Best Iron Horse Poems
Along the mountain pine valley did the Iron Horse roar,
A steam belching black demon, burning red hot coals
Within it's steel belly.
Speed's hell bound creation, driven by greed's insatiable hunger,
Faster, faster it moves at acceleration rush, to
Achieve manifest destiny's final arrival on time.
In the distance hear another lone whistle blow, spitting,
And spewing with brimstone's gray smoke.
This indeed is the devil's train, carrying the forsaken,
To the depot of no return.
With a half empty payload aboard, Satan makes a deadly
Judgment call, stoke up those engines boys, ramming
Speed if you please.
Made man beasts are these mechanical monsters
Of destructions, lethal death weapons, chained
Down to the steel rails, and iron pikes.
Ebony stallion's racing against the winds,
As redden sparks sizzle and bite at the crisp autumn
Air, bellowing fumes poisoning the night.
The engineer of the 10; 15 out of Tombstone,
Checked his pocket watch, speaking impatiently,
He did so yell out, come along fellow's, we have a
Schedule to keep, and we've hours behind in our dead line,
So let’s pick up the pace.
Now the devil's train came out of know where,
With hell's supernatural master at the wheel,
Heckling, and laughing, relishing in the carnage’s
Utter calamity to come.
On a lone chewed up mangled piece of track,
Lies wreckages debris blood, flesh and twisted metal,
Lain stewned for miles beside the wild wilderness.
Broken bones, and sheared off limbs, weeping mother's
Cradling limp, lifeless bodies, crying why, God almighty
Why?
But the lord and heavenly father, had nothing to do,
With this unnatural disaster, nay the devil had many
Empty spaces to fill, and his passengers list was lean.
So he leveled the crimson ground with his dark gavel,
Taking souls at high velocities supernatural speed,
For this is the devil's ghost train, and it is so
Hell bound.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
When I sit my horse on hilltops, I find,
I cannot see the buffalo no more.
As whites have come and made the plains unkind.
Soiled all wondrous things I saw before.
For many winter's, warrior's sustained.
Freed our people to seek warmer winds,
And moved as clouds before coming rain.
To share Mother Earth with our naked skins.
Clouds dark, grow higher than eagle's wings,
As we feel the coming depth of sorrow.
Each moon we see dark smoke and what it brings,
Cries and death songs will echo tomorrow.
We join in ghost dance with its paint of black,
And seek visions from warrior ghosts of old.
We hear the iron horse on its metal track,
And know its fiery heart is burning cold.
Whites who come take each mountain they climb
While bones from buffalo and elk grow deep
Warrior's blood will know the end of time.
Mothers who suckled us with milk, shall weep.
He was born too late to be,
What he knows he is in his soul,
And though he’s quite accomplished,
Sometimes he doesn’t feel quite whole.
He’s a lawman of sorts,
Born out of his time,
Trying to uphold basic beliefs,
As an example for others to toe the line.
And he rides an iron horse,
And though it’s not a muscled steed,
It gets him where he’s going,
Whenever there’s a need.
They say, sometimes he’s crazy,
Plumb out of his mind,
Searching, for something,
They say he’ll never find.
He rides the asphalt prairie,
Through the heat and through the cold,
Just a Concrete Cowboy,
In search of Days of Old.
He believes in rescuing maidens,
Stuck beside the road,
And he wouldn’t have it any other way,
Than to live by a Code...
“Do what’s right by every man,
And never compromise,
Be good to little children,
“Cause life is a surprise.”
Stuck between buildings,
Of metal, brick and glass,
The only time he sees green pastures,
Is when he cuts the grass.
Looking for a way out,
To a place that’s in his dreams,
Only other Cowboys,
Would ever know what he means.
When he says he’s headed someplace,
Where he’ll race the open sky,
Only other Cowboys,
Understand the reason why...
Why he rides an Iron Horse,
For all the world to see,
It’s his one last chance to go back,
To a time when he was free.
Loyal in his heart,
To those who have gone before,
He scans the horizon,
Looking for that open door.
In the company of Ghost Riders,
In the roaring of the engine and the wind,
He searches for his destiny,
Old lovers and old friends.
Galloping across the miles,
One day he’ll reach the open sky,
Many, will see him pass,
But only other Cowboys will sigh,
Because he rides an Iron Horse,
Through time reflected in the glass,
Riding towards the future,
In an effort to reach the past.
Death's Messengers
by Rick Rucker
Death's messengers came for me today,
I eluded them, though, I crawled away.
Seeing just the smallest chance,
I sneaked into an ambulance.
I thought that it would surely fail,
That I'd soon be cold, and pale.
Noting that my blood did leak,
My future prospects seemed rather bleak.
One second, an iron horse riding,
And the next, my suit of leather sliding,
Down the road, at times bouncing,
My feeling of luck taking a trouncing.
