doors
and walk away on new bought shoes
recording only our steps
leaving no signs on unmapped paths?

Warriors of Nation

They are dragging the funeral
And conferring their itch
With dreams to fade foe
These are the lion-hearted heroes of mother earth

They are walking on the roads of thrones
Where entry and exit is to god
With ardent desire to protect each and every soul
This is the uniform of our real heroes

Their fight is trackless
Their enemy is reckless
Their effort are countless
May this valarous fate recives the stoke of luck

They are platting mortal for humankind 
These are the real protagonists 
May they receive the strength to ushere 
The mankind to the robust world

NAYAN SHRIMAL

Hummingbird Walk

A trackless wind scatters his mind
leaves fly away where no leaves are.

A hummingbird inside his chest drums,
the evening is escaping down roads
long plowed over with remorseless change.

It never used to be like this;
he had once been the bold pirate of his fate
his ship sailed away one day only to return in flames.

Sometimes you have to shrug,
keep walking around a small municipal park
until a parked car follows you home

The city will swallow its many tongues
then bury its hummingbird mind
until the dawn
retrieves a life once more.

Writing

cosmic landscapes adorning the mind scene
pass through fine nerves and fingers ---
scripts on slates and papers

shadowy sketches scribbled secretly 
by unknown master artist ---
on human heads and hearts

if read well they give meanings multiple
wedding must be read wedding ---
pudding should be pudding

cries and shouts of expression formed them once
they are pearls and jewels now ---
humans choose what they want

waves of oceans easily wipe them off
when written on seashore sands ---
trackless are their images


26 March 2022

Journey

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

Sun Rays

plows through thick forests
paves paths betwixt barren lands ---
darkness left trackless


04 March 2022
H Forms - Traditional Nature Haiku Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France

The Last Word

I think love requires
little more than willing – 

if doors and windows
are closed and shuttered,
fresh air and sunlight
cannot find a healing sliver – 

but slightly ajar, light and
warmth begin to restore
blessed comfort-places – 

For love is truly mystical,

transcending logic and
all reason; outpacing Time
and Space's trackless, furthest
distance – 

we are born for fondly dreaming

our heart's cravings, when properly
in tune, likened to the silvered 
strings of angelic harps –  

Men may try to take all joy from life...
But God has The Last Word – which is 
always, Love!

Trackless

paths they find and pave
when tarred baked basked masked, dare to
erase their footprints

29 June 2021

Warriors of Nation

They are dragging the funeral,
And conferring their itch
With dreams to fade foe.
These are the lion hearted heroes
Of mother earth.

They are walking on the roads of thrones,
Where entry and exit is to God
With ardent desire to protect
each and every soul,
This is the uniform of our real heroes.

Their fight is trackless,
Their enemy is reckless,
Their efforts are countless,
May this valarous fate
receives the stroke of luck

They are platting mortal for humankind
These are the real protagonist,
May they receive the strength to usher
the mankind to the robust world.

                       :-Nayan Chetankumar Shrimal

Building Shrines of Hope

Some enact outstanding feats
of altruism in the world,
some pray, administer and comfort;
both create shrines of hope.

Yet there are others tasked to
reveal waymarks on invisible pathways,
cairns and inuksuk, signs upon the trackless;
word-symbols, 
akin to rocks and pebbles.

Poets who scribble, often by chance, 
point a way, and when they do
God builds a small shrine
for them also.

The Abdicate

Standard bearer,
above the fray

Others follow,
trackless fields

Trailing echo’s,
dead and gone

Then tomorrow
—tomorrow then

(Villanova Pennsylvania: August, 2020)

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