"trekking" poems
Stressed ?, Tensed ?, Frustrated in a blow ?,
Go to desert, beach, hill or a mountain of snow,
Sure, plan a trip, better make it solo.
Be free, feel the thrill, fear, love as you go.
Travel to unknowns, meet strangers say hello.
Feeling hurt?,
Stretch a desert,
Feel the sand,
Slipping through your hand,
Realise everything isn't in your control
A camel safari make it a goal.
Experience the culture, mix with locals
to rediscover yourself.
Are you in pain?
Head to mountains,
Altitude will test you in every way,
Your petty issues will go stray,
Try trekking, feel the snow,
Chilly breeze upland it blow,
Challenge your limits.
Trivial issues but mighty mountains digits.
When in doubt,
A beach you scout,
Feel the tropical sun,
Respect the relentless sea overrun,
You surf, sail and try the scooba fun.
Go beyond, challenge your limits,
Experience the miracles of nature,
Subside your pain, let stress be a bygone,
Rediscover yourself in the far unknown.
Jan 3, 2019
Jan 3, 2019 at 5:28 PM UTC
On the stiff twig up there
Hunches a wet black rook
Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain.
I do not expect a miracle
Or an accident
To set the sight on fire
In my eye, nor seek
Any more in the desultory weather some design,
But let spotted leaves fall as they fall,
Without ceremony, or portent.
Although, I admit, I desire,
Occasionally, some backtalk
From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain:
A certain minor light may still
Lean incandescent
Out of kitchen table or chair
As if a celestial burning took
Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then --
Thus hallowing an interval
Otherwise inconsequent
By bestowing largesse, honor,
One might say love. At any rate, I now walk
Wary (for it could happen
Even in this dull, ruinous landscape); skeptical,
Yet politic; ignorant
Of whatever angel may choose to flare
Suddenly at my elbow. I only know that a rook
Ordering its black feathers can so shine
As to seize my senses, haul
My eyelids up, and grant
A brief respite from fear
Of total neutrality. With luck,
Trekking stubborn through this season
Of fatigue, I shall
Patch together a content
Of sorts. Miracles occur,
If you care to call those spasmodic
Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again,
The long wait for the angel,
For that rare, random descent.
18k
i wasn’t feeling okay
so i put on my overalls and went
outside
to wander around my backyard,
trekking around in clunky rain boots
as i hummed and tried not to think
i like to write
little notes
on the leaves that are now
changing colors
and when i’m done
i let them
fall
so i can flatten them
beneath my heel
till the small words
are crinkled and no longer legible
amongst the dirt and grass
and so desperately,
i wish i could
let the thoughts in my head
fall
to the ground
so i could flatten
these
pitiful feelings
beneath my heel
until they were no longer legible
amongst the hurt and hopefulness
in my heart
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC
I shall go up north,
as north as I could possibly go,
trekking the wilderness of darkened hue,
to have a little adventure with you.
Shining lights from everywhere,
as dark a sky as it were,
greens and blues of a multi-color fare,
I wish I can be there to enjoy your every flare.
Tiny disturbances can be so magnetic,
causing an atmosphere to become electric,
as far as the elves have been to arctic,
I bet I haven’t seen anything more mystic.
You looked like the wishful green master
that was ready to grant all my wishes, yet
seeing you up close was a
dream that was more than all my wishes fulfilled.
Maybe, you really are that genie from a bottle. :)
Nov 13, 2019
Nov 13, 2019 at 11:15 AM UTC
The man behind the curtain
Speaking loud and certain
His image twisted and blurred
Larger than life
His armies and might
Imperialism is what he prefers
The little people do his bidden
On the senate floor of Oz
With pockets full
Of yellow brick gold
Their children live like gods
While those outside the castle
Have fallen fast to sleep
Trekking through the ***** field
Light upon their feet
The witches rise
On the centrist floor
The Wizard of Trump
Will have four more
Where are the ruby slippers
For it's time to go home
There's no place like...
