Best Trestles Poems
I wail lonely
in your distances
as endless trestles travel I
Know
I was here I was
present
on your horizons,
present in your town
Come, ride with me
Come, keep me
from obsolescence, keep me
alive
Without you
Within me
I am meaningless,
blind
For how can I see, and, yes,
Who can I show,
If not you... if not you... if not you
Not the wisping grasp against the parchment
That licking click of writer as he tpyes
The cold inanimates touch of skin on screen
Memories only shorter I eye aye the Scottish yes
Scrapes and scrawls on cave dwelt walls
Truncated truck trimmed in intricate trestles
Who was the first message in a bottle for
Bobbles of sheerest ink like Scottish lochs
as.morning mists turn solid for a movement
I enjoy being wrong
Keeping pictures of the dead to the soon to be
Words the unleashed an atom
Words that end wars
illlusions putting fuses to the con
My muse has left
So I better be …….gon
A little boy and an ant became great friends one day.
But how to live drew them apart, and this is how they ran astray:
In the Ant’s heart was strict authority and constant work to rule the day.
Why wasn’t the boy toting behind someone, collecting for the food array?
The ant would always build everything in exactly the same proven way.
The anthill, underground, protected them perfectly as shown, every day.
Not adding to the hive was a horrible crime, none would ever display.
The ant knew all would be perfect, if everyone did their job, and obeyed.
But the boy wanted to build bridges and trestles, just like his Dad, each day.
All of them out in the open, none of them under ground or hidden away.
Inventiveness came with the notice, of new and exciting things in daily play.
His life was really cool, not boring, as standing in a line would convey.
He’d invent, ponder, and build in exciting, new ways, to fit each new byway.
Quick minded, resilient he’d build, many fascinating and unique causeways.
The boy and the ant eventually went away, not happy with how the other lived.
They thought the other shortsighted and scorned, at what the other could give.
But they went away without realizing, how very similar were their lives.
For each would spend their time endeavoring to help others with their drive.
But understanding is a harder concept than building a bridge or storing food.
It takes a true gift to see the world as others do…
The moral to this story is really quite easy for all to see:
You can’t expect others to live lives, how you want them to be.
Each was adding to their different worlds, only they could see.
One building for a smaller, singular hive, the other the hive of mankind, you see.
Each in their own way: truly cast a long shadow to fill… an important need.
I can remember as a child
thinking then, snows were very deep,
that train trestles could touch the sky
and dad stood at least ten feet high.
With little legs standing in snow
Like twin stalagmites stacked and cold
certainly seemed deep, in my eyes.
Same could be said for train trestles;
Standing beneath them looking up,
It wasn’t hard to imagine
them touching that enormous sky.
Today standing somewhat stooped,
my octogenarian dad
remains that giant in my eyes.
~~
Into the heart of Canada on a winter journey,
On the northern steam train to James Bay;
A scenic tour with a dining car and sleeping beds,
I steamed through glacial peaks and fir trees.
Past snow covered fields and across bridges,
High on breathtaking deep canyon trestles;
Slowly up steep slopes and around sharp curves,
Past rolling hills and deep, dangerous ravines.
Along frozen streams and watchful wildlife,
Into an underground tunnel that was so dark;
Great the rushing waters of a river over worn rocks,
We plunged into a canyon floor and up again.
And we glided to a stop with the steam blowing,
Into the blue sky of James Bay, Ontario, Canada;
I stood there in total bliss and awe with my excursion,
Excited I could not wait for the return journey.
___________________________
January 20, 2015
Poetry/Verse/Into The North
Copyright Protected, ID 01-634-694-20
All Rights Reserved, 2015, Constance La France
For the Premier contest, Railway Journeys,
sponsor Shadow Hamilton, Judged 02/2015
Third Place
A little boy and an ant became great friends one day.
But how to live drew them apart, and this is how they ran astray:
In the Ant’s heart was strict authority and constant work each day.
