Tearing down the illusions of falsehoods,
My footsteps march forward towards fullness.
The skies seem so obscure beyond the woods;
Afar, the light of love looks luminous.
Trails that were trodden once are now traceless;
I have to toil to till and find my path.
So-journers and wayfarers seem faceless;
My logic lags beyond all human math.
Fields and farmlands are deserted and dry;
Wells I dig within do not quench my thirst.
I stand amidst slippery sands and cry:
Might the journeys stalled in mud be reversed?
When pathless paths attain their cosmic goal,
Does Brahman wake, or blind, the dreaming soul?
For every wayfarer,
Who gazes through
A veil of gloom.
Those who seek their name
In the countless
Distant points of white
In the firmament.
Leaving behind those bound by their names—
And those who descend
Into the glow of others.
Unable to face
Obscurity
Without closing their eyes.
"Why do wayfarers march
Across trampled grass?"
Reflecting my ignorance
As I continue on my path—
Cutting through the weeds,
Against an insistent wind
A part of me refuses to give in,
Only to crawl back.
A lingering memory calls out—
Unlike the moon,
Whose rays bless
An entire world
This star
Shines only upon me.
Cornbelt residents rise with the sun,
Seeking geometry in soybeans.
Space aliens zoomed through the galaxy,
Just to crease someone’s corn flakes.
Intelligent life from distant stars
Avoids the formal radio waves.
They use advanced crop wrinkles
To converse with good ol’ Mother Earth.
Galactic wayfarers don’t stop at NASA,
They etch their figures in farrow.
A communication from outer space,
Which could be wiped away by a combine.
Two small-town farmers named Dave and Roy,
Armed with flashlights and sheets of plywood,
Chuckling quietly into their beers,
Designing an entirely new universe.
UFO investigators tote their gear,
Science-ing the folded wheat.
Either the universe is trying to talk to us,
Or the bar kicked them out too early.
At one point in time, there's was one country
As there's one earth, one rainbow and one human race
The wind, rain, smoke, and snow don't recognize
Borders or tiny plots of land that greedy leaders
Think they possess. They will always make errors
Nobody owns a country, tower, a location or a place
As one can only palaver. We can scuttlebutt and dramatize
All we want. Earth or this land is owned by nobody
This land belongs to all. We are passing by as tourists
We are all migrants or immigrants, even the racists
Or the wannabes. We are wayfarers, passengers on a boat
We own nothing. We own no land, no wind and no float
We need to make room for each other. Today is your turn
Tomorrow belongs to no one. This is something we must learn.
Copyright © June 2019, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
Polaris, Star of Ursa Minor
among her suns, you are chief shiner.
Commonly known as Pole or North Star
you guide navigators from afar.
Can you also lead and guide me
as She who led the Magi Three
to the Desire of all Ages
prophesied of by many sages.
Polaris, famous as the North Star
what a fit metaphor you are
of Jesus, the “Bright and Morning Star”
who leads and guides men from afar.
Fellow travelers, life’s wayfarers
Don’t be detoured by naysayers.
Jesus is the true Polaris,
He is the guide to get to know.
The cold consummate summer
eyes unclued
beyond the veil of tears
South were pleasant lands
East was the golden sunrise
the winds strolled gently
West were Mike and Suzie dominion
smiles on their faces
offering no apologies to the wayfarers
they needed no clue
Marshy, muddy, like the alluvial soil after rains
Slippery, clutching, quaking, and giving way underfoot
Pulling the solitary wayfarers with vein-nerve strains
Pets and cattle, as though sailing on sinking boats, get hooked.
Is human kinship as smooth as rolling on fresh flowers?
Amidst love, laughter, and unbridled joy and fulfillment
Like seasons change from sunny summer to monsoon showers
Don't relationships bring in quagmires of self-concealment?
Under the seemingly muddy water of emotions
When headaches and heartaches dare to abide with happiness
Within opens notions of communication erosions.
Grass blades hiding the messy marshes lead to fussiness.
Ponder! Meditate! Contemplate! Walk in a Zen rhythm!
Quagmire says, Beware of the existential vacuum.
Whale Wayfarers
By Mark Stucky
Are you obsessed like Captain Ahab,
horizon-bound to harpoon that whale?
Could that addiction shipwreck you
and drown loved ones surrounding you?
Is your Pequod-like quest
worth the possible price?
Or are you oblivious like Jonah,
blithely sleeping through the maelstrom
while willfully avoiding the call
and ignoring those who need you?
Will surging storm swells swallow you,
and only a whale of a tale can save you?
(First published in Agape Review, 9 Dec. 2022. See also my poem “Reluctant Rogue Redo?” for more ponderings on Jonah’s adventures.)
(Photo by Ray Shrewsberry on Pixabay.com.)
Reluctant Rogue Redo?
By Mark Stucky
If Jonah, reluctant rogue of a prophet,
had desired to visit Ninevah,
instead of fleeing the other direction,
how different would his story have been?
