My grandpa was a communist,
On a train bound for a prison,
Lennin thought he's an antagonist,
He had a plan -he had vision.
On a train bound for a prison,
And he jumped off the iron horse,
He had a plan -he had vision
To swim for his freedom of course.
And he jumped off the iron horse,
My dad did not tell where he went,
To swim for his freedom of course,
Some distant land he always dreamt.
My dad did not tell where he went,
He married some lass from Poland,
Some distant land he always dreamt,
Her chicken matzah ball soup grand.
He married some lass from Poland,
Lennin thought he's an antagonist,
Her chicken matzah ball soup grand,
My grandpa was a communist.
I run down the steps as the train pulls in
It seems I'm right on time
The doors open, I take a seat, my journey begins
As the doors close I hear them chime
The New York subway travels far and wide
I remember when a token was your ticket to ride
The old iron horse keeps chugging along
Beneath cars and buses and the city's throng
New York subway has been around since way back when
The first one was built in 1904
it only cost a nickel to ride it then
And the masses rode it more and more
But when it comes to subway history
London leads the way
Opening its first subway in 1863
Powered by the steam engine back in the day
The conductor announces the next stop, and it's mine
As the train pulls in I see the sign
And I know it won't be long
Before I'm above ground to join the city's throng!
10-23-2021
Railroads, A Historical Glance Back Poetry Contest
Sponsor: BJ Legros Kelley
Ole Eighty-seven, rugged and vain,
Serpentine on cold iron rails,
Story filled with strength and pain,
A legendary iron horse tale.
World-renowned freight train of yesteryear,
Lives ever in glory and fame,
A roaring chain without peers,
Ole Eighty-seven, her hailed nickname.
An expression of past golden days,
Its piercing whistle wailed and cried,
In early morn misty haze,
Slithering down the steep mountainside.
Ole Eighty-seven, out of control,
Its air brakes without warning failed,
Hauling a load of black gold,
Down a steep and twisting mountain grade.
Engine to last car, forthwith long gone,
Fondly evoked through song and pen,
Derailed on its final run,
Bringing the end to an idolized train.
Ole Eighty-seven, strong and able,
Railway giant of nobility,
Mayhap as fact and fable,
Railway saga of antiquity.
Bards and society
Poets are gentle people who like to form a group for writers
with an eccentric title, “a thousand poets against war.”
Poetry is only useful for dictators and those who like to demonstrate how literal they are.
Dictators find them valuable if they extoll the regime
If not, you are exiled or jailed.
Poets are subjected to flattery, the lucky one gets a medal before they die
of consumption.
I was thinking of this when lost in a city, with many statues of generals riding an iron horse.
And a bust of the sensible poet in the entrance of a downtrodden hotel.
Out of Water - Prose
An easel, looking for the painter,
Who brushed black iron horse life of survival
Tear stained face, wind slithering burning leaves with the sun.
Double twisted iron brought from the shore of the sea.
And was met fathoms deep change
Rode upon, I'm weary fracture pain, I'm with the wind
The sun tether the moments, now and then, on end.
With no common sense, horseshoe drift crossed over the ocean.
The ocean caught hold, late October's dark blanket.
Of Earth around the dark sea.
A monstrous haunting goes, changing scenes go round the horse.
Pressing on with wondering restless sea, twisted iron then about.
Horseshoe penny hung around my neck.
The old horse's destination is already the past.
there was a man who invested heavily when Bill Gates
started Microsoft and he became a multi-billionaire.
Looking at a picture of Bill and his wife, Melinda
both had pale indoor faces spending their time writing
checks to Africa.
The rich man decided to become a farmer of the old school
but since also remembered muddy boots from his childhood,
he made a mechanical, a big horse that could plough
six furrows at a time all he had to do, was to sit in a corner
and direct the horse which when coming to the end of a field
turned and ploughed in the opposite direction.
One day he forgot the on and off button and the horse
continued over total road destruction, and into a nearby
housing estate creating mayhem.
The rich man quickly had to rebuild and compensate his
shocked neighbours.
