Best Clickety Clack Poems
Gleefully you and I smile from a scenic window on life
Enchanted by nightfall befriending quixotic autumn sky
Embossing crimson brushstrokes on vermilion arc
Akin to a painting in classical style of renaissance art
Parading in front of our eyes on a thrilling train ride,
When orange glow of sinking sunset playfully smiles back,
As we savor shrimp-creole with red wine in the dining car
And train-tracks beneath us rhythmically clickety-clack
Negotiating the panoramic curves befitting forested lands
Announcing the mighty reach of whistling train-horn,
When the half-moon above peeks through twinkling stars.
Balancing gingerly footsteps we jaunt back to our roomette
Settling in on narrow bunk beds in a tiny modest space
Marveling the red, brown, golden foliage trickling outside
Falling on multi-color motif carpeting the misty grounds,
As engine screeches intermittently, braking, slowing down,
Screaming loud whistle-calls, approaching station stops.
We endeavor to sleep until dreams invoke beauteous dawn
Awakening to thick white clouds of dense morning fog
Slowly giving way to glorious sun-rays piercing the forest,
Where cheerful robins dance upon a long leafless branch
Welcoming marigold sunrise on the horizon’s blue path
As you and I reminisce in the whispering night of romance.
October 24, 2019
HM: Strand special by Brian Strand
From Atlanta to Washington DC on an overnight train
The very first week of every October
Bright yellow, orange, amber, purple and red
Splash artistry on New Hampshire’s White Mountains
As the tourism season comes to a head
North Conway’s old railroad station is abuzz
Men in traditional conductor attire
Escort sightseers to seats with pane-free windows
To peer out at landscapes in colors of fire
The spectrum on dappled mountains evokes awe
Caught by camera lenses as cool winds blow
Offering a chilly reminder to all
That these peaks will soon be blanketed by snow
Clickety-clack, the train hugs its aged track
Freeze-frame photograph images will remain
Recalling the splendor of fall’s peak foliage
Until spring breathes life to the mountains again
Tap, tap, clickety-clack
Thoughts vigilantly stamped
Trademark of transcription
Technology's prologue
Twain's famous "Tom Sawyer"
Time etched black and white scene
Tinted with grandpa's dust
4-27-2021
Bright shiny new marbles, we knew just what to do
Bro and I slid them on the floor as the door went smack clickety clack
we just laughed and rolled some more...
The year was 1967 and the colors in our head had wit and sparkle
we rolled them in the heel of our hand turning them to the light
we would play for hours and never fight;
Then one day we grew old and the marbles were put away
I moved down South and Tony stayed in my childhood quarter
Today I pray each day that as the years go by, I won't begin to cry
over a lost marble or two when the cells won't multiply
We had life in the palm of our hand but we were too young to know
that sooner or later we had to change, and grow...
" (Two roads) diverged in a yellow wood and I choose the
the one less traveled by and that has made
all the difference. "
Quote by - Robert Frost
YELLOW BRICK
Unintentionally urgent,
to choose or refuse,
to flee, to fly
possibly to die.
Excuse: just a child…
The clickety clack
attack of the narrow.
The meeting of strangers
along the way -
both good and evil.
Badly, she wanted to go home.
Bravely, she’d have to pursue
fear, fire, the witching hour.
Apples, red, near the yellow brick -
temptation, thirst, famishment.
Off the path, into dark woods…
Tricks are well-travelled - reveal
weaknesses - coveting, weary, greed…
One could endure the orbs, slapping,
soliciting, addicting; fall asleep, dream…
She’d not a brain in her head, her father said.
Her sister thought her a coward.
Her brother thought her heartless.
Would she listen to the talking heads…
She sighed, did not succumb to temptation…
It was only a bit farther, just around the corner.
This path, though fraught with anxiety
and danger, with pratfalls - dousing
a witch with water, missing her ride…
When she’d suffered, and died to self,
she’d unselfishly cherish her kin ‘til death.
She’s smarter than her years, her dad would say.
How brave you must have been, her sister would praise.
her brother sees, she’s all heart…
The crossroads came
in a most unexpected way -
a whirlwind adventure!
Winds of time, ever so slightly,
You shortened his life each night and day.
Endlessly ticking, whispering quietly,
With never a pause from your beaten way;
Winds of time, even now, you blow as before,
Leaving his traveled path void of a single track.
As our imagery of him slowly becomes no more,
Your sound continues, clickety-clack, clickety-clack.
