"trackless" poems
Frost-locked all the winter,
Seeds, and roots, and stones of fruits,
What shall make their sap ascend
That they may put forth shoots?
Tips of tender green,
Leaf, or blade, or sheath;
Telling of the hidden life
That breaks forth underneath,
Life nursed in its grave by Death.
Blows the thaw-wind pleasantly,
Drips the soaking rain,
By fits looks down the waking sun:
Young grass springs on the plain;
Young leaves clothe early hedgerow trees;
Seeds, and roots, and stones of fruits,
Swollen with sap, put forth their shoots;
Curled-headed ferns sprout in the lane;
Birds sing and pair again.
There is no time like Spring,
When life's alive in everything,
Before new nestlings sing,
Before cleft swallows speed their journey back
Along the trackless track,--
God guides their wing,
He spreads their table that they nothing lack,--
Before the daisy grows a common flower,
Before the sun has power
To scorch the world up in his noontide hour.
There is no time like Spring,
Like Spring that passes by;
There is no life like Spring-life born to die,--
Piercing the sod,
Clothing the uncouth clod,
Hatched in the nest,
Fledged on the windy bough,
Strong on the wing:
There is no time like Spring that passes by,
Now newly born, and now
Hastening to die.
14.6k
There came an image in Life’s retinue
That had Love’s wings and bore his gonfalon:
Fair was the web, and nobly wrought thereon,
O soul-sequestered face, thy form and hue!
Bewildering sounds, such as Spring wakens to,
Shook in its folds; and through my heart its power
Sped trackless as the immemorable hour
When birth’s dark portal groaned and all was new.
But a veiled woman followed, and she caught
The banner round its staff, to furl and cling,—
Then plucked a feather from the bearer’s wing,
And held it to his lips that stirred it not,
And said to me, ‘Behold, there is no breath:
I and this Love are one, and I am Death.’
5.1k
My troubled hands
trembling as I truss
trusted tricks
tried
Tragic tropes, tracks
Trampled trips and trippy trends
Trawlers tread
Trebles tremored
Trimmed but trackless
I don't know
what
this means anymore
Trump
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 3:18 AM UTC
Journeys rendered dateless,
Unending,
Wayward and extending out,
Round the compass points --
Dizzying aspiration to cease this race,
To slow my sprinting soul,
This pace splintering, in exhaustion.
Expiring breath of hope or of home
Evaporated in a distance
Vanishing and
Disconnected.
Drifting
On trackless tides, across
Labyrinthine depths,
Within the vast heart
Of the world
I cannot run from.
Yet, I moved to and between
The center or its peripherals, in
Singular or collectives,
Seeking pattern and
Drawing connectives –-
Brushing by and
Bustling among
People
Entranced In their own
Objectives.
I watched their movements
And their exchanges,
I heard their rituals and
Invocations.
In all these transitions,
They have no inkling
That their seemingly trite
Lives merely manifest
The epic motifs of the heavens!
Our imaginations mirror
The vitality of the gods!
We are as immortal as they!
Our simple, sensual stories
Are also enduring legends
Unfolding,
As our pages turn,
Our flags are unfurling!
Just as our fellow
Olympians of old
Engaged in a marathon of
Endeavor to heights
Unimagined!
From those mystic days
Since Orpheus’ ardent lyre
Sang notes
Of Nature’s divinity, Her
Eternal sweetness.
We need only sense that
It is in Nature’s essence
We are sharing.
With her, we are joined in
An undying marriage,
A unified pairing –
Our human heritage,
Our dignified bearing.
We share in that song,
We share in that sweetness,
We share in that race,
We share in Her immanence.
This journey is our own.
It goes on, unending!
Jul 30, 2017
Jul 30, 2017 at 1:11 PM UTC
To sit on rocks, to muse o’er flood and fell,
To slowly trace the forest’s shady scene,
Where things that own not man’s dominion dwell,
And mortal foot hath ne’er or rarely been;
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen,
With the wild flock that never needs a fold;
Alone o’er steeps and foaming falls to lean;
This is not solitude, ’tis but to hold
Converse with Nature’s charms, and view her stores unrolled.
