Best Railroad Track Poems
When I'm blue and need something to make me smile
I can turn on my forty fives and listen for a while
Jimmy Gilmer sang about a Sugar Shack
Holding hands, walking down that railroad track
Then I let the music take me back.
Take me back to a time when love was new
Take me back to a time when skies were blue
When we could catch that falling star
Make love in the back seat of my car
Music, oh sweet music, take me back
Doo-wop memories touched my soul
Mixed with the early days of rock and roll
I close my eyes and through the haze
I see sunshine and better days
Music take me back to those times again.
There was Bandstand on TV in black and white
Radio on 'til you fell asleep at night
There were dances at the school
And swimming in the community pool
Music take me back, let me remember when.
Did we believe those days would forever last
Were things so much better in the past
I dream of days when a movie
Meant kissing in the balcony
Music take me back, let my heart roam.
It seems like a thousand years ago
We found true love and watched it grow
I know this is where my heart belongs
When I listen to those songs
Music take me back, please take me home.
Little Blue Bird of rain.
Rain, rain go away
Little Blue Bird of Rain, needs to shine again
In her version the sun dried, up all her tears
Leaving hurtful rain inside the bird
Destructive past sudden cheers
Waking up to empty words
When abandoned by her peers
Just not knowing what had just occurred
Drowning herself in a life of Jane Doe.
Never know who she really is
When all she loves hanging her lowest moment
The rain brought out Mary-Jane.
As the bird lost its glow.
The rain tricked her once to use Cocaine.
As her feathers met that one Joe.
He broke her wing and brought more Rain.
Very young, very sweet.
Living her life in the fast lane.
Hard for her to stand on her feet.
Balanced her life on one leg, like the crane.
Curtains hang over her wings.
While she let no one near her domain.
While she flies through the heavy rain.
She finds her comfort with a pen.
Using the lords name in vain.
Cursing all her backstabbing friends
With no one around to explain?
All the sorrow left her on a railroad track.
Ending up like the runaway train.
Only she can get her life back.
If for myself I ever felt pain?
I felt more pain at what she wrote about.
In my face on my left side
Your poetry comes to life in my head.
Visions of her wanting to be dead.
Oh! How I wish this life she did not dread.
You hide the tears you shed so well.
A life with balls you cut the chains.
You diss, Your parents to go to hell.
Little Blue Bird of Rain, don't let them fools drive you insane.
Little Blue Bird of Rain.
If a sparrow could show you,
There is more to life than pain.
Under the umbrella, the sparrow would cover you.
No one wants to see her colors drain.
What a world to master her feathers into art.
The gift of words runs through her vein
The paintings on her wall.
A dream of a bad seed of grain.
One day our Little Blue Bird will stand tall.
To free herself from all the Rain.
To: Rain aka- Joy Loveless
Our sweet 16-year-old
P.D. 1-1-10
Out there on the edge of town
Lies a crumbling railroad track.
I set my feet to running,
Too late for turning back.
I left my love behind me
in an irrigation ditch,
I caught her with another man
So I up and shot the witch.
Now the hounds are chasing me,
My race is nearly run,
With nowhere left for me to go
I slowly pull my gun.
The barrel is cold against my head,
Eternity is near.
There’s just the sound of thunder
Exploding in my ear.
We must never forget that
we're human beings, above all.
We're God's children, all equal in his eyes.
We need to treat each other
with the utmost respect and dignity.
We need to learn how to peacefully co-exist.
Notwithstanding our deity of worship -
Whether you call God just that, God,
or Allah, or El-Shaddai, or Bhagwan.
Notwithstanding the language
we speak, or the accent
of our speech, domestic or foreign.
Notwithstanding our politics -
Democrat, Republican, or Independent,
or even party-free.
Notwithstanding our race -
White, Black, Hispanic, Asian; whether you
check "Other" on application forms.