Winds of time, while parting, another was born,
Leaving footprints on life's path anew.
In time, to pass, leaving loved one's torn,
God, alone, will declare the hour you are through.
I am here at Autumn Station,
looking down the sun-tinted
rails of a silvery track.
I find it a burden to live in just
the present, so!
Give me the future now,
clickety-clack, clickety-clack.
I dream of the first snow blessing
this wondrous earth.
Whilst the crunch of dead leaves,
beneath my feet, doth my agrieved
autumnal soul, besmirch.
Or, finding my mind, living in days,
many decades ago.
And I lose my joy in my present days
and so.....
I am here at Autumn Station, and
as usual, feeling so inimicablly,lost.
Maybe, I will feel happier when on
my kitchen window pane,
I see that very first, glorious frost?
(Crunch...sigh.,crunch...sigh!)
October 14, 2019
Rain cometh, do you hear it?
Suddenly the whipping wind
Suddenly great droplets
Suddenly when all seems dry
Suddenly bones clickety-clack
Rain cometh, do you hear it?
The sudden shift of atmosphere
The trumpets loud and clear
The sky opening, tears falling
The heartbeat of God’s calling
Rain cometh, do you hear it?
Or the screech owl in branches
Or the fat bats screeching
Or the skeletons scratching
Or the floodgates opening
Rain cometh, do you hear it?
Which way do you turn
Toward Heaven or hell
Toward the angels reaching
Or the demons screeching
Rain cometh…do you hear it?
Were they in the ark?
Were they in the puddles?
Were they in the light?
Or were they in utter fright?
Rain came…just the same.
Rain cometh, do you hear it?
Do you hear it?
I can hear your heartbeat.
Some folks believe it. Others do not. The legend told in the Bayou Cannot. The only witness who can swear that it's true, are the creatures who live in the bayou. The owl told the gator, the gator told the frog, about the horror filled night that changed their home in the bog. Far off on the mainland, miles from the marsh, in a large city, where living is harsh. A man's world invention sprang into life. A breath of fresh air to man's world of strife. A new deisel engine, queen of the line, would make it run for the very first time. The sunset limited it was aptly named. Gleamed in the station waiting its moment of fame. Boarded by folks going south, some headed out west, none mindful of anything, but each's own quest. New York to L.A. via the southern run. So it was, the trip had begun. Back in the bog, things were happening too. A barge made its way north with its captain and crew. The day had been hot. The night had turned cool. The fog roiled in, with its blanket of dew. The captain steered his tug, painfully slow, caution was key to safely deliver the tow. All of a sudden there was a scrape and a jolt the barge floated free, not held by a bolt. Panic seized the crew! "We've lost the tow!" "MAYDAY!" screamed the captain over the radio. Amid the chaos and moans of disdain, another great jar, "We've got it again!". Back on land not far down the track the Limited sped with a clickety-clack. Approaching the tressel no one noticed the shake. Who could blame the poor folks; the hour was late. Midway over the bayou came the tressels demise. A great shiver another great quake, tons of speeding steel, folks met their sad fate. Days went by weary and sad. Rescuers agreed none worked a wreck this bad. Twisted and bent the engine was pulled from the muck and the slime. "102" came the final count, the coroner spoke and noted the time. A weary voice shouted "Wait!" "Sir, I disagree!" Tired eyes turned, what did they see? A weary man held in his arms a child about three. Today believers say "an angel wanders." "A tiny spirit" Others agree. On foggy nights when no moon can be. A tiny light flickers so you will see. "It's a firefly!" Say the skeptics of haunt. The creatures disagree and murmur their taunt. They know the spirit of the child now lives in their swamp.
Written by my grandmother Sandra Burch
I watch the steam, roll over the train,
as we round the bend.
It appears and disappears,
like the dark cloud that has imprisoned my heart,
since reading of your death.
The rattle from the windows keeps me in a hypnotic state,
as I'm still fifty miles away.
Received a letter three weeks after you departed,
now alone and dazed I've taken this train,
to your grave
This contraption moves ever slow,
and the noise from screeching wheels,
when we stop for water, awakens me.
There's nothing more timeless then motion,
that seems to stand still.
Steam engines...I should have taken a horse.
At least I wouldn't have all this time to remember.
Clickety Clack...Clickety Clack...
All aboard...Last stop
To never see you again, my final heartbreak.
If you don't mind I'm taking a horseback,
so I can forget the sadness, leave it on the train.