More succinct but less interesting?
No stormy maritime mishap?
No hard-to-swallow fish story?
No prayer in the belly of the beast?
Just marching through streets,
preaching his pithy prediction?
Would Ninevah still have repented?
Or did the whale-of-a-tale
add conviction to his message?
Jonah was not unlike me,
a spiritual rogue of today,
refusing to answer my call,
enduring intolerable storms,
crying in the belly of my beast.
Like Jonah, reversing direction,
might I yet find my path
and emerge from the depths?
(First published in Poetica Magazine, 3 March 2022. See also my poem “Whale Wayfarers,” telling two cautionary whale tales about hazardous opposite extremes in following one’s “calling.”)
(Image by anonymous on Pixabay.com.)
wayfarers do not have picnics with people.
travelers, journeyers, vagabonds, are wanderers.
they prefer nature to humans, and they keep moving.
do not try to enslave, entrap, slow down or capture one.
wayfarers come in a variety of shapes, boot sizes and heights.
they are usually taller than the norm, but not giants.
their leg muscles are well-developed, and they have bunions.
not all of them, but the two that I have met.
wayfarers are story tellers, but they keep their stories silent.
sharing them in their heads, but not with other humans.
they believe they will write a novel "someday"
weirdly enough on someday they are still moving, walking.
my aunt accidentally fell in love with a notorious wayfarer.
she followed him to Switzerland, France, Germany and Russia.
he kept asking her to be quiet, and it bothered her, for a year.
she thought she could change him, but she was incorrect.
wayfarers may not remember you even if they see you yearly.
but they will remember an oak tree branch or a twig on the lawn.
they will remember where they ate their peanut butter crackers.
they keep moving, so do not fall in love with one if you can help it.
"Oh beautiful for spacious skies,
For amber waves of grain
For purple mountain majesties
Above the fruited plain."
----------
Tales from ancestral lore decree
How journeys prompt discovery.
Evolving visions, sacred themes,
Beckoned onward those hopes and dreams:
One land became that promised place
Undaunted seekers could embrace -
No plight would prove too burdensome
That might deny wayfarers from
Immigrating to obtain
Freedoms that they could thus sustain.
Unbowed by struggles they would face
Long suffered souls these tests embraced;
Long wandered wards from tumults fought
Advancing quests for futures sought.
Now, praise their spirit rightly famed -
Defend those rights so nobly gained.
All within the taiga glade,
Their raiments gilt in comely shades,
The burgess shrives vagrant souls.
A garth of god for men alow.
Whereinto the roots may grow,
We wayfarers may never know,
For we waltz twixt sky and earth-
Domain of beast and realm of birds.
The elders of the greenwood lie,
On earth when once they kissed the sky,
And glowered at the rover’s romp,
Through lodgings filled with trunk and stump.
Or shrove to lonesome wretched wights,
Flying from their fearsome frights;
Seeking presence with burgesses,
Of taiga glade, the earth, the trees.
But now they lie upon the ground,
Now shod their garb, and lost their crowns,
Ne’er again will readorn,
Unlike their kin who stand and mourn.
We pass into the land of love,
For pleasant autumn leaves above;
To revel or repent alone,
To contemplate or to atone?
cleaving the black rock
the proud tree blocks wayfarers ---
wild shrubs hail the show
?
speeding naughty yacht
tears white skirts of green waters ---
questioning her course
?
silver waterfalls
like an Indian widow ---
on a shadow walk
?
rays of morning sun
play hide and seek with blossoms ---
breeze busy with trees
?
though not autumn time
ferocious maple leaves fall ---
wind escapes from blames
02 August 2022
Dark was the night ..
But the desert's love and the palm trees
Were calling..
The wayfarers went without me ..
It was not a time of waiting..
At dawn, they found a place.
By scorching heat and thirst
The wayfarers were beaten ..
Yet the call of the desert and the palm trees
Could not be aborted..
The wayfarers heard of no fear ..
None of them wanted to stay here ..
I wish I could taste a good sight of them
With a smile and a tear.
- Chokri Omri
"Reflections from Tunisia"
(2022)
Gravel crusted potholes, all slathered up with mud,
And ruts that jar your bones served on the side.
No place to turn around: I know because I've tried;
The heavy rains bring washouts from flash floods.
A great big hill so steep it evokes fear and dread
(When sloshing in a truck with two-wheel drive).
A ravine filled with brush, and trees no more alive,
Old tires guide wayfarers where to tread.
Out near 231, the forest's sounds subside;
The asphalt groove song echoes in your head.
And there, just 'round the bend, that quiet sense of dread:
The trail down to the place the woman died.
The big wide world awaits: four-lane divided life
To work and church and friends and so much more.
A fleeting mirror's glance; the heart takes flight to soar
To land, to lodging, daughter's family, wife.
Gravel crusted potholes, all slathered up with mud,
Like servings of my favorite dessert.
The tires turn to joy as paved gives way to dirt;
This road's my home: there's Huskey in my blood.
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