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 7:39 AM UTC
My small hut of dreams
surviving all alone atop of hill
covered all around with huge deodar trees
of muddy wall and slanting roof sill
Ginger and cardamom tea
near the orange fire place
reading journals
I will live , capturing the first snow in days
freshly baked potato in oven clay
sprinkled rock salt with melted cheese
fragrant leaves of corainder
lingers on and stays
sweet and sour taste of wine
from the close by farm of grapes
friends and family gather everynight
over dinner and United prays
bells echoing mystery in the air
far from the temples on a difficult mountain
where path to heavens looks reachable
trekking the rocks in sun and in rain
Manisha
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 4:24 AM UTC
The smell of fresh cut grass that you have mowed
A lollipop with flavor painful, ****
The signal traffic has to let you go
A thumb on men who give plants great kick-starts
The middle of a rainbow, warm and cold
A long square with fuzz on a table for pool
The mark on the root of all evil that's sold
A moss-covered abandoned private school
The things you see once trekking through the woods
A pond lies ankle-high within this place
The bits of algae below where you stood
A frog that jumps in front of your shocked face
There still are many things we've not yet seen
Pertaining to the wonderful color green
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 6:53 PM UTC
Spring came full of rejuvenating hope to ward off the chilly winters,
It came replete with dreams of days much brighter,
It came to exfoliate & gently scrub away the old ones,
Yes it came to make way for the new flowers.
It stayed till the sun was high up there in the shy sky,
It stayed till the sun burnt holes in human pockets with bills of electricity,
It stayed till the sun was cursed for being out there with AC's to help the well to do,
Yes it stayed there till it was the merciless month of June.
Summer then took over in July by burning animal & human skins alike,
It even did not spare a patch of cool water in the naked-barren lands,
It made animals cry & people kneel down and call for help,
Yes their calls weren't left unanswered and soon it was the rainy monsoon.
Monsoon - the rainy season lashes upon the oven hot land in August's end,
It eases the hot temperatures and releases peafowls in mating,
It even threatens to drown the ill-prepared cities of India by flood-waters,
Yes Mumbai is just one example of how Indian people want the autumn to come.
Autumn - the reliever from torrid showers,
It is an exception in the Indian season cycle,
It is neither that torrid monsoon before it nor is it the hostile winters succeeding it,
Yes it is a short calm time just before the winter season extreme in the north.
Winter season as we've learnt to call it in schools,
It sends chills down the spines of Indian people all over,
It is harsh only in the north but the other people simply don't have tolerance or genes,
Yes I love the beautiful winter season so what if once it nearly took my life while on trekking.
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 9:37 AM UTC
eve's elongated shadows
darkened the atmosphere
for the company of hikers
trekking Milton Ridge
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 6:27 PM UTC
Among the stars his memories travel.
Just trekking.
Just trekking into space.
Whether illogical or logical.
To him, it must make sense.
For his mission was never impossible.
And actor closely connected to Mr. Spock than many portraying the part.
He beamed truth to the millions fans of Star Trek with his wisdom and vision.
Whether upon the deck of the Enterprise next to his Captain.
He stood faithful and loyal to his crew.
Now you're apart of history of various scientific studies.
You're so deserving of being assigned to heaven.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 5:04 PM UTC
Stepping on the corpses of all you've known
trekking through the field of bones
the sirens sing, green angels with broken wings
like a desolate future, in need of suture
I see a patina on everything, rustic brains
you can always find some sign of life
for there is always life within something
rose still exist among the filth and ****
there will always be beauty in the lies
and in the truths that flow through our mouths
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 2:49 AM UTC
I would've loved to meet her.
The sweetness you spoke in her honor.
A gentle breeze in a month of freezes.
Electric, connective, explorative.
I would love to meet the next.
The sweetest of peas.
Only bluest when being overly fruitful.
Reflections of trekking tower of the familial tree.
Expectations of expecting in introspect.
Forgive me for being greedy, wanting to be involved in your life.
Forgive me for involving my love.
I shall let the resting rest, the ones that need rest to get rested, and give my mind and soul a rest.
Ifeanyichuku Okoro © 2023
Nov 12, 2023
Nov 12, 2023 at 12:59 AM UTC
I think I'm going blind.
I'm under the impression you've disappeared.
That you're gone for good.
That you've eliminated yourself from my retinas in order to escape my mile wide stare.
That you've constructed homes under tombstones hoping I'd mistake you for
A box of under-appreciated skeletal remains
Because all you've ever wanted is to be dead to me.
Like you wanted my eyes to forget about their day job and resort to conceptualized adultery
Because God forbid I commit to an honest day's pay.
I've never intentionally visualized imaginary fabrications.
But the truth is, my eyes do everything but tell the truth.
1. My eyes write monotonous picture books with your face plastered on every single page
Just to recreate your physical beauty time and time again
So the world knows your look tops my mind's best seller list.
2. My eyes climb mountain tops and skinny dip in stormy seas
Because sometimes crazy is the only way I can get you to look at me.
3. My eyes fly hot air balloons carried by the echoes of your soft spoken sentences
As if exhaust pipes could spew such sweet nothings into the night sky.
