Best Boxcars Poems
Forest fairies changing colors,
autumn's patchwork pattern weaving
in the foggy morning stillness
before winter's barren grieving,
up the river on the damp air,
up hollows through the shadowed vales
sounds the mournful, sobbing whistle:
once more memory rides the rails.
Childhood song for railroad watchers -
a tinge of hobo in my veins,
longing for the lonesome whistle
like a lost child for his name.
Life began beside the railway,
an open door to fantasy;
my dreamer's soul soaked in the flavor
hearing that whistle witchery.
Hungry tramps in search of breakfast
found our doorstep every time;
hobo network communication
marked mama's eggs and bacon "fine."
Bleary eyes and beards all stubble
made child imaginations fly
and the tales with which we clothed them
were wilder still than hobo lies.
Oh, for the days when trains were magic:
iron dragons breathing smoke and fire,
lashing long tails through the valleys
with monstrous strength that never tired.
Oh, the secrets that were hidden
behind the doors of plain boxcars;
feel the untamed urge to mount them
and plunder treasure from afar.
Delight was ours beyond measure
to waken on those special days,
finding, in the night, the dragon
had brought the circus train our way.
See the bearded lady waving
and catch the fat man's twinkling eye,
smell the coal smoke's pungent flavor
beneath our magic big top sky.
Grown up am I; steam train magic
comes swirling by once in a while
to view autumn's fleeting pageant
and make train lovers like me smile.
Nostalgic, rhythmic beating,
staccato yelps and sobbing wails
make my soul a mental hobo;
once more memory rides the rails.
Copyright, 2000
Faye Lanham Gibson
Come and Find Me in My Solitude
four fingers in a water glass
to keep the “creep” away
four fingers in a water glass
to keep the curse at bay
no ice, let’s keep it quiet,
hard bite of whiskey’s sting
“hair of the dog that bit ya”
as the dying grey wolves sing
rocking inside the boxcars
camping beside the track
drowning dreams of a yesterday
that’s never coming back
huddled beneath “newsprint” blankets
curled in pain’s fetal ball
dreading the sounds of the sunset
fearing the crash of night’s fall
praying for death in a doorway
shivering against marbled stone
a vision through slow closing eyelids
of somebody calling him home
12/2/2016
submitted to – COME AND FIND ME IN MY SOLITUDE – Poetry Contest
Once lit by flickering torch light
with animal tallow mixed with ocher
daubed on subterranean rock walls
now lit by streetlights or LED headlamp
slashes of spray paint and magic markers
splattered on concrete bridge abutments,
boxcars, or walls of tenement ghettos,
but the message is the same
we were here.
At the Gates of Auschwitz
Today, I stand
At the gates of hell;
“Arbeit macht frei”
("Work sets you free!")—
That is Auschwitz.
Where they burned God’s children
And the world stood by,
Oblivious
To what was happening inside.
The League of Nations
(Whose mandate was world peace)
Failed!
And in 1942,
The trains rolled into Auschwitz
Carrying God’s children,
Who were packed like cattle into boxcars
(Cold, diseased, inhumanely treated),
Ready for slaughter.
Insane hatred condemned them,
As in the past,
For events through no fault of theirs
Because they were Jewish.
Take, for example,
That ocean liner in 1939,
The MS St. Louis,
Carrying Jews to Cuba.
A scheme of the Nazis
To prove Jews were pariahs,
Whom nobody would welcome,
Nor would anyone want.
Cuba denied the ship safe harbour;
The U.S.A. turned it away,
And likewise, so did Canada,
And the three systemically decreed,
“It’s not our problem!”
Germany did have a solution:
Ethnic cleansing
In the ovens of Auschwitz.
And the world looked the other way.
The world did not care!
Later, when the horror was exposed,
The free world would apologize, officially.
“If we do not remember the past,
We are doomed to repeat it.”
At the Dachau concentration camp,
On the memorial to the Holocaust,
It is written,
“Never Again!”
***
Note:
On May 13, 1939, the M.S. St. Louis departed Hamburg, Germany, bound for Havana, Cuba, with approximately nine hundred and one Jewish refugees aboard, to escape from Nazi persecution. Only twenty-eight passengers were allowed to disembark.
The ship then sailed to the United States of America, where it was refused safe entry, and then to Canada, and was also refused safe entry. The ship returned to Antwerp, Belgium, and the passengers were granted refugee status in a number of European countries.