Notwithstanding our religion -
Catholicism, Judaism, Hinduism, Mormonism,
Buddhism, Islam, and so on.
Notwithstanding our culture,
belief system, financial status, sexual orientation,
or how we dress. Whether we're believer or atheist.
Notwithstanding the side
of the railroad track we hail from...
We must never forget that
we're human beings, above all.
We're God's children, all equal in his eyes
We need to treat each other
with the utmost respect and dignity.
We need to learn how to peacefully co-exist.
In the final analysis, we are all equal!
Opinion Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Kai Michael Neumann
Date Written: 06/23/2020
You call her without warning, late one Friday night,
She says “Give me half-an hour…,” and she leaves on the light.
‘Comes the morning after, eggs and bacon, coffee black—
You’ve taken her for granted, but she always takes you back.
She isn’t quite as flashy as those others you prefer,
But like some lonesome boomerang, you return to her.
She’s got old-fashioned compassion, that these “Nineties ladies lack—
You’ve taken her for granted, but she always takes you back.
Could it be that she loves you?
Or else got nothing else to do?
She understands you like a sister—
She’s the best friend that you knew.
Now the twisting road is narrow, when the years come crowding in,
And you look inside your glass, and see the man you might have been.
She’s got two children—she’s got a husband—and you, you’ve got the railroad track,
You’ve taken her for granted, but she always took you back
Until she found somebody new…somebody true.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
my small hands cradle the glass,
the world outside our home
muffled~
inside our home,
a warm, soft glow
illuminates
the delicate
glass snow globe.
inside the lantern of glass,
a tiny village sleeps~
chimneys hold their breath
frozen mid-curl~
a single railroad track
vanishes
into powdered streets~
a church steeple
tilts slightly whispering
to the
snow drifts.
I bend closer,
the world outside~
now forgotten.
tiny windows glow
with
borrowed yellow~
plastic flames radiate
in miniature
hearths.
a tiny pine tree stands
sentinel
near the town square,
its tinsel
hung by
invisible hands.
Shake it! Dad exclaims.
I squeal with delight.
the miniature world blurs white~.
each flake suspended,
mid-fall, mid-flight,
caught between
the weight of sky
and earth.
Nothing melts here, he said, not even time.
Sixty-four years later,
something stirs
when I
shake
that lantern-shaped
snow globe~
the faint ghost
of a winter
I will always
remember.
With brew in hand, I step into a dew laden atmosphere that lies beneath a veil of grey, through which a huge, radiating circle of red rises and burns a hole, allowing the true colors of the day to seep through. Streams of blue, bleed through the green needles of the pines, as I sip my morning coffee and marvel at the crystal pinwheel patterns spun during the night, that now hang from my weather beaten fence.
In a melancholy breeze, I watch through cloudy eyes, a few leaves falling from the Crimson Kings, exposing the empty Robin’s nest I watched a Robin build - it seems - not so long ago, as I wonder through years gone by.
Across the way, where it seems only yesterday, I gazed at green pastures, I now gaze at fields of Queen Ann Lace, Golden Rods, Purple Asters and Scottish Thistles. When did, and how did all this happen? How quickly life goes by!
The sky above me turns black, as a flock of Starlings, swoop and sway and turn as one, before landing in the trees along the railroad track, breaking the silence with their deafening cries of summer's end, as a tear falls from my eye.
Author: Elaine Cecelia George, of Canada
Written: August 30, 2013
Puffing languidly by blowing the whistle, there came
the mementos of zig-zag meter gauged companion,
The first consignment on the railroad track, locomotives shipped from the United Kingdom,
by crossing 586 bridges, beautiful Himalayan Mountain Ranges,
37 tunnels of major attractions arrived at the destination,
A first venture, to boost up the drop's tea and coal transportation.
That day, a track known as Brahmaputra Valley,
literally airdropped as an island railway went conversion,
became history to usher the broad gauge interconnectivity of the remote region.