But people didn´t want the bloody wonder horse an
at a town hall meeting, he was banned from using it except
for an exhibition on how to be a modern farmer
Britches and the Train
Written: by Tom Wright
10/14/99
Two long tracks lay parallel in fresh snow,
"Britches", being inquisitive, asked his Dad, where do they go?
He said, “they cross our streams and many a street",
then pointed to the horizon where they appeared to meet.
"They race across flat lands, around curves and up the hill,
running side by side, though all the while, standing still".
"They crisscross this nation without fanfare or flair,
never seeming to tire from the great load they bear".
"Britches" first saw smoke then in a distance, a cry,
then hugged his Dad's leg as a black monster came by.
Now you can take this as fact, or consider It's source,
but "Britches" had just witnessed, his first "Iron Horse".
Riding the rails was memorable they say; in the days of the old iron horse.
Those old steam trains make a good mystery; all sorts of things could happen, while riding across the plains.
To see the land, rolling by from the window of a train, built stories that would live forever in the heart.
Deep in the old West, are legendary tales; that never fail to stir the heart.
Old cowpokes told them around the campfires; many of that Old Iron Horse.
It was in the songs they sang, all along the trail; not one was plain.
All of those many cattle drives, along the trail were fill with stories from the plains.
Tales and songs about the old West can still warm the heart.
Every cowpoke knew a story or song; a song along the trail; especially of the Old Iron Horse.
When you read a story of that Old Iron Horse; hear a song of the old plains that thrills you; sit back and feel that joy deep within your heart.
Mean Machine
The locomotive was an old mean machine
only used for carrying gods at local stations along
boring flatland. Once it had been a young and
the President of Portugal rode on it, not only him
but many other high up all the way to Lisbon.
And now? It wanted to go hiding somewhere dark,
but where does one conceal an iron horse?
The train passed near the parking lot in Faro
I was out with my dog, and there I could let her
run free. There was a hole in the fence were
the tracks. Naturally, she jumped through.
She saw the train that seemed to speed up
with murderous intent when she jumped clear it
was too late. I had her buried and the following
days were long and full of sadness.
Father Sky wept tears of sadness and despair
Onto the vast wild plains
Where buffalo lay slaughtered
Cast about haphazardly
Like pebbles on a beach
Their blood mingling with his tears
Forging ribbons of crimson rivers
Gunshots rang out from the eyes of the iron horse
As it snorted noisily along its cold hard track
Europeans methodically killing the backbone of the Nations
Smug, snickering, swaggering
Confident in their genocidal plot
To quash the Anishinabe
Today’s trains leave much to be desired, in the way of charm.
The iron horse of yesteryear, laughs at his grandchildren’s weakness.
The great king of the old tracks; a force unconquerable.
An ambitious luscious wedding cake
To share with friends and family dear
I shall happily endeavor today to bake
With the purest ingredients, nothing fake
Only the best I vow to make
It will absolutely smell devine
A taste so precariously sublime
Made with beans of purest cocoa
A heavenly scent to drive guests Loco
One side for the stunning bride
Will have roses crafted with pride
The chiseled chin groom an iron horse
With a silver cross , of course
Layers and layers filled with English trifle
Vanilla pudding intercepting lady fingers
hints of brandy, not so strong to stifle
Pure whipped cream laced through this dream
Topped with shaved chocolate ringers
Red raspberries and lush blueberry
Reminiscent of fornicating an imagined cherry
Placed in proper spaces to gently rest
All the invited, super hyper excited guests
Will certainly be impressed, practically obsessed
After they harmoniously relished the taste and scent
Of the most gloriously embellished wedding cake
We traveled like the winds before the storm
And rode horses bareback on opened ground
The campfires kept were always bright and warm
Before the Iron Horse came with its strange sound
It brought the Whites who killed the buffalo
Then left their flesh rotting upon the land
Where the bones lay parched and begin to grow
Their ugly heart we'll never understand
We welcomed Mother Nature's many suns
And used our Medicine Wheels to always guide
We're now left to starve and die from their guns
In our spirit these wounds we'll never hide
We sing our death songs in a ghostly dance
Remember Wounded Knee its broken lance
2/10/17
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
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.
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