I couldn't speak, my breath was leaving,
I knew my wife would soon be grieving,
I thought myself quite brave,
But I heard a medic say “Grave,”
Where I knew I soon would be,
On a hill, under a tree,
Thinking about the riding fraternity,
A biker through eternity.
Suddenly I felt a pain,
A searing blue flash went 'cross my brain,
Something just wasn't right,
Don't people say to “Go to the light?”
The only light that I could see,
Was red, and on a CHP,
Cruiser that was straight ahead,
Probably thinking I was dead.
Could it be that I would live?
How much fluid can one give,
And unfailingly survive,
Or , possibly even thrive?
I had to get into a hospital bed,
Before “THEY” knew I wasn't dead!
How fast can a medic go by rights?
Use the siren and the lights!
I wasn't feeling too nice,
But we got there, in a thrice.
Many doctors rushed me in,
Just one pain, from toes to chin.
To ease it, they gave me juice,
Soon, I began to feel quite loose.
Knowing that this dulled pain's talon,
I asked, “Could I take some home, a gallon?”
Seeing me under the weather,
The doctors all gathered together.
Discussing all the effects most tragic,
The witch doctors began to work their magic.
Soon enough, I knew I'd live,
I thought to take the time to give,
To The One that let me stay,
Above the ground another day!
I don't think about it much,
There's little pain to the touch.
The only legacy I carry,
Past cemeteries I do not tarry,
I haul as fast as I can go,
If I go a little too slow,
Death's messengers might see,
The one that got away-that's me!
American Osmosis
Jamestown was the source of this
Movement that swept across the continent
At first the ships were left behind
And people used what they could find
A mule, an ox, a Percheron
Whatever they could sit upon
They loaded up and west they went
Some went north and some went south
They filled the land e're which they went
The Louisiana Purchase was the big event
That sealed America’s destiny
Soon the country was spilling westward
To be the first to make a print
Where no one else ever went
They hoped for happiness as their destiny
The Donners never did find any
There were others rushed by gold
With hopes of riches they would hold
But mostly what the immigrants found
Was this great nation which was bound
To fill her borders sea to sea
With citizens like you and me
We owe thanks to Conestoga and Civil War
Beaver hats and railroad cars
Pulled behind the great iron horse
Of muskets bore and coon skin caps
Horses and cattle and leather chaps
Cowboys, six guns and barbed wire fences
Rangers, Marshals and bar maid glimpses
Pony Express and long coach rides
Wagon loads of buffalo hides
And the Indians who gave their homes
Of mountains and prairies where bison roamed
To live among us brave and bold
Absorbed by the manifest destiny told
Of the American Osmosis
Back in the days, when men bold,
spun golden legends;
of exploits in the wild west;
of punch-in and herd-in cows
and saloon brawls where they’d shoot
and scores of bullets roared.
Stories of the Iron Horse’s roar
and gunfighters and marshals, bold;
Of gamblers, who’d go shooting
for the stars in cards; those were feats of legend.
Days when plains of cows,
fur-painted the landscape of, the old west.
These are the breed that won the west,
as across the plains, the Iron Horse roared.
those are the backs worn, herding cows;
the exploits of the brave and bold.
those brave and haggard legends
made of silver spurs and pearl-handled shooters.
You’re darn toot-in, shoot’in
like that, was what won the west.
While the Iron Horse died, its legend
lives on, belching out its roar,
across the plains, so bold.
Still, cowboys herd and rope their cows.
Modern day cowboys, herding cows
by truck and shootouts
no longer ring so boldly.
Wild no more, is the west,
where now, only cars and planes roar.
Yet, there still live the legends.
They aren’t as great, these new legends,
but it doesn’t phase the cows.
They calmly graze, amid the airplanes roar.
Though one may say, “shoot,
it’s spoiled now”, the legends live on, in the west,
of heroes brave and bold.
The west will always, have its legends, Though trains no longer roar.
Cowboys will always rope their cows, as they did in the old, wild west.
Upon museum walls, stories of the shootouts,
are told; of ancient heroes brave and bold.
10-8-2020
Impress me with an old poem (002)
Poet Destroyer A
The trains of old, were dubbed the “iron horse”;
newer trains were known as, “bullets”, of course.
Flying past with the speed of light;
they cross the world, both day and night.
Once coal and steam propelled these beasts;
today the beasts are fast, but weak.
Of tin and vinyl, these are made;
of fiberglass and plastic panes.
With electricity, they are now, propelled;
nevertheless, they do not run as well.
No personality, have these new trains;
they’re not pretty; just quite plain.
If only man could see the facts;
He’d not hesitate, to bring, the old trains back.
Hear the lonesome whistle blow, it echoes across the vast
Continental divide, connecting the Pacific and Atlantic
Coastal shores, by the steel rails iron horse.