Why wasn’t the boy following someone, collecting for the food array?
The ant would always build everything in exactly the same proven way.
The anthill was underground and protected them perfectly every day.
Not adding to the hive was a crime, no one would ever think to display.
He knew every thing would be perfect, if everyone did their job and obeyed.
But the boy wanted to build bridges and trestles, just like his Dad, each day.
All of them out in the open, none of them under ground or hidden away.
And inventiveness came with the notice, of new and exciting things in daily play.
His life was really cool, not boring, as standing in a line would convey.
He’d invent, and ponder, and build in exciting, new ways, to fit each new byway.
Quick minded, and resilient he’d build, many fascinating and unique causeways.
The boy and the ant eventually went away, not happy with how the other lived.
They thought the other shortsighted and scorned, at what the other could give.
But they went away without realizing, how very similar were their lives.
For each would spend their time endeavoring to help others with their drive.
But understanding is a harder concept than building a bridge or storing food.
It takes a true gift to see the world as others do…
The moral to this story is really quite easy for all to see…
You can’t expect others to live their lives the way you want them to be.
Here, each was adding to their different world, only they could see.
While one was building for a smaller, singular hive…
The other was building for the hive of mankind.
A curtsy in my red dress,
trestles hanging down
my eye makeup is a mess,
sweat beads have accumulated
on my forehead crown
Oh but that Sound that Sound
He's lanky and thin
with a slight hint of gin
A graying beard is thick
upon his gnarly chin
Ah, the way he moves his
body like a decadent sin
When he put his arms around my waist
we twisted and turned
His soulful eyes, I could almost taste
Took all I had to keep up with his pace
With a 2/4 beat, repeat, repeat,
we worked up an incredible heat
What an amazing raspy sound
as we danced across that log floor ground
There were bongos and fervent energy
the conga added to the synergy
As our dance feverishly transpired
I intuited the great release he so desired
As he was a president uniquely inspired
For him, a macob job was required
For the dance, and the freedom of slavery
demanded the utmost of bravery
Stepping through Time
I could have chosen many
Instead, I had a Merengue with the
staunch face of the U.S. penny
How many of you can beat that, Any?
191 wds.
“That body is female!”, they tell me.
At the turn of the moon
It purges itself of its sins,
Washing away what lives could have been,
Punished for failing biological duties.
“That body is female!”, they tell me.
Forever marked with the scarlet letter,
The big, bold, burning red “F”
Branded on the legal document
Of my consciousness.
“That body is female!”, they tell me.
Its identity is not recognised by law;
A renegade, a libertine, toeing the
Tightrope lines between the accepted
And the unfathomable.
“That body is female!”, they tell me.
Unconventionally painted in black,
With cellulite scars and deep tiger stripes
Permeating every inch of
The skin’s breathing surface.
“That body is female!”, they tell me.
Not delicate, not loving, not pocket-sized,
Not built for the purpose of carrying
The weighty expectations of others,
Thrust upon it unwillingly.
“That body is female!”, they tell me.
It's not shameful to own these Himalayan curves,
Cupids bow lips, blue eyes full of secrets;
Except, of course, when these parts
Are fetishised, demonised, criticised.
“That body is female!”, they tell me.
The timbre of its voice
Gives way to conjecture,
Its name forms the image of a doll-child;
Porcelain, with golden curls cascading.
"That body is female!", they tell me.
Rebelling against it is a cardinal sin
In the religion of female empowerment.
Denying its femininity, the body
Is a traitor to the cause.
"That body is female!", they screech.
The brain does not work that way;
It binds its breasts pridefully,
Shears away trestles damaged by bleach, and,
In defiance, paints on a brave face.
The Phoenix Column was invented
And patented in 1862 by Samuel Reeves,
Vice President of Phoenix Iron Works.
It consisted of sections of rolled,
Flanged wrought iron, riveted together,
Creating a hollow structural column
That was lightweight, but strong.