But midst the crowd, the hurry, the shock of men,
To hear, to see, to feel and to possess,
And roam alone, the world’s tired denizen,
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless;
Minions of splendour shrinking from distress!
None that, with kindred consciousness endued,
If we were not, would seem to smile the less
Of all the flattered, followed, sought and sued;
This is to be alone; this, this is solitude!
2.6k
LIFE! I know not what thou art,
But know that thou and I must part;
And when, or how, or where we met,
I own to me 's a secret yet.
But this I know, when thou art fled,
Where'er they lay these limbs, this head,
No clod so valueless shall be
As all that then remains of me.
O whither, whither dost thou fly?
Where bend unseen thy trackless course?
And in this strange divorce,
Ah, tell where I must seek this compound I?
To the vast ocean of empyreal flame
From whence thy essence came
Dost thou thy flight pursue, when freed
From matter's base encumbering ****
Or dost thou, hid from sight,
Wait, like some spell-bound knight,
Through blank oblivious years th' appointed hour
To break thy trance and reassume thy power?
Yet canst thou without thought or feeling be?
O say, what art thou, when no more thou'rt thee?
Life! we have been long together,
Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;
'Tis hard to part when friends are dear;
Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear;--
Then steal away, give little warning,
Choose thine own time;
Say not Good-night, but in some brighter clime
Bid me Good-morning!
2.5k
When the daemon of a person is lost
that person will wander through trackless wastes.
If she sweeps her house and prays diligently,
It may be
that seven new spirits
will come and take up residence with her
and there will be dancing
and a turning
and a new fire may be kindled.
Feb 25, 2019
Feb 25, 2019 at 2:59 PM UTC
troglo-what?
look it up, those who
do not know the word
for
I am
a lover of words
obscure exotic esoteric poetic pedantic petty greasy slimy odoriferous clanking cacophonous melodious odious arcane archaic
all
a primal pleasure to hear,
to write, to read when perched
in the right order and place
to take flight and allow
me to soar above
or hide below
the massed multitudes of monkeys
who share my deoxyribonucleic acid
(and you thought
I would simply say,
DNA)
for they
find solace in the day
shared with simian soul mates
but I,
the true troglodyte of Texas
prefer the singular scent of words
on trackless trails
over the sound of lovers
and their breathless tales
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 12:57 PM UTC
1565
Some Arrows slay but whom they strike—
But this slew all but him—
Who so appareled his Escape—
Too trackless for a Tomb—
2.2k
A dream that waketh,
Bubble that breaketh,
Song whose burden sigheth,
A passing breath,
Smoke that vanisheth,--
Such is life that dieth.
A flower that fadeth,
Fruit the tree sheddeth,
Trackless bird that flieth,
Summer time brief,
Falling of the leaf,--
Such is life that dieth.
A scent exhaling,
Snow waters failing,
Morning dew that drieth,
A windy blast,
Lengthening shadows cast,--
Such is life that dieth.
A scanty measure,
Rust-eaten treasure,
Spending that nought buyeth,
Moth on the wing,
Toil unprofiting,--
Such is life that dieth.
Morrow by morrow
Sorrow breeds sorrow,
For this my song sigheth;
From day to night
We lapse out of sight,--
Such is life that dieth.
2.1k
In this palace of madness reside creatures of fury,
of time, of earth, of light and dark.
A callous canvass upon which to paint such
murderous intent, spite and gleeful joy.
Malice hacks at the door.
Black blankets the beckoning mountain.
Maggots putrefy this palace of decay.
Trackless steps lead to the mountain,
worn away by thousands of pounding feet
over thousands of years.
All stepping into the casket of night.
All stepping into chasms of phantoms.
Enchantments abound this un-hallowed ground
memories, anxious to stay locked behind the door.
Madness clawing, devouring sanity step by step.
Turn back, for insanity inhabits this palace, and,
Here be dragons.