It raged in blazing thunder, leaving a storm cloud of white
Smoke in it's wake.
Lightning's hell speed, drives this devil's steed, with flames
Fire, feeding it's belly, by coal and sinews muscled sweat.
The wrought iron beast emerges, from the black pitch of night,
It's sharpen wheels of harden metal, cut, slicing through the
Raw flesh of mother earth, leaving her bleeding crimson red.
Bound and shackled, is this monstrous man-made beast,
Held captive, by the leg irons of progress.
Men covered in soot and ash, tend to the heart and hearth,
Of this demon bringing forth greed's prosperity.
Greased and oiled, pistons push gears, driving this seemingly
Living creation, of mechanical engineering, lit are it's eyes of
Fire, burning through the blackness of night.
The engineer holding the throttle to the floor,
Praying to God, he'll see the sun's dawning
Once more.
Tribal chieftains stand tall on a grassy knoll,
Observing the iron horse below, as the eagle
Soars above, shedding it's feathers in mid airs flight.
As the weeping woman cries, for her people,
For she alone, realizes what is it come.
The mighty buffalo, roam freedoms open
Tundra, as a herd of millions, soon to be
Nothing but dust shadows, phantom ghosts
Legendary beasts hunted by the native braves.
Around the sacred camp fires of old these
Ancient story's of the courageous hunters, shall
Be retold to generation to come.
The mighty Buffalo are brought to the brink of
Extinction by the long rifles of the white mans gun.
Yet these white devils still come, like a tidal wave,
Washing the prairies beauty away.
Hear the lonesome whistle blow, it
Echoes across the vast continental divides,
Connecting the Atlantic and Pacific coastal
Shores, by the steel rails iron horse.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Clouds were rolling
along against a stark sky, the day
the day the old Iron Horse
came through the mile-long tunnel.
It chugged on down
into town and I caught a ride.
As I began my dinner-ride,
the engine began to roll.
Slowly, click-clacking down
a track, that hungry, hopeful day.
Just before that tunnel,
In a field I spied black horse.
The rolling old Iron Horse,
was not an easy ride.
Inside that mile-long tunnel;
my stomach began to roll.
Churning all through the day;
I needed to lie down.
Unable to lie down,
I thought of the black horse.
Standing alone in a field, that daym
it would have been a smoother ride.
My stomach turning, old train rolling,
finally exiting mile-long tunnel.
In the distance, mile-long tunnel,
seemed to shrink on down.
As the train went rolling;
I kept thinking of that horse.
That calmed my stomach through the ride
I had, upon that day.
On that gloomy, cloudy day,
in the distance the black tunnel,
the horrid, nauseous ride,
began to cool itself down.
That jerky old iron horse
can just keep up its rolling.
The next day I took a better ride.
When dinner train came through that tunnelm
I waved from my own horse.
That train, it went on down
the noisy tracks and just kept on a rolling.
Slow Dancing the Past
by Odin Roark
Shadows of yesterday frozen
Even as high noon’s blazing heat
Seems never to pass
Fixed sturdy upon Nature’s ties
Once shiny rails
Hard driven spikes
Forward movement changed
In mind’s imploding delirium
From behind
Memoir nudges our sway
Reluctantly we swing
Along bedrock now exposed
Arresting our attention
Wildness carries forth endless existence
Prickly sumac and hobo milkweed
Bathe in the swirling dust of perpetuity
As a Monarch’s wings tuck
Taking refuge beneath rock
Where the snake’s watchful eye
Bids patience
All around
Admittance dictates
Real life’s Iron Horse long gone
Even though
Journey’s seduction
Fantasy
Dreams
Delusions
Remains always ahead
Waiting inside more transition tunnels
As youth walking the tracks
We saw the tunnel as mystery
Adventure beckoning
Threatening darkness
Where simple unease
Made exiting
Peeking light
At carving’s end
Time passed
Passageways continued
Beckoning our courage
Tracks of all sorts
Lead to choosing
Pondering
Decision
Endurance
Some of us ambled
Others jetted through
Even fewer stared
At risk’s pure darkness
Imagined finality
And then…
Some of us sat
Taking up the gentle amity
Of sumac’s brambly aliveness
Milkweed’s sharing promise
Monarch’s trusting beauty
The serpent’s eye winks
We smile at it all
As memories slow dance the past
Reflecting off our bygone rails
“The day is long the day is hot
Heat radiates the air will this ever stop
Sweat blurs my vision my mouth is dry
I look for salvation but not a cloud in the sky
I plough from sunrise to sunset but rarely will I rest
Ploughing the dusty fields so life can grow
So at summers end may I reap what I sow
Now through the dust a figure appears
Coming toward me till quite clear
A girl stands before me bare feet in tilled earth
She looks up at me and smiles and then I see
Ladle and bucket grasps in her hands salvation for me
Dismounting my iron horse I'm now on bended knee
Lifting the ladle I take long sips cold cool water passes my lips
At last the drought of my body is finally eclipsed
Water in hands I soothe the cracks in my face and burning neck
Then with humble gratitude I give the ladle back
Smiling she turns without a word and heads back whence she came
Disappearing to my astonishment in the unforeseen rain”
Jon J.