It enabled the Phoenix Bridge Company,
An affiliate of Phoenix Iron Works,
To design structures that set world records
For vertical height and distance spanned.
They built Phoenix Column bridges, trestles, and such
All over the United States and all over the world.
Until the day they didn’t anymore.
Eventually, everything changes.
The Phoenix column was made obsolete
By the steel I-beam, which is easier,
And cheaper to manufacture.
Foreign competition took its toll.
Phoenix Bridge Company and Phoenix Iron Works
Both went out of business.
Condos now fill the space where
The open hearths and rolling mills once stood.
But the history remains.
And I consider the fact, with no small sense of irony,
That I compare myself to a Phoenix Column.
I'm lightweight and strong, but hollow inside,
And well along to being obsolete.
His home is always
where he is –
Beneath the trestles
of clattering trains, he huddles
in the damp & sandy wind,
eyes across the ocean,
sandwich crumbled,
filthy in his coat pocket
His home is just
where he is –
Now inside a box behind a dumpster in the middle of downtown nowhere,
surrounded by the
bizarre aroma-therapy of steaming, festering garbage
His home is exactly
where he can
no longer go –
Inside the placid, welcoming walls
of the house
where his sanity lives
~~~
He stumbles, aching,
crying from his
wretchedness,
crying from his soul –
His pants encrusted
with what he could not leave behind,
His hands
clutching a desperately empty bottle,
His hair in stringy,
unkempt ribbons,
slapping his face in the wind
~~~
He, trapped & terrified
in a life beyond his living,
seeks suicide
by public transportation,
wishing it could all
just be over
Wishing he could somehow
force his feet to take his body
into the path
of the oncoming bus –
But the driver
will not mow him down,
will not have him on her conscience –
She refuses his anguished gift
of responsibility
& slams the bus to a squealing,
furious, bone-shaking stop
& screams at him
"NO!
I will not do it!"
Sad, relieved, horrified, pleased,
he views the scene as
one more evidence
of his beleaguered, hated,
ridiculed immortality
And laughs his drug-indentured way
back to the motel
which has a dumpster
behind which he can once more
box himself in
until he thinks he can afford to
take the public transportation system on
again,
And maybe this time, he’ll
find his win,
he’ll
be successful
And never have to live
inside these walls of pain
(again)
which he only knows as home
My guru carries a set of brass knuckles
you'd think he'd be all yes sir and no sir
but instead I get ahah hoho and egad
I can't do anything right on my best day
and I have the branding iron scars to prove it
tattooed in diagonals like barricade tape
Hank's Motor Cottages Sleep With Hank
yes that's his name my guru Hank
he just told me to say menacing presence
instead of the more benign guru baba
a strange man a man of banal mystery
it is becoming evident that he knows nothing
simply landed a place to send his mail
I only let him shave in the kitchen
when he rides in on the Western Pacific
outdoor seating fresh air enjoyable panorama
he likes the outdoors and strangely enough
also likes acres of humming server farms
with a couple of slow pinwheel generators
on a naked hill of uranium tailings nearby
the readings aren't what they used to be
but the kangaroo rats are as big as kangaroos
so you have to drive real slow at night
and keep the fissured windows rolled up
if you have a car like Hank's Hudson Hornet
coffee can sized pistons twin carburetors
and a back seat big enough to live in
it was a big improvement over under a train trestle
Hank has seen a lot of the world and its trestles
been beat up and falling down drunk in a lot of cities
but learned to hit back and take names
his brindle Great Dane has a funny name for a dog
it is Arthur and he can bark it like a battle cry
AR-THURF he goes when Dandelion Hank's cat
taunts him from the back seat rear shelf
Hank dropped in to shave just last night
so we're lucky to have his wisdom right here
for example he has solved world insanity
set your head on fire is basically it
but it probably won't catch on
people believing their own lies
has a momentum to tilt all the ten pins
over at the Bowl and Boogie Lanes
when it's Cicada Night
and the ladies get in free
Bubbling babbling burbling banter from the bar..
