Poetry competition CLOSED 7th December 2017 1:37pm
WINNER
Foxface (Aewyrn)
Foxface (Aewyrn)
RUNNERS-UP:
PoetSpeak
and Erotic_Goddess
Trains and Railroads
Poetry Contest Description
Write about trains & railroads
Are you a rail-fan or barely notice trains & tracks? Do you like walking along train tracks, riding trains , watching them, chasing or photographing them? Do railroads invoke certain feelings and emotions for you? Are you intrigued by them and their history or does it just piss you off when the RR-Crossing lights go off, the gate goes down and you're stuck for 10 minutes in your car on the road, waiting for the train to pass?
Write poems about anything train and railroad related , any style & length (no novels please), as many entries as you want, no collabs, 2 weeks.
All aboard! 🚉🚂
Write poems about anything train and railroad related , any style & length (no novels please), as many entries as you want, no collabs, 2 weeks.
All aboard! 🚉🚂
http://i1290.photobucket.com/albums/b536/1willybugger/steam%20punk_zpssjxholbz.jpg
STEAM PUNK
Your life isn’t like
Ocean ship cruising
Where you’re just
Going to drift
It isn’t like
A luxury airliner
Where you’re
Forever flying high
You’re a train
A coal burning locomotive
Chugging, huffing and puffing
Blasting and spitting steam
Your life is pulling
Lugging and carrying
Taking on more weight
As you go through life
But don’t complain
As long as you keep
Your boiler wet
And your wheels greased
You’ll remain
One tough old train
And a lot of folks
Will hop on and ride
Chug on, Steam Punk!
STEAM PUNK
Your life isn’t like
Ocean ship cruising
Where you’re just
Going to drift
It isn’t like
A luxury airliner
Where you’re
Forever flying high
You’re a train
A coal burning locomotive
Chugging, huffing and puffing
Blasting and spitting steam
Your life is pulling
Lugging and carrying
Taking on more weight
As you go through life
But don’t complain
As long as you keep
Your boiler wet
And your wheels greased
You’ll remain
One tough old train
And a lot of folks
Will hop on and ride
Chug on, Steam Punk!
The Train Ride After War
I walked lazily along the lonely Paris streets
Though the night mistress covered the sky, the streets were well lit; and some were busier than others
As I sat in the train, I was rocked and swayed like a baby until my demons carried me to where I longed to be
Back to the home I had built with a familly I was forced to get to know
The lights flickered as I looked around to observe the people who shared this same night ride, who mysteriously helped me reassemble the pieces I had put together
I saw the young man I was reluctant to shoot, though a good find for my company; a memory my mind will not let me forget
The French boy smiled a little bigger in comparison to the Polish one
As we stood there in silence, his eyes spoke to me as he admired my metals
Before he left, his salute was full of love and gratitude
And as I stood there, alone, I was lost for reasons I could not explain.
Though the night mistress covered the sky, the streets were well lit; and some were busier than others
As I sat in the train, I was rocked and swayed like a baby until my demons carried me to where I longed to be
Back to the home I had built with a familly I was forced to get to know
The lights flickered as I looked around to observe the people who shared this same night ride, who mysteriously helped me reassemble the pieces I had put together
I saw the young man I was reluctant to shoot, though a good find for my company; a memory my mind will not let me forget
The French boy smiled a little bigger in comparison to the Polish one
As we stood there in silence, his eyes spoke to me as he admired my metals
Before he left, his salute was full of love and gratitude
And as I stood there, alone, I was lost for reasons I could not explain.
Written by UnleashedHeathen
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Anonymous
In The End, It’s All About The Destination
7.30 train North to South,
carriages full of bankers heading to the smoke
a woman adjusts her make-up in a compact
draws a neat little cats-eye line on her lid,
the juddering of the rail makes it an art form.
I am already on my fifth brew of the day
came prepared with a silver flask
holding hot water and steaming tea,
my peppermint permeates the air
overrides the cheap coffee aroma
drifting from a graveyard of paper cups
strewn down the aisle.
It's where I'm headed-
to bury her
to bury a woman who's veins gave out
to bury a woman who's insanity ate her
from the inside...
the ellipsis would have killed me too
if I let it.
Trees feel like they are burning,
autumn flames beyond the window
my forehead pressed against glass,
I close my eyes counting heartbeats
of wheel against the iron track
one-two
one-two
one-two
it pulses in my skull, migraines of change
and by the time we grind to a halt
the woman's face paint is perfect,
the bankers click their leather brogues
down the grime-trodden platform
I light a cigarette to welcome me home.