Eleven years later in 1892, thousands of men and women
gathered to cast the last glimpse of the railway track
at the eastern part of the Indian Continental,
to become the witness of the track's last communication.
An emotional moment, when the train ran for the last time
on the 115 year old meter gauge line
by flagging and blowing the last whistle of the dominion.
To bid tearful, joyful adieu to the first whistle
of the last morning, on the old track of the 65 km
railway line, inaugurated in 1881, in the so called
Land of the Raising Sun as commemoration!
I fell out of bed at the start of this day
With a real bad case of January blues
My old car won't start, but that's okay
I got a brand new shiny pair of shoes
It's cold outside and in my heart
My baby left town on the five fifteen
I just don't know what drove us apart
I don't know why I've been feeling so mean
The gate won't close, and my dog ran away
I slipped and fell by the railroad track
I've had these January blues all day
I sure do hope that my baby comes back
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 tags are labels placed on a table.
Beginning with A and ending with Z, the labels placed on the table enables me to readings.
I defeated being judgmental and did not become analytic.
My mind is a schema.
The stems are roots ending.
Argumentative are the colors exploding.
White becomes mixed and black is a misted.
Meaning is that both are within an element.
The bags that I carry appear to be heavy but they are not.
They are held many ways so that my arms will not tire.
I walk with a slight lean to my shoulder because my purse must strap.
I arch upright like a cat.
The stems rooted and garlic is scape.
The railroad track is the shortcut we take.
The blood is enriched and the heart strengthens.
Once grown, he knows life ascertains.
Pulling back the curtains, he views the beautiful garden planted by his beloved mother.
The clothes in this bag I will wash completing my chores for today.
Once done, I will leave to find something to enhance my life.
I feel agitated and I must relax.
Tomorrow will be one of the best days in time.
The stem is a broken root.
It uses or loses its route to new growth.
The knowledge it provides is wisdom to the planter.
The stem asks the question of why did this happen.
The House That Jack Built 3
Frequently we youngest four gathered bottles that were strewn in ditches,
And along the railroad track,
Then glide our feet over well-worn steel rails on the journey back.
We'd exchange empties for jaw-breakers and bubble-gum at Rose’s General Store,
And whenever I agreed to sing them a song,
We’d be given ice-cream cones for the deed that was far from a chore.
On the way home we’d pluck dandelions, buttercups, and daisies,
To present Ma with a colorful bouquet,
I’d add to it a rose or two if a certain neighbor was away.
If walls of home had open eyes and listening ears of course they’d witness and hear,
The muttered complaints and landing though faint of many a fallen tear.
Still, there was no television to carry us to places no child should go,
No boob-tube attempting to make us believe in all that just wasn't so.
We’d no telephone enslaving us in idle prattle-prat,
There was no couch-potatoing, no pigging out and getting fat.
We weren’t saints and some of our shenanigans surely caused the structure to tilt,
Yet we somehow felt all safe and secure in The House They Say Jack Built.
Then one day city slickers arrived at our door,
Said soon we would be living in Farran's Point no more,
The house where Ma had birthed nine,
Our Haven of Liberty that rested amid Willow, Maple and Pine,
Was part of some Seaway Power Project and Jack's House would be torn down,
And we were forced to relocate , to leave our delightful riverside town.
Gone would be the tall, proud trees, wild berries , rolling hills, winding creek and close friend,
Gone the canal that ships sailed through never would I cheerfully view again.
Gone the long tall grass we'd run through barefoot ,
After a swim in the River we cherished dear,
Gone the smiles from the faces of the Lost Villagers as eyes tried to hold back each tear.
by Joan Donnelly Ellis
Note: Farran's Point Ontario, Canada was a small riverside village. It was one of nine villages relocated before USA & Canada flooded the area in 1958 (St. Lawrence Seaway Power Project)
Born here girl, I swear I’m never coming back,
Too light town got lost beside a railroad track,
Rhythm of the rails inside my gunny sack,
There may be no cure for what it is I lack,
Promises to be my nymphomaniac,
Sugar pills can’t cure the pain of lumberjack,
And I’m gone, Whoo Hooooo, so gone!