Sup hush….memory lane trip...Proustian rush..pleasingly tickled.
Plushly ebbed…spidery beer swirls webbed…lace whirls..grace dimpled dappled jar..
Perch...parched pagans besmirch..sip...druid fluid drip..Iris’s secular church..
Venerate yesteryear dips…commemorate Faustian fillips....teasingly pickled..
Smug treacle toned thatch rugs hugs sturdy slabs.. shrugs..
Tugs tussling tree torn trusses and trestles....
Trumpets tradition.. crisp crumpets in flames..sedition flickering..
Like sassy strumpets calling each other names…playfully bickering..
Remember the surreal cast….gayfully ethereal echoes..
Beacons blush in the embers of the past..
Classy pubs dripping with polished pewter.. parochial paraphernalia…ballsy brass...
Crepuscular charms. splinters splicing smokey shadows..
Wafting whispers.. across tobacco tinted tainted times..
Whistles whetted..quaffing…quenching ...cavorting with crannies..
Carousing with nooks naked in timber flannelled panels..
Canoodling on fecund bulbous bales farm foraged.. freshly fashioned...
Flirtatious follicle flicks....gurgling guffaws, raffish rascals' whisky whimsy..
Courting curious covens..sporting prosecco cackle cacophonies.
As sons become dad..in turn perched with their lad..
Lady lawyer betwixt a pimpled tyro…local employer, bumpkin on the giro..
Museums of marvels.. hoodwink misplaced metaphors..
Laced with a house pour of moreish memories of before..
That without impunity the nub of a pub..
The bar.. a community hubbub hub..
Gracious Landladies…loquacious Landlords..
Sagacious stars...near and far..
We raise our jar.
For our home from home..
A public house..
Ta..
Where are you now?
Where have all the soldiers gone?
Been a long time asking everyone.
Troops and Groups of strong young men,
All passed out as fighting troops and then?
We went in as young raw recruits, so strange,
We all learned a trade whatever it may be.
We worked for 25 hours a day on low pay,
Money went to Mum or the pub on a Saturday.
Much better than civvy Street by far you know
For off to Cove for another new trade we did go,
We were taught to build bridges on all sorts of trestles
On Hawley lake , with pontoons we would wrestle
Tried for years on the internet with no avail,
Apart from a very few, there is no trail.
I'm told every household has the means at hand,
To contact anyone, anywhere, in any land.
So, this challenge, I have decided to make,
If you or your kin read this, I ask you to take,
A moment of your time and make the parade,
You are important, one time you made the grade.
You decided as a young lad all those years ago,
To break out of the rut that you were in and so,
Off to the recruiting office, like me, you went,
Then off to a camp you were soon sent.
For Me it was Chepstow in '62 and onto Cove, you see,
I had made up my mind to become a sapper, RE.
So where are you now, over 50 years later on,
I sincerely hope that you are not dead and gone.
If you are now billeted above at the Squadron Bar,
If you have kids let them tell us where you are.
One day all these questions will be answered for me,
At The Bar where the beer and banter flow free.
© Dave Timperley, RE.01/06/2019
I’ve befriended lovers:
I’ve befriended lovers daft as harlots cleaved
like the glass in extrinsic films.
My sagacity has matured like adult freesia.
I had been saturated within tasteful ages.
I built fences near the trestles of disbelief.
I sought to sip of the finer fountains.
Yonder echoes throughout Canada I had heard
Touring along the avenues of Abbotsford
Nature testifying betwixt an epicurean draught
I’ve befriended lovers:
Daft, apathetic lovers.
My sagacity has matured like adult freesia
Tell me that you think I'm Special,
While I'm hog-tied to the trestles
As I await the train to crush my pain-
Too many Demons have I wrestled!