~
3.30 train South to North,
carriages full of tired men anchored to screens
I forgot to wear tear-proof mascara this morning,
I dab at my face eradicating black from my cheeks
and unlike my love of watercolour, it doesn't wash.
English rain arrived like I knew it would
I wear patent heels to the churchyard;
I should be studying her
I should be watching her final fall
deep into the floor, but I do not
I watch water slip over my shining shoes
and think about the metaphor.
I wonder what it would be like to sink,
to be lowered by clouds that brought me here
wonder if the rope bearers count
"one-two, one-two" earthing themselves
in meaning and preposition
I remember my Mother, her little finger
curling against my Father's [I think about you]
and how we're all dependent on something
all of us just waiting for a rhythm,
bones perhaps, a drop of blood
to build a wall around our memories
in solitude, our coffins are perfectly matched
right-angled in failure and descent,
madness gleaming with pearlescent silks
I paid for with bereavement
a few lost dreams perhaps
I light a cigarette to welcome me home.
7.30 train North to South,
carriages full of bankers heading to the smoke
a woman adjusts her make-up in a compact
draws a neat little cats-eye line on her lid,
the juddering of the rail makes it an art form.
I am already on my fifth brew of the day
came prepared with a silver flask
holding hot water and steaming tea,
my peppermint permeates the air
overrides the cheap coffee aroma
drifting from a graveyard of paper cups
strewn down the aisle.
It's where I'm headed-
to bury her
to bury a woman who's veins gave out
to bury a woman who's insanity ate her
from the inside...
the ellipsis would have killed me too
if I let it.
Trees feel like they are burning,
autumn flames beyond the window
my forehead pressed against glass,
I close my eyes counting heartbeats
of wheel against the iron track
one-two
one-two
one-two
it pulses in my skull, migraines of change
and by the time we grind to a halt
the woman's face paint is perfect,
the bankers click their leather brogues
down the grime-trodden platform
I light a cigarette to welcome me home.
~
3.30 train South to North,
carriages full of tired men anchored to screens
I forgot to wear tear-proof mascara this morning,
I dab at my face eradicating black from my cheeks
and unlike my love of watercolour, it doesn't wash.
English rain arrived like I knew it would
I wear patent heels to the churchyard;
I should be studying her
I should be watching her final fall
deep into the floor, but I do not
I watch water slip over my shining shoes
and think about the metaphor.
I wonder what it would be like to sink,
to be lowered by clouds that brought me here
wonder if the rope bearers count
"one-two, one-two" earthing themselves
in meaning and preposition
I remember my Mother, her little finger
curling against my Father's [I think about you]
and how we're all dependent on something
all of us just waiting for a rhythm,
bones perhaps, a drop of blood
to build a wall around our memories
in solitude, our coffins are perfectly matched
right-angled in failure and descent,
madness gleaming with pearlescent silks
I paid for with bereavement
a few lost dreams perhaps
I light a cigarette to welcome me home.
Anonymous
Station Musings
I.
I finally laid you to rest yesterday
removed and deleted every little trace
and it hurt like a motherfucker,
but I cannot love what does not
love me back
I think of the funeral tomorrow,
the poem I wrote for her final goodbye
and I squirm realising somebody has to die
all over again.
II.
I order my first coffee in years,
I find somewhere knee-deep in soya milk
and decide to take the plunge;
the stringent taste reminds me of tobacco
and I crave cigarettes to marry the moment
I plug your strange accent into my caffeine
listening to you talk over my muffin crumbs
I smile at the end, thanking the Gods
for the blessing of friendship
as I board the waiting train
I know you would have loved.
III.
The carriage moves so fast
the track appears as a silver snake
stations blur through the windows,
a man looses his footing at Crewe
only to be helped up
by a Japanese stranger
I realise this is England all over;
countless oriental architects
mocking our dirty trains
I would too.
They are an abomination.
IV.
I'm travelling North to South
away from the landscape I have come to love
away from the lakes and curious cobbles
straight to the chaos of London
riddled with touchscreen faces
and frustration
the city is not for me, and I
have no desire to stay
I have broken the pattern
I have loved the wrong one.
I'm good at that.
I.
I finally laid you to rest yesterday
removed and deleted every little trace
and it hurt like a motherfucker,
but I cannot love what does not
love me back
I think of the funeral tomorrow,
the poem I wrote for her final goodbye
and I squirm realising somebody has to die
all over again.
II.
I order my first coffee in years,
I find somewhere knee-deep in soya milk
and decide to take the plunge;
the stringent taste reminds me of tobacco
and I crave cigarettes to marry the moment
I plug your strange accent into my caffeine
listening to you talk over my muffin crumbs
I smile at the end, thanking the Gods
for the blessing of friendship
as I board the waiting train
I know you would have loved.
