Best Pullman Poems
I really have outdone myself this time!
My ‘God Machine’ is finally in place!
I’ll never have to fret about a rhyme,
Or stop for a red light that changed from green
As if it sought to put me in my place
A random hiccup clearly quite obscene.
I really am quite clever I must say
My ‘subtle knife’ (1) allowing me to splice
My ‘God Machine’ into time’s tawdry day
The true God left completely unaware
That He is now controlled by my device
And just another victim of malware.
It seems there’s quite a lot that ‘God’ screwed up
That I intend to change now I’m in charge
I think that its bad form to cover-up!
So what’s the deal with dying anyway?
Let no one die will be my countercharge
And life is just a breeze on my freeway!
All pain mere nuisance, manna heaven sent
And sin gives you enormous facial zits
While love and kindness clear up all your rent.
Though talents differ, jealousies dissolve
As differences bring none real benefits
And non-destructive social moves evolve.
All birth defects, parental wealth passé
Genetic weakness gone with dodo bird
No accident of birth gives worth per se
Sins of the parent cannot taint the child
That God might favor one is just absurd
The color of one’s skin no more reviled.
But now I find my plans have gone awry
My God Machine decided I’m a flaw
It seems that I’m outdated samurai
Humanity endangering MY plan
Just plankton in the future’s yawning maw
Machine judged only advocate for man! (2)
Brian Johnston
November 5, 2014
Poet's Notes:
(1) subtle knife - A reference to a magical knife that can open windows in time in one of the 3 books in the Phillip Pullman trilogy 'His Dark Materials' including The Golden Compass, The Subtle Knife and The Amber Spyglass.
(2) My poetic version of the lesson of the book and movie 2001 (written by Stanley Kubrick and Arthur C. Clarke) where HAL, a computer so smart that it becomes sentient, decides that that only way to really protect a manned mission of a spaceship to the planet Jupiter is to kill all the humans on board the spaceship. The crew's humanity HAL decides is just too big a risk to the mission that HAL is charged (by its human programmers) to protect.
We hear the engine whistle
The hissing of the steam
The hairs on our necks begin to bristle
As we meet the arrival of a dream
We didn't think we had a chance of winning
Entering just for fun I guess
but thanks to simple poem we are grinning
As we board the Orient express.
London to Paris, what a dream come true
I never dreamed the sparks would fly between us two
The fireman stokes the boiler; and releases a jet of steam
The guard collects our tickets and we begin our dream
Days and nights together on this magnificent train
Travel through beautiful places, seeing new terrain
Enthralled at the elegance and beauty of the carriage
Will our trip together end up with our marriage
Looking so handsome in your new dinner jacket
Glad you won this holiday; it must have cost a packet
The ambiance of the surroundings is utter bliss
We seal our relationship with a tender kiss
Holding hands so gently we share a vintage wine
Sitting in the Pullman coach you rest your head on mine
Velvet blue sky and shining stars start to cast their spell
The romantic seine has such stories to tell.
In Paris we visit the galleries of fine art
Holding your hand I realise you have captured my heart
We pass through the Arc De Triomphe and climb the Eiffel Tower
Now I surrender to your feminine power
Retire with me to the Napoleon suite
Sharing in the splendour of this romantic treat
Promise to be my Mam'selle Josephine
Or expose my heart to Madame Guillotine
You look so beautiful and smell divine
I kiss your lips, They taste of fine wine
We are lost in the flames of passions fire
As we quench the thirst of true loves desire
Our bodies rise and fall as we entwine
Oh I’m so glad that you are mine
All those feelings denied and for so long suppressed
Come to the fore aboard the Orient express.
Passion abates we are wrapped in each others arms
Darren wants more so I succumb to his great charms
Our fire ignites with desire and great passion
Hour upon hour – this man I can’t ration
Finally we reach the end of the line
Our love making session has been so divine
Arm in arm we head out of the carriage door
So hopelessly in love – who could ask for more
15th April 2014
Jan Allison and Darren Watson - 'JaDazzle'
Please also read my Blog about our collaboration
We hear the engine whistle
The hissing of the steam
The hairs on our necks begin to bristle
As we meet the arrival of a dream
We didn't think we had a chance of winning
Entering just for fun I guess
but thanks to simple poem we are grinning
As we board the Orient express.