These grassy margins under sky of blue,
so peaceful. Then a rumble, sudden blast –
can you stand your ground as the train roars through?
Here’s Progress. Boston, all across this New
England, folks with tickets for transit massed.
These grassy margins under sky of blue
once buffered cities. Landscape’s subtle hue,
a pleasant walk – gone, outmoded, outclassed.
Who could stand his ground as the train roars through
for Commerce? Stockcars in which ram and ewe
are hurtled toward their slaughter house, too fast
for grassy margin under sky as blue
as berries ripe in August – something true
that you could taste, and savor to the last.
Can you stand your ground as the train roars through
hauling its cargo? Where the wild-rose blew,
now coal-smoke smudges what was, but is past.
Those grassy margins where the sky was blue
couldn’t stand their ground when the train roared through.
Don't fall off of that iron horse!
They'll devour their king.
What song will you sing when the pendulum swings?
Every tyrant should fear the pendulum's swing.
It'll rain backwards and tears will fall back into their eyes.
They'll remember your treachery, they'll bury you alive.
They'll howl as the moon shines on your demise.
What song will you sing when they devour their king?
Every tyrant should fear the pendulum's swing.
June 22, 2016
Two majestic lords of the African Savannah,
Strike without cautions warning, or roar's announcement.
Nomads, prides outcasts, existing on the fringes edge of
Survival.
Instinct's primal predators, golden phantoms, shadows
Haunted silhouettes passing in the night, casting eerie images
Against canvas tents, and fire lights burning embers.
On heightened senses of enticement, these living
Killers, smell their preys fear, thus so crossing the line,
Cutting deeply into man flesh, leaving bloody paw prints
Behind them, and giving birth to their own legend.
Translucent specters, blending mirages melting,
Within the tall grasslands scrub brush, as if creatures
Of illusion, brushed by the hot Massai winds.
Caddish yellow-green eyes, pierce through humanities
Nightmare realm, for in reality's harsh view, it cannot
Be real, these ghosts in the darkness.
Carnivorous hunters patrol, the devils backbone,
Known as Tsavo, skeletal bone collectors,
Relishing in their trophies prize, beware their talons
Sharpened claws.
Man-eaters, rulers of this lost garden of Eden,
In the lions den, the bones of the dead scream in silence.
In this blood sports arena, these kings dominate over
The kingdom of men, dominion’s red cloak, is
Soaked in crimson's red, dripping freshly downwards
Towards hells cavern.
Mankind's greed, does drive this army of the walking dead,
Stalked by these feline demons, of the nights abyss.
Progresses iron horse must reach the African interior and
If poundage cost be in flesh and bone let it be so, paid.
Rushing waters forge, laid by steel rails bridge builder,
The holy architect whom carries, the long rifle of justice,
Assumes responsibility's heavy shovel, of the living dead's
Burial grounds.
Man vs. beast, teeth vs. bullets gunpowder, in the rising
Suns twilight, one shots sounding ends the fight, and alone
Lord remains to grieve for his fallen brethren.
In rages vengeance, the last warrior declares angers wrath,
And he is so slain by hail's gun blast.
But in Tsavo, the people still watch, for in legend, ghosts
Never truly die, yet remain hidden unto the hunger returns,
Beware, these ghosts in the darkness.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
There is a sickness in my heart
It began a long time ago
With three evil spirits that came out of the sea
From the land of the rising sun
Quietly floating on three great canoes.
The mother and her twin daughters
Santa Maria was the mother's name
She who claimed to have birthed the Great Spirit
For she was the spirit of pride
Who laid claim to whatever she touched.
One daughter was the spirit of greed
She had two faces and both had two tongues
Pinta was her name
She birthed the iron horse that bellowed black smoke
That cut the land into pieces
And swallowed whole the buffalo herds
Spreading the spotted death as it went.
Her other daughter was the spirit of hate
She looked harmless but killed with thunder
Nina was her name
Poison sprang from her breasts
Fire mixed with water
That which mimics courage but steals the soul
She came seducing and destroying all she could.
They entered the land and made her sick
And then the people became sick
Then the plants and animals became sick
Then the water and the air became sick
Many were rubbed out
The rest are sick and dying.
There is a sickness in my heart
It began a long time ago
With three evil spirits that entered into the land
They rode upon a pale horse
And his face is white as death.
Timothy I. Brumley
For my Grandmother's people the Seminole Nation