III.
The carriage moves so fast
the track appears as a silver snake
stations blur through the windows,
a man looses his footing at Crewe
only to be helped up
by a Japanese stranger
I realise this is England all over;
countless oriental architects
mocking our dirty trains
I would too.
They are an abomination.
IV.
I'm travelling North to South
away from the landscape I have come to love
away from the lakes and curious cobbles
straight to the chaos of London
riddled with touchscreen faces
and frustration
the city is not for me, and I
have no desire to stay
I have broken the pattern
I have loved the wrong one.
I'm good at that.
Anonymous
Station
sitting at the station
but the trains
have all gone
as scraps of paper
quietly skitter
through the gutters
through the dust
trailing patterns
seeming random
if it weren’t for the wind
ever blowing and controlling
the direction of my feet
as I drift across the landscape
amid the litter in the street
where lamplight creates shadows
that dance all over me
masking my emotions
so that you will never see
and I’m waiting at this station
just sitting on this bench
w a i t i n g
for a train
that may never return again
sitting at the station
but the trains
have all gone
as scraps of paper
quietly skitter
through the gutters
through the dust
trailing patterns
seeming random
if it weren’t for the wind
ever blowing and controlling
the direction of my feet
as I drift across the landscape
amid the litter in the street
where lamplight creates shadows
that dance all over me
masking my emotions
so that you will never see
and I’m waiting at this station
just sitting on this bench
w a i t i n g
for a train
that may never return again
Remembering Trains
I recall how as a child
I'd walk the railroad tracks,
Surveying the soot-covered ground
In search of Morocco and Spain.
I'd lie prone across the wood ties
To hear trains roll from miles away,
Feeling them in my belly.
If I had pennies to spare,
I'd place them along the iron
And rush back the next day
To claim the flattened treasure.
I remember a late summer
When humidity was thick in the air,
Lightning arcs lit the night,
Riding the rails down the line.
So startling was the crackle
That flew in a shower of sparks
Rivaling the 4th of July.
I loved the rumble of three engines
Hauling a full load of boxcars.
The moans they made from the weight,
And the slow journey up the grade.
Sunlight flickered through the
Wake of smoke passing overhead
As I walked behind the caboose
Waving endlessly to the watchman.
So it is, when the night is still.
I hear a plaintive wail as a
Train calls from afar.
I warm to the memories, and I answer.
Anonymous
train
My train left the station
In deep contemplation
For the journey ahead
Is it another infiltration?
My train left the station
In deep contemplation
For the journey ahead
Is it another infiltration?
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
Freight And Unafraid
Rails laddered lateral
Parallel
Spans of measured meters - repeat
In ramparts undergirding - tracking dreams
And their iron accounts tell
They tell
Transient transcendences
In boxcar Bethels
Fancies followed by ferrous paramours
Of world
Of others - away
Of ventures vain
Or distant claim
Dens for vagrants bare of foot
Shod in denim and soot
Burrs on pant legs clinging
Swinging with the sway of savior trains
Wagers to wander bet on tracks
Wistful wonders seen keenly
Eyes alive with contravene
And I would double down
To sow my odds
Vaulting one crossing close
Embracing an engine's rich transpose
**
Picture is Hemingway hopping a train (Wikipedia commons)
Written by AtoMikbomb
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Crossroads
Midnight train heading north and the other one
Heading south. Meet me where they meet in
The crossroads, a place where we try to outrun
The noise all around. The feel of your soft skin
Feels like railroad tracks beneath my fingers.
We are the only ones who can see this coming.
The smell of exhaust with your perfume lingers.
Darling, let’s meet in foreign cities with nothing,
But train tracks beneath our feet, sipping and
Getting drunk on wine as we let the landscape
Pass us by. We have never asked for a refund
On our tickets because have made our escape
As trains passing by into the dawn and nights.
We are nothing but silent head and train lights.
Heading south. Meet me where they meet in
The crossroads, a place where we try to outrun
The noise all around. The feel of your soft skin
Feels like railroad tracks beneath my fingers.
We are the only ones who can see this coming.
The smell of exhaust with your perfume lingers.
Darling, let’s meet in foreign cities with nothing,
But train tracks beneath our feet, sipping and
Getting drunk on wine as we let the landscape
Pass us by. We have never asked for a refund
On our tickets because have made our escape
As trains passing by into the dawn and nights.
We are nothing but silent head and train lights.
Written by eswaller
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