London to Paris, what a dream come true
I never dreamed the sparks would fly between us two
The fireman stokes the boiler; and releases a jet of steam
The guard collects our tickets and we begin our dream
Days and nights together on this magnificent train
Travel through beautiful places, seeing new terrain
Enthralled at the elegance and beauty of the carriage
Will our trip together end up with our marriage
Looking so handsome in your new dinner jacket
Glad you won this holiday; it must have cost a packet
The ambiance of the surroundings is utter bliss
We seal our relationship with a tender kiss
Holding hands so gently we share a vintage wine
Sitting in the Pullman coach you rest your head on mine
Velvet blue sky and shining stars start to cast their spell
The romantic seine has such stories to tell.
In Paris we visit the galleries of fine art
Holding your hand I realise you have captured my heart
We pass through the Arc De Triomphe and climb the Eiffel Tower
Now I surrender to your feminine power
Retire with me to the Napoleon suite
Sharing in the splendour of this romantic treat
Promise to be my Mam'selle Josephine
Or expose my heart to Madame Guillotine
You look so beautiful and smell divine
I kiss your lips, They taste of fine wine
We are lost in the flames of passions fire
As we quench the thirst of true loves desire
Our bodies rise and fall as we entwine
Oh I’m so glad that you are mine
All those feelings denied and for so long suppressed
Come to the fore aboard the Orient express.
Passion abates we are wrapped in each other’s arms
Darren wants more so I succumb to his great charms
Our fire ignites with desire and great passion
Hour upon hour – this man I can’t ration
Finally we reach the end of the line
Our love making session has been so divine
Arm in arm we head out of the carriage door
So hopelessly in love – who could ask for more
Written By Jan Allison & Darren Watson
15th April 2014
There they rested on rusting rails so regal yet so stark.
An old steam engine and its caboose now sit silent in the park.
Since I was on a casual stroll and had some time to squander,
I sat upon a beckoning bench, its yesteryears to ponder.
In my mind's eye I saw this Goliath racing down the rails,
Spewing billowing smoke and hearing its melancholy wails.
The engineer consulted his watch, anxious to meet his goals.
With elbows and cinders flying, the fireman stoked the coals!
I reckoned it towed freight cars as part of its ponderous load,
And of course free-spirited hoboes, those vagabonds of the road.
I'm sure its odyssey crossed desert sands and verdant prairies,
And coursed thro' mountain cols as high as eagles' aeries.
I envisioned sleek Pullman cars it pulled with happy folk aboard,
Enjoying the grandeur of this nation as down the track it roared!
Did it witness sad goodbyes as it carried soldiers off to strife?
Alas, did it carry a hero's coffin who had sacrificed his life?
What a thrill watching a steam engine thundering down the line.
I'll return again to reminisce before this venerable shrine.
Startled by a diesel train and its raucous klaxon across the way,
I wakened from my reverie and slowly walked away.
Hello friends! This is my first bilingual book.HAMMER @ ANVIL BOOKS released my book of
poems as e-book on AMAZON Kindle: http: //www.amazon.com/A-Feather-of-Fujiyama-
ebook/dp/B 00E5XY5PO/ref=sr_1_1? s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1374938945&sr=1-1
Special thanks to Vessislava Savova (translator) , Mercedes Webb-Pullman (Editor) , Adam
Henry Carriere (Editor) , and my daughter Liliya Pangelova (illustrator)
All proceeds from the sale of this collection will go to the Bulgarian Integrated Education
Foundation, working to improve the lives of children and youth with special health and
educational needs (including mild Down syndrome, autism / autistic spectrum, cerebral
palsy, language-speech disorders, and hyperactivity) and their families.}
Thanks for your support everyone! I wish you happiness and good reading.
Bozhidar Pangelov
The Union Pacific steamer billowed clouds of smoke as down the rails it raced!
Young soldiers aboard the crowded train contemplated the dire fates they faced.