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 2:35 PM UTC
It was a trackless railway
In the woods
A bit misunderstood
Stripped
Abandoned
And secluded
It was Illusionious
In its imprints
Its indentations
Of footsteps
Intersecting
In sections
With the phantoms
Of past steps
The glints
Of stimuli
Widened my eyes
In My
Accension
From feeble
Mindedness
Suspended
In rhymes
In rows
In times
And places
But this time
It's just different
As I
Blindly
Signed the sky
In denial
Of the price
And paid nothing
Jun 8, 2013
Jun 8, 2013 at 1:55 AM UTC
Upon the mountain's distant head,
With trackless snows for ever white,
Where all is still, and cold, and dead,
Late shines the day's departing light.
But far below those icy rocks,
The vales, in summer bloom arrayed,
Woods full of birds, and fields of flocks,
Are dim with mist and dark with shade.
'Tis thus, from warm and kindly hearts,
And eyes where generous meanings burn,
Earliest the light of life departs,
But lingers with the cold and stern.
1.5k
My God, my God, my mothering God!
I cry to you from along this trackless waste,
Where humanity buried itself so long ago –
Scorched earth in place of garden sweet –
No water here to cool the parchĕd lips,
No sanctuary for the troubled, lonely soul.
My God, my God, my mothering God!
What did we do to make this barren land,
Where souls are turned to shadowy shades,
Eyes are empty and hearts grown cold?
We long for your mercy, better than life,
Gentle rain of grace, light in the darkness.
My God, my God, my mothering God!
I search this desert haunt, one broken man,
Where my brother is stripped of all dignity,
My sister is sold into slavery for pleasure;
Men **** your world for vanishing profit,
And crush your children for fleeting gain.
My God, my God, my mothering God!
Here in the wasteland we make our home
With tears and curses and all our fears –
We lost the war we began in ages past –
Now here we subsist, hostīle squatters,
Breath the air of the world we poisoned.
My God, my God, my mothering God!
This scorchĕd breeze carries the wailing,
Cries of the millions of the sick and poor,
Widows and orphans and lonely souls –
We blinded ourselves; we are deaf now –
Agony and angst, anxiety and final death.
My God, my God, my mothering God!
Is there some sanctuary in this desert land?
To lay down this self-borne cross, to rest –
Water to refresh, to cool the burning brow –
Some sweet promise of the garden again,
An oasis of hope amid our suffering shame?
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 10:28 AM UTC
Mother!
When the world turn against you
And call you
ill-fated man
Museum without Statues
Darkness darker than Blindness
Father!
The Saddened Sun
That will not shine
A rainless **** that brings drought
A trackless Album
Father!/ Mother!
The daily thoughts of these words
Is like the butterfly effect caused hurricane
But you are graced with
Hopeful favour daily.
After the storm,
Comes a new life
Where stiffness echoes,
You are graced.
Where thoughts are underneath
You are hopeful
Where odium creates circumstances of blames
You are favoured
With the Window of Laughter.
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 7:21 AM UTC
The return ~
It was a trackless railway
In the woods
A bit misunderstood
Stripped
Abandoned
And secluded
It was illusionious
In its imprints
Its indentations
Of footsteps
Intersecting
In sections
In phantoms
Passed
In half
Steps
And in glints of stimuli
I widened my eyes
In my
Accension
From feeble mindedness
Suspended
In rhymes
In rows
In times
And in places
But this one time
It was just different
As I
Blindly
Signed the sky
In denial
Of the price
And paid nothing
~
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 12:53 AM UTC
Is it a person or a place,
A thing whose soul I can never know?
A warrior howls with the wind
in the trackless wild.
Or a peerie lad running through sand
on St. Ninian's ayre?
A maid swimming
in an unreachable isle
or the luffing of sails
in the harbour at night.
An expanse of heath
with a bird above.
A person or place
That I'll always love
Mar 26, 2025
Mar 26, 2025 at 8:46 PM UTC
I pray to Eros for release
leave the game of mockery
he asks too much in this time
my job is done yet still I strive
quitting is the only way
to return to sanity
divorce myself from the race
rubbing ugly not embraced
once there was a driving need
incite production of more kin
God or Darwin, it matters not
both are blamed for the thirst
this urge incited in the sea
trackless by my current means
with the drink made with salt
I am parched no matter what
these respites I cannot reach
a gulf of decades by design
the more fertile take my place
if only urges could be convinced
a holy man with no desires
the twisted monk in the end
this would be quite enough
if Eros left my lusting heart.
© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180819.
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 1:18 PM UTC
There is a magic in the midnight sky;
In tinted arctic dawns that gild the snow;
In golden, sunlit jungles of Khitai;
The glory of a Persian sunset’s afterglow;
In the aurora’s weird, unearthly light,
Where stars are eyes obscured behind a veil
Of dancing amethyst and malachite;
The vivid transience of the meteor’s trail;
The silence of a ruined city of the waste;
Moonrise that dapples the deserted plain;
A solitary island by wild seas embraced;
By blind, perpetual tides that surge and race
To thunder on the skyward-reaching shore in vain;
In trackless forest; in high peaks cloaked in a shroud
Of evening mist; in galleon-sails of summer cloud;
In all the endless beauty that this world contains...
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 6:25 PM UTC
the horse racing to greet dawn
coated in sweat cold winter night
chases his riders desperation into the pathless night
chases his kindred's dream
to fly across the trackless predawn light
to be swifter than the wind
to be as effortless as the burning sun
to be as fast as dreams
pushing himself
he knows his rider must flee
knows the men with knives give chase
know he will perish with this rider
if he does not reach the dawn before them
if he does not ****** destiny from them that chase
pushing harder and harder
mile and another mile, another mile
his thoughts are for the lazy pasture
that he calls home
for the dance of sun and hooves
the cool cool water on a hot day
the sweet taste of fresh oat and meal
his mare beside him
the colt they had borne
his warm home so many miles behind
now he races along the
breaking edge of dawn
each stride his weariness ties to master him
yet his riders desperation pushes him onward
now he races against his mortal endurance
now he races against his dying breath
the men with knives seem immortal
they draw ever closer
the danger of them grasps at his every stride
the horror of them breaths on his tail
now he races against his mortal endurance
beyond any thought but to flee
as the dawn breaks, he slips into darkness
stumbling he fights his way forward
fighting to take another stride
rider and fear forgotten now
as he falls to the cold earth
but his spirit runs faster than wind
but his spirt swifter than dreams
his spirit free now
to a forever pasture of peace and sun
Oct 7, 2017
Oct 7, 2017 at 10:06 AM UTC
I am numbed by the loss of companions & loved ones,
all set out to fulfill their destinies
in continents of unfamiliar names; trackless wastelands.
I am on a self-discovery, in ruins…
whereabouts remain unstated.
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 4:42 PM UTC
the words were like poison
and they sat on my conscience like a weapon
like a desert landscape in the fair kingdom
the words that she laid at my door
just would not sit right with me
no matter how many of the guilty i ran to ground
no matter how many of the fears i cast aside
the history of it felt like a cold stone hall
and its midnight man running with his flickering torch
and his sweaty face filled with a thousand nameless terrors
he bears the tidings with a hesitant hand
a crumpled rag of paper with her words scrawled
with a desperate hand of ignorance
its history tastes like that to me
we rode far into the north country
trying to put some miles between us and the steady rain
trying to shake the pursuit that is more felt than seen
a chaser like a figure emerging from the heat haze in
the desert valley of tombs
we rode far into the trackless wood of the north
and camped up by the river
you became like a ***** hermit
and i became a bitter shadow of a creek crawler
cursed for not having drunk of the sweet nectar of her loves
one day announced you were fleeing this place
cause you had found god
so you went back to the lowlands
and preached to the crows in the pickers field
but when evening had flown it took your madness with it
so we had to begin again
so into the dark of night we ride
seeking the world
seeking the truth untainted by her lies
and in the fierce fire of her unforgiving eye
you finally see that you will know no peace till
you have set aright the fallen house
restore the mantle of the broken kingdom to its rightful heirs
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 11:59 AM UTC
We failed the summit that year
Diamond Peak
summer of 1974
There on a razor's edge ridge
sheer drop to the east
thousands of feet
certain death on that side
no safe path forward
And the way we had come
an arduous boulder-strewn slope
Angle of Repose.