Whoo Hooooo, no tears, Whoo Hooooo!
Where I’m going girl you cannot come along,
Barely have the room for even Country song,
Never really meant to ever treat you wrong,
Though this may seem mean I ain’t no Vietcong,
Trying hard to never be your enemy,
Truth just isn’t always what we want to see,
And I’m gone, Whoo Hooooo, so gone!
Whoo Hooooo, no tears, Whoo Hooooo!
Trains just keep on rollin’ don’t care what they do,
Following steel ribbons till the day is thru,
Hope I can do better choosing my guru,
Life can sometimes steer us down wrong avenue,
Still a song could be the way to set things right,
Music that comes on to me without a fight,
And I’m gone, Whoo Hooooo, so gone!
Whoo Hooooo, no tears, Whoo Hooooo!
Homeless boy just singing what he feels inside,
I ain’t asking no one to give me a ride,
Not too proud to make use of a coming tide,
Don’t give a rat’s ass for life that’s amplified,
No need to extoll a lie that’s right for you,
Caring for my own is all I need to do,
And I’m gone, Whoo Hooooo, so gone!
Whoo Hooooo, no tears, Whoo Hooooo!
Brian Johnston
June 5, 2015
When our kids where little it was our attention that they would seek
And so we’d set aside a night for games in the middle of each week.
Each Wednesday we would all sit down just to play a game,
Life, Scrabble or Monopoly to us they were all the same.
We would spend the night laughing and eating hot buttered corn,
Rolling dice or spinning wheels with pieces well used and worn.
One day our son told us that he’d invented a game to play,
One that he wanted us all to try out on our next game day.
When the time came we all sat down to see the game he’d made,
To learn the rules so we’d all know exactly how it played.
He opened up the board to reveal the spaces that he’d laid out,
A path that seemed to take its time as it meandered along the route.
There were extra branches of spaces that shot off to the side,
They had no real purpose in the game but they beckoned to be tried.
There was a spinner that he’d made and a pair of bright red dice,
Two stacks of special cards to draw one called naughty the other nice.
The hand drawn spaces looped around and then they doubled back,
Connecting up once again just like a Christmas railroad track.
There was paper money that he’d made and a shoebox for a bank,
And a basket filled with numbered tiles that was turned by a crank.
There were bits and pieces of lots of games that he had put together,
Some other stuff like a polished stone and a treasured Blue Jay feather.
Once he had it the way he wanted he said that we could start the game,
So I asked him what were the rules of play and did it have a name?
The Other Side of the Tracks
By Elton Camp
The poor you always have with you”
These words of Jesus are still too true
The folks who read this haven’t known
The cruel nature of poverty of one’s own
That is equally true in my case as well
Just the same, their story I’ll try to tell
For I have seen poverty not so far away
And have heard the things they must say
It’s in a middle-class town where I reside
But penury exists, just not side-by-side
Quite near, just across the railroad track
Live the poor, some white and some black
They remained almost invisible to me
Until I worked census and then got to see
Rooms in a shack sealed with cardboard
As that was the best they could afford
How many baths have you, but never mind
I already saw the crude outhouse just behind
Plank floors, protruding springs in chairs
I’d hate to experience the life that’s theirs
Food stamps and other types of handout
Are the things their life is mostly about
Lacking even a minimum high school degree
Better circumstances they aren’t likely to see
Their children suffer perhaps with silent rage
Drop out of school when they come of age
From this, what could finally come to be
Is it class warfare that we will come to see?
Some few the cycle of poverty will break
But most a success in life will never make
A sad, young girl sits and glumly stares
And wonders if anybody, about her cares
I can only describe what I know to be so
But a practical solution I just don’t know