The Beast ( La Bestia )
You might wonder - who or what is the Beast?
The Beast in Spanish means - La Bestia. The
Beast is a cargo train that travels from Ciapas
Mex. - to Sonora Mex.
Throughout the years alot of people have gotten
on that train. They all come from Central America.
They want to come to the U.S. to look for the
American Dream.
The people call it - La Bestia, the train of Death and
the train of Hell. A lot of people have lost their lives
through out the years. They fall asleep and fall down
or fall trying to get on the train.
In the month of August of 2013, Ia Bestia derailed and
a lot of boxcars went down. a lot of people lost their lives
fifteen were from Honduras. Others were seriously injured
and had to go to hospitals. Some had horrible deaths and
still others survived.
The people know about these dangers, but they still keep
trying to come here. Now you know about The Beast, the
train of Death and the train of Hell. It is easy for us to say
why do they take those chances.
We already have our lives established here. If we go to other
Countries - it would be for pleasure. Those people are very poor
in their Countries and their Government don't help. I think that we
all have the right to pursue a better life. If we had been born there
we would maybe do the same thing.....
09/12/2013
Written by Lucilla M. Carrillo
the serene people whose ease of manner
once made him yearn and confabulate
are laughable cartoonish and piteous now
could have been much worse he said
as his last breath left his scarred throat
feral hand closing his own eyes
St. Pudenda greeted him at the tall gates
under the lights at Checkpoint Charlie
Mariachi trumpets rolled out the mauve carpet
and a dog barked from behind the garbage cans
from all infinity we end up with this
a realm of syntax governed by ambiguity
she read from a large ledger atop a marble pedestal
why a ledger rather than a laptop is anyone's guess
apparently the vanguard party had been evicted
by Frankie Boxcars and the Hollywood mafia eons ago
in the great schism over the digitization of paradise
no jury of his peers he noted with unease
nothing of telling import she imparted casually
eyes darting up and down the pages
as if something previously detected had been airbrushed
arrested for self amplification she went on
and sorcery and coughing in quiet places
how did you sleep she asked with a beaming smile
I don't know I was asleep he intoned
I suppose we can reveal the joke she mused
but I was dreaming he countered
backed into a tight corner by snarling lap dogs
tossed into a kidnap taxi with a sack over my head
marched with a gun in my back
through a forest of clichés
fed lines from a hideous new sitcom
about sex among the homeless
a weekly broadcast on Piñata Vision
of course it was more fun
not being an active target
but what choice did I have
knowing what I know
poor dear thing she continued
there is a better version of everything
a law of nature completely natural
and yes it is densely beautiful and
smoldering with awe like a corpse in a bathtub
try to avoid the truly grotesque
in favor of the marginally grotesque
we love having you in our science dept.
with the state secrets and midget **** videos
masquerading as the way things actually are
where the misty cows moo in contentment
and the Vaseline runs hot behind sanctuary doors
horrors altering the course of suns
between the here and the there
every bit of it needless she giggled
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/
All aboard the Rhode Island Line!
We're guaranteed to be on time
Grab your suitcase, grab your coat
Let the railroad be your host
Write a postcard, you will boast
about what you've seen from coast to coast!
We will make the traffic wait
stuck behind a crossing gate
Boxcars, hoppers, and sleeping cars
strung together, and going far
rumbling down the railroad track
Don't bother looking back
Up the slippery slope
Engine takes the lead
Picking up some speed
Convoluted smoky trails
Consolidated silver tails
Contemplating railroad tales
Whistles blast!
Whizzing past!
Gone!
______________________________________
10/17/14 For Andrea's "I Don't Know" Contest
The gates of Hell opened wide.
Six million souls stepped inside.
Beaten. Shot. Starved to death.
The words of God still on their breath.
Screams of anguish. Cries of pain.
Abhorrent laughter of the insane.
Mothers beg. Their babies moan.
They smell charred flesh and smoldering bone.
Cords of bodies in a row.
Frozen corps in the snow.
Gas clouds creep across the floors.
Hinges creek on oven doors.
Idle boxcars sit on tracks.
Inside lie bodies in gruesome stacks.
The S.S. soldiers earn their pay.
They stoke the furnaces night and day.
To the insidious cruelity
Of a madman's hate.
Six million Jews met their fate.
Remember them! Remember well!