Melancholy thoughts of hearth and home this Christmas Day were hard to bear.
The mournful wail of the engine's whistle added to their loneliness and despair.
The troop train provided very little conveniences for the miserable men.
No showers, a potbellied stove for heat and a tasteless meal now and then.
Little sleep was had since there were no berths or fancy Pullman cars.
Even a nap in their seats was fitful due to the coaches rocking jars!
Ah, but there was good news ahead for these young men on the way to war!
The sergeant announced, "We're stoppin' at North Platte, Nebraska! Ain't very far!
The kind ladies of North Platte is waitin' to greet youse on this Christmas Day!
Now, watch yer language, comb yer hair and shine yer shoes wid'out delay!"
The ladies of North Platte met every train passing through since the war began!
From the bounty of their farms they provided food for each and every man!
Ladies from miles about brought fried chicken, candy, apple pies and cakes,
Even popcorn balls with addresses of girls wrapped therein, for heaven's sakes!
Each train stopped for twenty minutes or so to take on more water and coal,
But those precious moments lifted the morale of the men which was the ladies goal!
They met as many as thirty-two trains a day serving nearly six million guys!
Decades later those men, now old vets, recall North Platte with teary eyes!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
Freight train is moving out; a big black Mally s’ pulling lead
The Mally’s fire s’ getting hot; she s’ belching smoke an’ blowing steam
Her big drivers ah’ drumming out a rolling rhythmic beat
Whistle blowing that lonesome wailing moan; a warning for all to heed
Caught her on the fly; grabbed a gon and rode it through the night
It’s a gondola on a sunny day; a side door Pullman in the rain
For a drifter on the bum; tis the life he s’ chosen to lead
The rhythm of the rails induces sleep; till the early morning light
Pack slung or’ his shoulder, got it all bundled up tight
Tis a cardboard mattress, newsprint blankets; just a few
tin can cup; bent lid spoon all tucked well inside
Hopped to a jungle; further on down the line, sun was shining bright
Smelt the aroma of a steaming jungle pot; tis purely a delight
Pulled up a bucket to set a spell; dips him a cup of that steaming jungle stew
savors the flavors; up to his fill; jaws a bit, seeking events along the rails
Will catch another slow mover again; when the time seems just right
An explanation: This is from observation of these “hobo type individuals” as a result of my having worked in large rail centers where railroads merge many years ago. The “big black Mally” refers to a type of large steam locomotive. “The jungle” refers to an area where these individuals could rest a spell before moving on. A “jungle pot” refers to a small barrel that served a cooking vessel that always seemed to be steaming with a stew of whatever these folks could beg barrow or steal to contribute.
Lincoln Special
Abraham Lincoln’s Funeral Train
Ma, pa, and I dressed in our Sunday outfit, excited for the “Lincoln Special” to come up the track as we stand at the train depot.
After departing Washington, D.C., on April 21, 1865, the black-draped train bearing President Abraham Lincoln’s coffin, spent nearly two weeks winding its way through 180 cities and seven states before reaching the assassinated president’s burial site in his hometown of Springfield, Illinois.
Buck boards and horses with their riders running by dust clouds form, covering everything with dust, I sigh. Making us use our handkerchiefs as we cough and pace beads of perspiration causing tiny streams down my brow and face leaving thin streaks in the brown dust.
A great swell of the blackest charcoal smoke billowing smokestack, whistle blowing steel wheels against the rail cause a braking, screeching, vibrating sound; locomotive coming up the rail into view, like a charging black rhino. A massive moving machine, carrying Abraham Lincoln, a fantastic sight to take in.
Many made the journey to pay their respects.
“Lincoln Special” also served as a publicity boon for George Pullman, who lent the use of his new, luxurious sleeping cars for the comfort of passengers traveling from Chicago to Springfield after Lincoln’s burial, orders took off for Pullman’s sleepers, which featured polished black walnut interiors, chandeliers and marble washstands and made overnight travel much more enticing for passengers.
11/9/2021
Railroads, A Historical Glance Back Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: BJ Legros Kelley
Rode here a man of some repute,
Banker and empire builder bold,
Who’d even tried to corner gold,
To lay him out a railroad route.