As we pondered our next move,
I told my friend a story
that had just come
into my thoughts.
A young man,
as we were,
promised his friends
he would fly.
To their horror
he stretched his arms
toward the sun
and leaped into the chasm.
Most saw a young man
in the long arc of his demise
falling to earth.
But one sharp-eyed friend
saw a fierce bird of prey
come rising
with the winds
and land
there
on that ridge
where we sat
and from which he fell.
The story was a presence
there between us.
We sat together
lost in its meaning.
And then it happened.
A bird of prey,
entirely white,
unknown to us,
perhaps unknown
to Science,
came rising with the winds
from below
from where that boy in the story
had fallen.
It landed on the outcrop
from which he
(in the story)
had jumped.
This magnificent creature
turned its impenetrable gaze
to us
and screamed.
The instant the bird alighted
and flew down the mountainside
we leapt to our feet
to follow.
What came next
took place in myth.
In that myth,
we were heroes
able to run at full speed -
some would call it a breakneck pace -
down that long mountain slope
Boulder-strewn.
Without fear
Without hesitation
in full stride
one boulder to the next.
Boulders the size of cottages
Some the size of a grey whale
mysteriously beached on a mountain.
Flying more than running.
With the falcon as a guide
we wandered the afternoon
through trackless
wilderness.
A timeless afternoon
in the Garden.
And then humbly
back to camp.
You might not believe this story.
But it is a story
as true as myth
and every bit as real.
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 3:52 PM UTC
Standing in the doorway
Rushing, Racing, Running in circles
Colliding, Confusion, Chaos on replay.
Slowly pulling the white nightgown over her still cold body
Brightly coloured pills, they will make the hour seem less ill.
She’s flesh and blood but does not feel human at night
Scream underwater, tonight, you’re her ****
Whispering charms and throwing curses
The soothing murmur, the stabbing blade
Will you still wait in the sweltering heat?
Head under ice, dive in, taste the cold.
The cool grey fingers will linger at your pulsing throat
Gazing into the blackness, the sweet breath shall pull you closer
Biting a neck, still yet to be ripe
The moving shadows will lure you in
Vague despair will creep up your chest
Shivers down her spine
Whistling claws tearing you down
Work on your own, delicate lullaby.
Trackless patterns, invisible footsteps
Slowly falling from the sky, the tears of a broken star
Let the snow bury you deep.
She flies with no movement, up and above
There is no longer a reality to hold her down
Wake up to find her body mangled
The twisted lips, the shattered eyes
murmuring under her breath
a continuous sound
something not to be understood.
May 14, 2012
May 14, 2012 at 4:02 PM UTC
(lyrics)
exposed emotions
blister 'neath
your numbing gaze
of indifference
that roars
in thund'rous waves
to crash upon
the battered shores
of my heart
exposed emotions
drivin' me insane
their hungry voices
screaming in my head
behold a night wind
leads me
to a place...
where dangerous visions
softly tread
take my heart
take my soul
take anything you want
dont take my sons
take my heart
take my soul
take my life if you must
just dont take my sons
dont take my sons
exposed emotions
out of control
a raging firestorm
burning thru my soul
behold a storm wind
carries me away
where crimson rivers
twist and bend...
on these endless
desert sands
cover me in shades
of golden brown
a trackless dune
in desert lands
where crimson rivers
twist and bend
twist and bend
in these bitter
endless sands
take my heart
take my soul
take anything you want
dont take my sons
take my heart
take my soul
take my life
if you must
i'm under your thumb
you've got the gun
pic poem
http://oi68.tinypic.com/65bwhz.jpg
- (Original Poem) -
exposed emotions
blazing like a firestorm
'neath a bright indifferent sun
life's blood flowing freely
from wounds beyond repair
falling wetly to the ground
where crimson rivers pool
in shades of golden brown
hungrily devoured
yet never tasted
by these endless
desert sands....
May 19, 2018
May 19, 2018 at 4:43 PM UTC