4. My eyes invade foreign lands with every intention of burning down
Prehistoric villages and discovering your secret hideaway because I too
Want to know how it feels to savagely destroy former sacred territory.
5. My eyes struggle out of bed every morning. Not even
Three shots of espresso can perk my eyes up enough
To allow the radiation you still give off enter my pores.
I think I'm going blind.
Or maybe I just can't see straight.
Or be straight up with you and tell you how it takes every part of me
To not gauge my own eyes out for betraying the rest of my body.
It takes every part of me to admit my misjudgments spawned the downfall of it all.
Because I told you I saw the two of us trekking through unfamiliar lands
With each stride another step towards our destiny.
Because I told you I saw something in your eyes
That gave mine the ability to smile.
Because I told you I saw us redefining what infinity
Looks like to the senseless visionary.
But my eyes don't tell the truth.
I'm going blind.
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 12:05 PM UTC
I’ve left footprints
in deserts
where no man’s been
in millennia; a thirst
not yet quenched
these dry cracked lips
can still spit out a poem
on old buzzards’
bones, trekking alone
whistling Dixie, my brother
I’ve a few miles yet to go.
Jun 29, 2019
Jun 29, 2019 at 6:19 PM UTC
Tree of proto-monkeys,
brand and banded under Monkey King,
so clever, so adaptive
in substance and doing -
mushrooming in variants:
lemurs, monkeys old and new,
orangutans, gorillas, chimps,
and one big bushy brood
of extincted ***** brothers and you.
Trekking upright into dale,
valleys and over hills too
sore in feet to image
dragging a knuckle or two.
Scavengers making way,
scanning for patterns in
food moving or not,
adaptive doing from fin
to opposable rock.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 1:04 PM UTC
Seaside escapades
Up and down beaches,
High tide and sun rise-
Where my heart chose to stay.
Evergreens and dirt ground
Trekking trails, running down hills
Jumping off rocks into the lake-
This is where my happiness was found.
Pass time outside,
Where time ceases to exist
And all my worries fade away-
I continually wish this is where I woke, where I reside.
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 10:52 PM UTC
So we soldiered on
Because the lives we led were held on battlefields.
We trudged onward
But it felt like we were stuck there forever
Amidst the crossfire.
Dodging make believe bullets
That whistled sweet melodies to our ears.
We were camouflage.
Trekking undetected
Through the world.
But the war is over.
A few casualties still unaccounted for
On the bloodied floors.
Whatever happened to no man left behind?
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 8:54 PM UTC
snow shoe challenge
trekking untouched expanse
cracking beneath
rock climbing boots
eyeing open summit
crevaase shifts
lifetime chances
snowbound slide buries all
expanse untouched
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 8:12 PM UTC
The Story of Gypsy of Wind
dust has dissipated
When it rained
Gypsy sang
With his guitar, which he inherited from his father ..
The last farewell song ...
As he crosses the Earth
Without thinking of a terminal to reach
...
A fugitive from modernity.
From every paved road ..
Of all the twinkling constellations ..
From the noise of cities ..
From the gloom of government buildings.
The gypsy diverges,
Evading sandy roads.
He meets the boys of the villages ..
He sings and they dance..
He passes near the peasant women with red hair covers.
He plays love tunes for them.
Until their cheeks flush ...
He meets the shepherds ... and avoids them ...
he receives the wide plains
With bright eyes
And on his back
He hung up his guitar, which he inherited from his father.
.....
The gypsy meets the girl of his dreams.
But he leaves her to continue trekking.
Gypsy knows no boundaries ..
He does not know what warm rooms mean.
He does not know what daily work means.
He does not know what school means ..
Because he does not want to learn ..
Rather, he should live on the road.
....
The gypsy has no identity papers.
But he does not know what the meaning of stained papers and seals.
The gypsy does not know power ..
when he meets the mayor of the village
he Whoops:
Why do they obey you when they are free ..
The gypsy knows no hunger ..
Because he eats anything in nature.
Flowers and butterflies ..
Rivers mud ...
Then he pulls his guitar from his back.
And he goes on trekking
He plays a song that tells about a dream
With the warmth of a beautiful woman's chest.
Gypsy travels after the spring.
as if he tied with a rope..
He does not like winter ..
He does not like summer ..
He does not like autumn ..
Like birds in the sky ..
Gipsy follows the scent of silt and nectar.
He points with his finger to the distant horizon:
- It rained there..
He plays a rain song ...
.....
What do you have, gypsy?
The bar girl asks him
In transit hours standing
He says: What do you mean by the word "you have"?