He addressed our town; here I quote:
“The westward way lies through your town.
It will bring commerce and renown.”
The people closed his way by vote.
They blocked his path; provoked his wrath:
“I will see grass cover this town!”
He rode off with ferocious frown
To route his rails another path.
The rail lines were laid south of here
At the wish of this financier.
The town near died, to his delight,
But folks held on out of sheer spite.
After he found his last reward
Someone cleared out his railroad yard.
There his personal Pullman lay,
Atalanta, in disarray.
Found, refurbished, and auctioned off
For a small sum at which he’d scoff,
The coach now sits where all may see
In the heart of our loved city.
The railroad played a major role in the growth of our nation
It was an elite form of travel beginning at the station
The month was September, the year 1825
A date to remember when the railways came alive
The first steam train to carry passengers was called Locomotion No 1
The Stockton and Darlington Railway in NE England did run
Fast forward to 1827 on February 28
The Baltimore and Ohio Railroad would transport passengers and freight
The year was 1830, none other than Christmas Day
The first regularly scheduled passenger service did commence on this day
It was in South Carolina, Charleston to be exact
The U.S. built locomotive running down the track
100 years later trains had evolved beyond belief
In 1936 Sante Fe launched the all-Pullman Super Chief
From there let’s roar in the ’40s when train travel was at its best
The Super Chief was elegant and stood out from the rest
Observation decks were prevalent and don’t forget the bars
A dress code wasn’t mentioned but you should see the dining cars
White linen on the tables, prime rib upon each plate
Ladies in silk blouses, their brooch designs ornate
The trip was an experience from Chicago to L.A.
The Super Chief ran till '68 on the 15th of May
The voyage used to be as important as reaching the traveler's destination
The experience began when you bought tickets at the station
10/18/2021
Written for Railroads, A Historical Glance Back Poetry Contest
Sponsored by BJ Legros Kelley
There are only two movies I watch more than once a year.
While You Were Sleeping with Sandra Bullock is one of them.
Sure, I love her. But I love Bill Pullman too and Peter Boyle.
You know how sometimes you want to recast a movie?
This is not one of those. Each person was cast perfectly.
They are comedians, their timing is exquisitely done.
They are lovable, except Peter and Ashley, but they are great
Because they are supposed to be pompous, staid, stuck-up.
Every time I watch I am cheering for the heroes to get together.
Even Joe Junior, the landlord’s son, has a loveable side to him.
Glynis Johns is perfect, and it is great to see her again.
But the plot, oh, my, it is hilariously funny! So terrific.
I sit on the edge of my seat, chomping down popcorn
At an unnatural rate, cheering them on, dying for the ending.
When Lucy says “I fell in love with you,” and Peter Boyle says
“You fell in love with me?” my heart swells every single time.
This is a die-and-go-to-Venice movie. I highly recommend it.
If you want to grin for the rest of the night, watch this one.
Flying Jib son of Curry Comb
The care of the comb son of Garden Gnome
Garden Gnome son of Pillow Case
The case of the headrest o’ Second Base
Second Base son of Baby Chick
The chick who’s a pip son of Pogo Stick
Pogo Stick son of Gunder Fahr
The father of man son of Zanzibar
Zanzibar son of Zanihey
The hey zani hey son of Make My Day
Make My Day son of Monocle
The cull of the one son of Dimn Endoll
Dimn Endoll son of Angel Eyes
The seer of the saint son of Biting Flies
Biting Flies son of Linseed Oil
The oil of the flax son of Munsell Soil
Munsell Soil son of Swami Snake
The snake in the basket o’ Pullman Brake
Pullman Brake son of Hatta Tik
The bug in the rug son of Balletic
Balletic son of FBI
The Tommy gun men son of Hy and Dri
Hy and Dri son of Daily News
The word on the street son of Boogie Shoes
Boogie Shoes son of Years Ago
The gone by the way son of Best in Show
Best in Show son of Links of Chain
The iron that weeps son of Dick and Jane
Dick and Jane son of Bob and Weave
The blow to the head son of Makebelieve
Makebelieve son of Elmo Bib
The under the pin son of Flying Jib
Outside my window the glimpse of a twinkling muse
sprinkling little bits of imagination into my soul.