Those souls who entered
The gates of Hell.
How did this happen?
Only a year ago...
Laughing, loving, living. Sudden
Occupation by men with evil intent.
Cast into boxcars like animals.
Assaulted and beaten by soldiers.
Unable to stand, to move, to think.
Selection.
Time ends.
When strollin' by the ol' saloon,
on chairs they kept outside,
I spied a dried up, lonsome sort
folks walked by, but eyed.
He had a faithful doggie
with head laid on his knee.
The ol' man stroked him softly,
kind, devotedly.
I stopped an' took a seat nearby,
then shared a cut of chaw.
I thought his story might be good-
he reminded me of Pa.
I asked just where he hailed from,
he didn't bat an' eye-
looked off in space, took one deep breath,
prob'ly thinkin' up a lie.
Come from ever'where, Son,
been places you ain't dreamed.
I settled back to listen.
He relaxed a bit it seemed.
An Indian fighter, I once was,
rode with the Cavalry.
Met ol' Yeller Hair himself
in eighteen, sixty-three.
Was wagon master for some folks
seekin' land to claim,
leavin' homes an' fam'lies east-
thought the West they'd tame.
Had a wife I sure 'nough loved,
two daughters an' a son,
the cholera took 'em all one year,
my driftin' then begun.
Did some drovin' 'hind the herds,
eatin' miles a dust,
catchin' strays, an' keepin' watch
for rustlers we could bust.
Owned a ranch in Texas
but never got no rain,
the drought, it lasted six years,
no reason to remain.
I killed a man in Denver,
the bugger had it comin',
he kicked my dog, stole my horse,
broke the guitar I was strummin'.
Cut trees out in Wyomin',
lumber-jacked a bit.
Camp bully always threatnin',
my throat he'd like to slit.
I rode the rails a piece back then,
an' dern near froze my tail,
sittin' in them boxcars
thru' rain, an' wind, an' hail.
Now, I'm nigh on eighty,
an' comin' to my end.
I thank ya Son for listenin' ,
ya seem 'most like a friend.
I reckon that I've lived some,
an' ain't sure now I'm done,
I just take one day at a time
'cause life ain't easy, Son.
On the eastern grade of the switcher yard, down at Medicine Hat
There’s a tendency for cars to roll toward the Dunmore hill
Back when I was switching trains there, one got loose on me
Sit a spell and grip your seat for the beans I'm about to spill
There were only four boxcars, no engine or caboose
A couple of flat decks at the tail
In all six cars were loose
I caught up to it quick enough
Jumped on and tied a hand brake down
Well that didn’t do a gosh darn thing
Get back down on the ground
Outrun that headless train, I mean, catch up to the next car
Jump on again tie down the brake and again she barely felt it
Jump off again and back to running
A boxcar now, outrun it
Jump on again, what’s this a ladder
Yes, the brake’s up there
Up the ladder, tie the brake
Not much effect so far
Down again, onto the ground
Out run the next boxcar
Climb onto and up it like a boxcar acrobat
Crank another hand brake on
She's slowing, how about that
Outrun the next and then the next
My very last handbrake
If this one doesn’t stop these cars
I’ll surely take the cake
A train is coming into town, right down the Dunmore Hill
Won’t they be surprised, if these cars decide to spill
I crank the brake, she squeals and moans
Small train now comes to rest
Big train goes by, and the cars are clear
The engine-man can see
He blows the horn, whips off his hat
And just shakes his head at me
She lit candles
in her empty kitchen.
Burnt air disappears
through the back door.
Pale and wild,
brittle street witch,
shy, wide eyes.
Her mind like a weathered epitaph,
left alone in it's quiet mystery;
but her spirit roams
gentle and porous.
City sorrows like ashes
cling to her rags,
sting her eyes.
Their faces burn inside her
like dim candles
giving warmth
to her own melancholy.
The cafe windows are boarded up.
She walks home
with November chimney ghosts
and a dying sun,
while she conjures visions of love.
Love is the sad hazy eyes
and cigarette swirls
that swallow the haunted dusk ruins.
Old souls in the streets
waltzing across black gardens.
Dazed escapists shedding lonesome
and tired teenage skin.
All their secrets out,
kissing their willow bones
licking and scorching their dirty feet.
The hymns of a thousand hobos.
The wind with it's cinders, bells,
and organ chord lullabies.