The gypsy has nothing ..
Because he has everything.
He has his freedom ..
A girl spends a night with him
Then she expels him from her arms in the morning
So he takes up his guitar
And he sings in tears over his broken heart.
Passing through plains and mountains ..
To where he does not know
....
Truck drivers meet him
They offer to get him to where he wants..
But he refuses ..
He doesn't want to miss a moment without being in the heart of nature ...
Sings
Consuming time with his guitar
His guitar, which he inherited from his father ..
His father who does not know him ...
But what his mother told him before her death
when they were traveling on the way ..
He buries her ..
And he prays for her soul..
Without knowing which god he is praying to..
He smiles ..
And he goes on its eternal journey
.....
When crossing forests..
He is surrounded by hyenas.
He pulls his guitar and sings.
The hyenas watched him in amazement.
they remain amazed as they snaps his flesh..
And he is still singing
Playing his guitar
His guitar, which he inherited from his father ..
His father who never knew him ..
Aug 28, 2020
Aug 28, 2020 at 2:06 PM UTC
Boots laced up
Time to go
Out in the woods
We walk in snow
You look at me
Don't speak a word
In the silent thicket
Our voices heard
Keep trekking
We find our way
Our little adventures
Make my day
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 4:47 PM UTC
Chordata's horns flourished for them
trekking in dirt with bah
searching hills of solid Earth
mammals' head toward A welkin world
Jun 21, 2011
Jun 21, 2011 at 5:23 PM UTC
We were clean. Pure.
Trekking from pine needles to sand
time slipping away from
the mountainous routine of
laughter and tears smeared across cyberspace
when I was younger
my Mother told me
that when the people we love die
you can still see them
the brightest stars breaking through the night sky
we were wandering away from smirking academia
clawing our education from
the comedies and tragedies of early mornings
calm like the kiss of diamond tides
and long nights
weighed down with thoughts and drugs and alcohol
shutting off each night
on each sunrise
drifting with nomadic intentions we
raged for rage’s sake
on green lawns with signs painted
dig deeper into the blazing structure,
the momentum is shifting,
and the Kingfisher is watching
proclaiming from mountaintops
that killers hunt these city streets
with a pocket full of bad ideas
the prey a sparkling barfly
clean and holy beneath a neon color palette
potential squandered in a scream of confusion
knowing that not every leap
is a leap of faith
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 3:45 PM UTC
My hobbies are stargazing and daydreaming.
I’m nothing but a chirpy, cheerful chum.
At times, you’ll find me – like a preacher – scheming,
Thinking of ways to make my kingdom come.
You’re free to think I’m careless, airheaded.
I’m fine with being called a loafer or a crank.
My one true north – I’ll end up where I’m heading.
Not every verse I write is snowy blank.
I’m all about forgiveness and acceptance.
Live and let live – I swear by these words.
Not looking for your ‘yes’ or your repentance –
I’m here to make a change, a better world.
I’ve taken up crochet and rubbernecking.
There’s little in this life that I won’t do.
In limbo you shall find me trekking.
In vain you’ll try to see my point of view.
I wonder if you’ll ever truly know me.
I ask myself if that is what I want.
For now, just picture I’m your darling homie.
High five, hop in and kindly play along.
Jun 23, 2018
Jun 23, 2018 at 6:38 PM UTC
She was once a spirited soul
Trekking along all alone,
Many she crossed paths with;
Some left an impression on her
Some good some bad;
But no one stayed for long
But one friend or two,
Yet none of those that came and went
That walked away; crawled away
Or were kicked away,
Left without a searing pain in their body,
They felt the suffering of her loss
They would never forget this regret,
One day she found another
Who could not be chained down;
Who felt the ties but fought them;
Until even he fell but only on one knee,
He would walk alongside but not with her,
Because under her strong independence
Laid within a submissive acquiescence,
A heart longing to belong; and there was one
Who had the only key to her beating love,
And as she surrendered herself to him
The collector had finally been collected...
© okpoet
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 9:37 PM UTC
I've been wandering around, like a waltzing matilda.
From Fife in the lowlands, to the cliffs of St. Kilda.
Carrying my life, and all that it wills
Appalachia and plains, to the mighty Black Hills.
Trekking so far, exploring the Earth
Miles away, from the place of my birth.
From the land of the Scots, to the land of the Sioux
From familiar homes, to the places so new.
I'm wandering around, with so much to do.
In the land of the Gaels, to the land of Lakota,
I'm slinging around, like a waltzing matilda.
Oct 14, 2020
Oct 14, 2020 at 12:36 PM UTC