I espy a little Reindeer prancing in the deep, deep woods. Slanting my eyes just so I try to take a better look. Before I get to sing
the first refrain of Jingle Bells, he has gone away. Hidden behind a white spruce filled with gold and silver pixie dust. The train keeps moving on, secured by fast moving rails that seem to have a destination of their own.
Planting a cold kiss on the glass my voice turns to a whisper, and I feel miles away from my home. The sun is beginning to rise in the North and the dawning sun is infusing me with warmth. I can feel it dance on my cheek, rousing me slowly from a dreamless long night's sleep. No sun kinks on the rails, just the invisible passengers, the Conductor, and a Pullman porter who is fast asleep in his folding seat. My spirit roams free on this blessed morning. The wagon has an almost feel of religiosity attached to it.
I sense the Conductor long before his shiny black shoes kiss the ground. " Missy, would you like a cup of warm milk?" But all I see in his toasted big brown hands is a bowl of hot steaming soup with a couple of dumplings.
We exchange a puzzled look then I take it in my hands and bring it to my hungry mouth. I sip it slowly. As the liquid pours down my parched throat, an inkling of memory returns to me.
I smile for the first time, in my fifteen long years.
To be continued...
Copyright © Mystic Rose Rose | Year Posted 2023
As I sit wandering about the south
side of Chicago captured effortlessly
by the tall dandelions watching the
lightening bugs rest on sunken cattails
we often lit them just before the sun
sets over George Washington Carver
campus deep within the forest preserve
over looking the Dan Ryan expressway
just to keep the mosquitoes at bay there
are always so many not even the
swarming dragon flies feasting could
truly silence them I sit pondering away
with my thoughts on the Pullman strike
and the hay market projects writing poetry
in my journal as quiet as a mouse an yet I
always had something to say the orange sky
began to drift as a blanket of stars started
twinkling in a distant over the railroad
tracks I can here the loco motive rolling
down the broken planks-cotton belt
screeching down the steal beams fresh
bread will be served tonight with my
grandmothers famous Sicilian soup
right about now I here her calling my
name Cocoa cocoa put that book
down and get in here for supper it’s
getting dark you know I stuck my
pencil inside my braid and begin
skipping towards the gardens homes
that were actually built 1945 name after
Congressman John Altgeld for war
veterans returning from WWll and their
families there simply was no greater
peace right away I got to roll the lemons
cutting them for fresh lemonade and
begin asking all kinds of questions about
where do the bugs go at night how
do they sleep and why do lightning
bugs come out just before dust then
die out after we catch them and put
them in a jar the rest just vanish my
dad answered all my questions as I
began to drift off to sleep he carries
me upstairs to bed tucks me in removed
my pencil from my braid and
places my journal on my nightstand
dims the light as my mind starts to
dream of my tomorrows adventures
I used to ride the train
from school to home and back,
every other weekend,
in an old Pullman car
built in the nineteen-thirties.
It smelled like my grandma’s house—
a little musty, like time
had curled up and fallen asleep
in the cushions.
Too warm, always,
but the clickety-clack over
tie bars and rail frogs
lulled me to sleep,
rocking me gently
as if the train remembered
being a cradle.
We changed trains in Omaha—
an hour or two to wait
under chandeliers that looked
like upside-down rockets,
pendulum-lights humming
above the checkerboard floor.
I’d find a quiet bench
beneath the soaring windows,
crack open a paperback—
sometimes Poul Anderson,
sometimes Clifford Simak,
and once even
The Communist Manifesto—
and disappear.
I built fortresses
out of sentences,
made treaties with Martians,
and explored history
with comrades in red.
I don’t remember
what I packed for those weekends,
but I remember
what I read.
The train always carried me
somewhere else first—
into other worlds,
other futures,
where girls could be scientists
and navigate the stars.
I’d arrive drowsy,
half in orbit still,
while the familiar streets
waited without question.
And then I was
home.