I'll visit your grave with a smile,
placing your favorite flowers against the headstone.
And watch the train roll past the graveyard,
while its whistle tries to awaken dad,
who lies next to you.
You'll never be alone again...
and me..you taught me to be strong,
I can do no less than honor your memory.
1/5/15
contest Railway Journeys
Dragon always needs to be entertained, or there’s trouble brewing, I Say!
So we got him an electric train set, for him and his penguins the other day.
But naturally, he had to sit in the middle of the track, not to mention his tail!
It kept constantly, knocking that train, plumb off its tracks, without fail!
And his penguins were way to big, to ride those cars that go clickety clack.
Yes, siree’, every time the train started up, another calamity, set him back!
Nobody likes Dragon when he’s frustrated, and Grandpa Troll, least of all!
So he picked up Dragon, by the scruff of his neck, and that’s not easy, atoll!
He said the idea we had was a sound one, but it didn’t fit his age and size.
So he plunked him into the old hay wagon and began to take him for a ride!
Erelong the trolls had laid a wooden track, to run the wagon on for a furlong.
Dragon was having such great fun, that he decided to pull his penguins along.
Our neighbor witch made Dragon a fancy harness with which to pull them all.
Yep, there was more bling, per square inch, on it, than to count before next fall!
Here, it’s Spring with her sun, my poetry friends, giving him energy to burn.
And he was so energized, that every kid on the block, got more than one turn.
Yep, the parents brought them in their Easter Best, as cameras started to roll.
A circular track made it more fun as they all burst into great children’s’ songs!
Now Dragon had everyone’s eyes on him… so he was the happiest of them all.
Even the Trolls got long rides, you know, those who built the track, you recall?
So today we were all winning and swimming in fun, because of Grandpa Troll.
My moral is: fancy gadgets, aren't always what we need, when we want to play.
A little imagination and moving around can sometimes be better, to save the day.
And some times Fun, with no competition can bring friendships closer, your way.
There is simply a line drawn in the sand
Tracing a route from the sea to the land
Sometimes it swirls around and around
Telling it's story without any sound
Here it is broken, then badly mended
It doesn't stop, the shore has not ended
Then come the letters as big as a whale
Spelling a name is just part of this tale
It's Wiggling now this way and back
The miniature footprints are easy to track
A tell tale sign that there's children about
That they're having fun, there can be no doubt
The beach is a page, a spade for a pen
We write sand-castle, again and again
The line runs between them, now it's a track
Imaginary train line, clickety clack
The line on the beach means, "please can we stay"
We turn to the kids and then finally say,
(as the sun starts to dip, and sadly we go)
"We'll do it again tomorrow you know"
Contest : Line
8th Place
Contest : featured poem of the week...
2nd place
The old steam engine chugged trying to reach the top,
Slowly it inched as the pressure valves were about to pop.
Just a few more feet and it would start its journey down,
And it would then be up to the brakeman to keep them from over shooting the town.
Well it made the top and started picking up speed,
And they slowed down the shoveling of the coal, cause there wasn’t much need.
You could hear those brakes a squealing as they tightened the wheel,
They had to get her slowed down fore the next curve or they’d all take a spill.
About that time dead ahead on those tracks,
Another train was a coming, a clickety, clack.
The old engineer was a blowing on his whistle, whoo, whoo, but to no avail,
For twas a runaway train, with an engine from hell.
A hundred thousand tons of steel, slamming together, makes an awful loud noise,
An on that curve took the lives of that crew, all mighty fine boys.
They had no place to jump, so they had to make this final ride,
And as the news gave way their womenfolk cried.
Stock
Lines derail trains made from stern stock
shunting worsted words in wagons to and fro
cabins depleted by looters piled on dock
signals distressed faces not any more
forefathers shape not their twisted progeny
when foremothers shunt them out of agony
the fear that might in the grain burst bunds
resides unformed in unwilling face
the dark inscrutable face of race
blood thinning through bastardized sons
forefathers shape not their twisted progeny
when foremothers shunt them out of agony
to guard the rhyme within the quatrain
no end of artifice will make for sacrifice
content lets form intertwine lines in vain
clickety-clack of the train lulls us nice
foremothers never think of their progeny
when forefathers shunt them out of agony
May 6, 1997
From the privately pub. coll. (rev. 2016): longhand notes (a binding of poems),1999, 115p.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
Choof, choof, choof the train
Along the rickety track,
Load the coal, toot the whistle,
Cross the trestle, clickety clack.