Fleeing boxcars cradle drunks
with tangled hearts.
Junkies smoking by fountains,
paint their reflections angelic in the water.
Graffiti stains the walls
in abandoned churches,
where wild haired children
wrote their names.
Misery missed this place.
Love evoked their bone yard to flesh.
NYC nior in black and white
NYC nior in black and white
Dark landscapes 1957 NYC
of automats radio city and hotdog stands
memories of things past
Take us back to lucid dreams of light and shadows cast
set the stage late night dark wet NY detectives on the beat
slow moving like grit and steel they stride down the great white way
steam and clouds shoot to the sky from sewer covers
smoke rings blast out from bill boards of urban midnight cowboys
from route 66
On the street hipsters glide down in pinstriped suits
cool sleek long with straddled watch chains dragging
smoking stogies from drooping lips
wing tipped shoes rested on black boxes at shoe shiners row at 53rd and lex
wanting fem defal’s dark diva’s in fish nets tight red skin dresses with sleek spike heels long cigarettes with long brim hats and netted veils as they walk the line swinging their Purses leaning against posts on the foggy corners
Dharma bums gaze at city lights dreaming of old bards songs
through garment push carts and rushing feet
in the machinery of the steamy night
the boxcars moving past open doors
The cities glare in shadows bare
neon signs striptease flashing in the backdrop of honking horns and traffic
night clubs casinos and one night stands in greasy motels
pool hall hustler’s poker players loan sharker's and scheamers
whisky bars dockyard and widowed screams
tenement houses windows open curtains drawn
sweat and muscle tee shirts yelling out to others
saxophone city of butchers boozers bribers and brown baggers
Bright yellow checkers and taxis on Times Square
down the smoke hazed dark lanes against the hard walls
slim Jim zoot suiter’s lazy dazed side leaning
roll loaded dice with steaming cheap Tricks
Newspaper stands and barbers shops with marbled checker floors
white steaming towels with waiting hot lather
man with straight edge and black leather strap leans over
with Sinatra playing in the back
Neon city balanced in chaotic disorder of abstract lines
of municipal signs
city where monk lady day and Coltrane play Improve
in old coffee houses of smoke filled cafes for pennies a day
as street poets whisper and drink their troubles away
dreaming of Brando bogie smoking Joe's and blondes
of slip hips and jive
All was certain, the tracks determined
each and every day
Cold steel certainty dictated
all thoughts and machinations
complacent
Will the unfeeling rails define us?
Will the force-fed rout devide us?
I stand, a locomotive, raging off the track
teetering engine building steam
throwing all your notions back
to the overbearing brother providing
lies steeped in half truths
deceptive
Shall we dance amongst the littered wreck
of boxcars toppled over?
This free thinking deemed chaotic by compliant passengers
begging for margins to live in.
~our brakes never screeched
as the truth we beseeched is doled out so reluctant
I stand, an illuminating conductor, ready to delve
outside the railroad ties
seeking new horizons for crashsites
*Inspired by S K A T's "Runaway Train" contest**
I dreamed I was a porter
carrying bags that weighed a ton.
Quickly answering in the Club Car
when anyone called, "Hey Son"!
I dreamed I was a conductor
punching tickets neat as you please.
Walking up and down the Passenger Cars
taking the jostling at my ease.
I dreamed I was a brakeman
watching the signals along the trail.
Jumping out to throw the switches
keeping us on the correct rails.
I dreamed I was a fireman
keeping us on the roll.
Getting grimier with each shovelful
as I emptied the Tender of its coal.
I dreamed of being the engineer
throttling up or slowing down.
Eyes vigilant on the rails ahead
Steel churning on steel just above the ground.
That Iron Horse was beautiful
brighter than a new penny from the mint.
When the sun hit upon it
you couldn't help but squint.
I dreamed of all the stations
with children their eyes wide.
I watched the gauges and checked the shafts
my long nosed oilcan trustily at my side.
I dreamed of a long line of boxcars
being pulled behind like a rope.
Getting freight from down below
up the graded slope.
I dreamed of trains as a child
which carried me many a mile.
Waking in the morning for school
I couldn't help but smile.
Growing into manhood
with such dreams as these.
I went to work for the railroad
with my dreams as my keys.
Now, when you see the gates go down
lights will flash as I guide my Engine through.
Listen for the horn and bells and whistle
of the dream I found in my "CHOO CHOO".