Best Railroad Poems
lit up with the power to attract and excite
and framed by a window of the toy shop that night
a miniature world of trains, bridges and hills
took my mind off the cold from the late autumn chills.
there were signals that moved and tables that turned
and lights in the engines as if coal had been burned
frustrated by others who had gathered there too
I pushed them aside for a much better view.
I stood there transfixed and stared through the glass
at the landscape of plaster and fields of fake grass
I watched as the locos passed by on the track
to then vanish through tunnels somewhere at the back.
there were small plastic figures all standing in line
frozen on platforms and frozen in time
they weren't duly bothered they'd missed the last train
safe in the knowledge it would be round again.
Christmas was near and if things worked out right
I'd be playing with trains Christmas morn, noon and night
but I let out a sigh before turning to go
- I had already asked and my wife had said "no".
The whistles screamed that cold dark night
Winter, 1903
At least fourteen would perish
Way out on the prairie
The westbound Sunset Limited,
Eastbound Crescent City Express,
Met head on in a collision
Lives lost in great distress
Horror met the rescuers
Two twisted trains in flames
Of fourteen known to've perished
Of two, were not found names
A hundred plus years later,
On the date and pre-dawn hour
We'd come to the memorial plaque
With Teddy bears and flowers
Holding our thoughts in silence
We walked along the trail
Remembering the violence;
Their deaths upon that rail
Precisely 2:50 A.M
What was it? We don't know
But in our silent vigil
We heard a whistle blow
Sounding clear across the night
Once long, Three short, Last long
But there was nothing in our sight
Praying - we moved along
Our memorial under silver stars
For those perished on the track
Ended as we got in cars
With one last look-
a century back
We'll never solve the mystery
But do we need to know?
Commemorating history
We heard a whistle blow
In heat
the pulse of your streets.
I've heard the crack
of hard political whips
that pinch the air.
Cores of human topography,
your aging neighborhoods.
Your people kick cans
counting gravel like jewels,
while chiselers roast dogs
in the courthouse.
Swine flu kills
the papers.
And already the sky is
feverish.
In your train tunnels
a violinist plays pianissimo.
I've seen
railroad men search for him
along your tracks.*
But you are always
the sweltering sore
of the Atlantic.
A rusty mouth
for dark ships.
A blind brick town
of boarded storefronts
and ***** flicks,
you are buried.
Brown bag your way
to the last alley.
The tenants throw
rocks at your windows.
The rain has stopped
washing your sewers.
*From an old legend of
railroad workers on the east coast of the United States.
Published Black Buzzard Press - 1982
The way is the underground
They say If you runaway we'll you ground
The scary ,weak black kitten
Couldn't step,it is harshly beaten
The days are dark nights
The rays are dark lights
The shining northern star of hope
Is the guide ,a freedom rope
The way is the underground
The kitten's fugitive ghost is around
The kitten lost its whiskers
It is weak her eyes are on the paws
The kitten frost but it whispers
I still have these sharp claws
The shelter was the uncle's cabin, Tom
Whenever there is a lantern,it'd be our home
The way is the underground
Perilous it is,but the black kitten is still resisting around
The other day I took a trip to visit uncle Joe
A steam engine was a chugging oh how I love it so
I went and bought a ticket from the man behind the bars
First class I would be traveling among the railroad cars
A conductor checked my ticket so I could board the train
As the engineer was tugging on the whistle oh so plain
I set down in my seat it was so plush and firm
For soon the train would leave the station as the wheels would start to turn
I am off to see the sights before I get to uncle Joe
A day I'll spend upon this train with its entertaining show
The people here around me all have plans on what they'll do
For some it is their first train ride for others it's nothing new
The train has left the station as the engineer floors the throttle
Oh how the land is passing more speed would seem his motto
He has to slow it down when the crossings comes in sight
I'm glad I'm not the one who shovels all the coal oh what a fright
So many people wave they see the train in view
Now we return the favor as the whistle blows so true
Soon will come our meal that will taste oh so grand
Just as the sleeper cars will send us to another land
A new day has dawned as my destination nears
Excitement fills my mind as it drowns out all my fears
I see the station in the distance as the train begins to slow
Now who should be a waiting but my uncle Joe
Writte January 7 2015
The diesel locomotive wailed
Like a sick bull as it approached
The intersection; five bellows.
The dreaded traffic light turned red
And all of us just sat waiting
For this snail-like, slow-moving
Freight train to pass, while the traffic
was backing up to infinity.
Life becomes a standstill in time:
If your appendix burst, pray to god;
If you’re in labor, tough titty;
If late for work, you curse and swear!
So you wait and count the freight cars...
One hundred one…one hundred two…
Onward west they roll
Swaying, screeching, click-clanking
Along rusty tracks.
bathed in still shadows
from an afternoon glow
and wrapped inside splendour
half faded half gone
this house from a time
remote silent and slow
stands trapped by the past
in a world moving on.
Some pin memories delicately
and precisely like butterflies.
I, however, use railroad spikes.
This morning was spent well,
walking along a high desert trail,
close to some old railroad tracks.
My sister had shown them to me yesterday.
I am looking for signs that I was ever here before
today.
A boot print, perhaps, to match with my own
today.
Some lightly crushed sticky poppies or some low
purple lupine or yellow cactus flowers to bring back
the remembered scraps of yesterday's conversations.
Note that spring has passed with a large ant mound, bigger than
yesterday. Did I really climb to the top of the rock outcrop
moments ago?
Looking North down the valley, sun at my back,
Arkansas rippling nearby, and I'm moving along the tracks now,
Paralleled by old fashioned telephone poles, so low to the ground,
pottery and glass connectors on each one sparkling in the early morning sun.
Memory take note! This could be a decent poem.
Old rusty metal parts everywhere piled haphazardly by a thousand repair
crews running these rails forty, fifty, eighty years ago.
Are there any still around to remember those days on the rails?
Making my way back to my niece's house that I left some hours ago
and I pick up one of the railroad spikes in my path.
I'll put it in a drawer next to the spike that I and my young son found
near to his dying grandmother's house some years ago.
I knew that we would never be back and I wanted him to remember
those times.
I mean to ask my mother when I get back to my niece's house if
her "Popdaddy" ever prospected these hills.
I imagine him coming out of the hills to share a cup of coffee
with the railroad repair crew some eighty years ago.
My mother fades in and out of consciousness, unable to connect
her random disjointed memories. Will she have an answer?
Or will she ask me again just who I am and
what part of her life was I.
Two spikes to mark the passing of two ladies
and myself.
I'll put them in a drawer together, and some time, someone,
perhaps a grandchild,
will ask about them,
and I'll say,
"You know, I picked them up somewhere,
I just don't know exactly where,
or why."
Railroad Lullaby
I would rock myself gently
just enough to simulate
the rolling motion of the train,
imagining the click-clack of
weary iron wheels carrying me
off to some distant place,
someplace other than here.
Whistles from the distant switchyard
taunted me, lured my mind,
enticed me to run for the passing train
grab the rattling metal handrails,
climb aboard and sit, legs dangling,
rocking to the rhythm of old dreams.
Scents of wood smoke and oil
and steam mingled with the aroma
of fresh cut hay fields, newly turned
soil, rain just over the hills. Small
towns rippled past, two quick blasts
at the crossings, covered bridges roared
in protest to the intrusion.
The sun set behind us, giving the rails
the look of molten hot ribbons searing
their mark upon the land. Shadows lengthened
and were lost, a lone light sought its
way through the darkness of a child’s dreams.
7/28/2015
submitted to – Trains and Fantasy poetry contest
sponsor – Mystic Rose
The Abandoned Railroad
By Elton Camp
Its wooden ties are in a state of decay
The rail bed is partly washed away
Nature slowly but surely will reclaim
Then once again all will be the same
Though the rails alone for decades last
Testimony that a train formerly passed
Surveyors and laborers worked in vain
Why it was put there, none can explain
For those who built it no longer are alive
The works of man so seldom long survive
So it has been through the ages of history
Both people & their works lost in mystery
From the side of a freight car,
he hangs his indigo heart on the rails.
As the metal wheels harmonize with the rain.
Amidst the rust, hustle, and thunder
The message is clear..." Jesus saves-Jesus saves".
Climb aboard the "faith" train before it's too late.
It's a take care of number one world.
Everyone else be damned.
Live for the moment, trash away the soul.
There's no God of tomorrow
Flesh rules the day.
Where have all the cabooses gone,
Red slab sided, cupola, curved roof,
Friendly stove pipe hat, every kids wish,
Moveable tree house clickety-clacking
Cozily rolling across America
Snappy visored cap, brass buttons
Blue coat, wind whipped leaning out
One hand on the stanchion
Waving an all clear lantern, nights shining arc
Then crack, all along the line each
Snapping to attention each car in its turn
With a rattle rattle, huff and puff
Away it roars into childhood.
A memory of something important,
Those years gone like borrowed money
And now the dollars have all been spent
But the secret stays in the heart An ancient fondness now focused
A connection across the years
Tears and a smile for that railroad boy
Many years ago walking down
railroad tracks with my old dog shep.
We always passed by this old hole
next to tracks that laid over a little
bed of water.
One day shep got to close,
and slid down toward hole,
he was stuck real tight,
I went home to get a rope,
when I got back, he was no where
to be found, after looking all over
for him, I went home and there he
was on front porch, like nothing had
happened, looking at me and wagging his
bushy tail, as I got down to his level, kisses is
what I got from this fine dog, don't know
to this day how he got home without me
seeing him, but that was shep for you.
We had many adventures, this was just one of
them.
Written 8-7-11
This really happened in Grinnell Iowa around 1953 or 1954
Down the railroad track
Through the countryside of trees
In a luscious place
Tribute to Dawn of Day: Stories from the Underground Railroad
From
Tennessee
Virginia
Mississippi
Kansas
Wisconsin
To free states in the north and Canada
I grieved upon the grave of the slave
Tears circling the tomb
Securing his name
For their bloodshed
From whips and blows
By the masters and relatives
On the countryside
Down south
Oral histories and tradition passed down
Children
An investment
Field hands
Skilled labor
Textile production
Seamstresses clothed the slaves
A hovering over of threat of violence
And a whipping
Secret prayer meetings held on the plantation
The Underground Railroad
Station masters housed runaway slaves
in logged cabins
Conductors run the wagon
$50 reward for their capture
Images of faces with no names
Abolitionists regarded as extremists
A threat to the order of the day
******* fought in the Civil War
Share cropping
And Jim Crow
Then migration to city ghettos or slums
Marckincia Jean
Narrative
09/26/19