Long Conductor Poems
Long Conductor Poems. Below are the most popular long Conductor by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Conductor poems by poem length and keyword.
The haunted train of Schwenksville
After dark every Halloween
since living social in Perkiomen Valley
for seven long years,
a shrill whistle train whistle
(often compared to the sound
of a bird's call, particularly
a large bird like a hawk or a crane,
due to its piercing, high-pitched
and long-lasting whistle-like quality)
soundcloud heard
from afar clear as a bell,
yet nary a train present
since locomotives stopped running
through Schwenksville, Pennsylvania valley in 1976,
when Pennsylvania Railroad
gave up its rail assets
to Consolidated Rail Corporation (Conrail).
However, some passenger "rambles" took place
from Reading to Schwenksville in the late 1960s.
Matter of fact beginning at the junction
of the Schuylkill River Trail in Oaks,
the trail uses much of the former rail bed
of the Perkiomen Line of the Reading Railroad.
The Perkiomen Trail
created in 2003, often called, the “Perky”,
the trail rolls down the valley
of Perkiomen Creek,
which may have been a reference
by local American Indians
to the surrounding cranberry bogs.
The northern end of the trail begins
at Morrow Pavilion in Green Lane Park,
where trail users can find parking and restrooms.
The 20-mile Perkiomen Trail
follows the route of the Perkiomen Creek
from Oaks to Green Lane Borough.
It connects to the Schuylkill River Trail
and the Audubon Loop.
For most of its length, the "Perky,"
known by many, uses the former rail bed
(as iterated earlier)
of the Perkiomen Line of the Reading Railroad.
Every other time of year
outer limits of the twilight zone
spread dark shadows,
which creep along the edge of night
startling a driver unexpectedly
yet instinctually to veer
away from harm's way
courtesy a nocturnal creature,
now ghost rail activity heard to scare
the living daylights
out of atheists like myself,
who quickly utter a prayer
immediately afraid then jubilant,
cuz prevarication (housed within
a ghastly fashion) my métier,
which brilliant notion
sparked immediately, née instantaneously
after discerning unquestionable choo-choo
within a kiloampere,
a unit of measurement equal
to one thousand amperes.
An ampere is defined
as the amount of current
that flows through a conductor
when one coulomb of charge
passes through it in one second.
“A maestro is like a candle. It consumes itself to light the way for others.”-
~~ The Poet ~~
Conductor of an art form, stands the maestro of the storm.
Instruments take their place, then the symphony begins.
Firstly, a tuneful rhapsody of woodwind with violins.
The sheer spellbinding rhythm builds increasingly strong.
A tinkling as the rain begins, he uses spiccato to bring the tempo along.
The piccolo sends notes scurrying for cover by the continued rain,
And introduces the flutes into the mix once again.
The cadence evolves, with heralding intensity to engage.
Notes follow the beat, to a crescendo of immense rage.
Now, as the kettle drums implode within their skins,
The conductor is in full control, as his baton spins
Music’s fury is reinforced by trombones, entering for the first time.
Cymbals clash, cellos and double basses offer a fortissimo effect, sublime.
The percussion again, joins, as the woodwind slows,
Notes soften, and the flute’s melody gently flows.
A solo of horns, a transition with the full orchestra, it springs.
In suspense of his melody, the piano takes us to strings.
Tempo lighter, airier which is juxtaposed with the timpani drums.
The soft gentle tones, once hurtled by deafening wind, silence comes.
Audience captivated, orchestra foregone. The maestro lowers his baton.
(4/10/12)
It was a long wait - but soon they would
Be at that gate.
The train that would take him to heaven
To join all his family and friends
Where a new life would begin and never end.
A life where there is nothing but beauty and peace
And the heart would find relief.
The conductor showing you everything in your past life
Some bad - a lot nice.
Of people you touched along the way
And of things they had to say.
everybody when they pass away
Boards this train on a given day.
This train makes three stops
As strange as it may seem
Heaven , hell , and purgatory
“Sounds like a familiar story”!
Purgatory being the place of things
In your past life - you must face.
But you are on the “7th ave. express .”
Cause you passed all the tests.
You had a heart which was pure as gold
And all the angels have been told.
All these other passengers that are on this train with you
Have gone through the same things too.
All of you had came to this “times square station”
Because you had found your salvation.
They gathered together like fallen needles from a pine tree
Multitudes of souls that were finally free.
At the gate you will be greeted by SAINT PETER
Who will show you the way to all your family and friends
And this joy will never end.
The 5th Symphony
is the terribly great symphony that scarred the sky
The 5th Symphony
is in the hands of the conductor
with skin like the bitter Prussian snow,
and the eyes of a starless night
The 5th Symphony is played
in the tempo of War,
with the opera of mourning
in the Key of Retribution
The melting of a city made of gold.
The angel of Revenge
forges the weapons
for the sons of Injustice, Wrath, and Survival.
Gardens of peace offerings, swallowed in fire.
before their ghosts could whisk away
the arrows that clothed the ash
were fallen unto them
The edge of the blade condemns the Emperors, and their wives,
yea, even their handmaids to the Pit of Sheol
and their souls are rended apart, down to the dust of the dust,
even before they descend
Are you in love's
reckless hands, looking for a
savior?
Are you dreaming like
WWII veterans visiting
Normandy, wondering still if
Omaha landing was
reckless order?
Are you in love's
reckless hands, like a toy
in child's hands,
wondering if you'll
ever grow up?
Are you?
Are you in love's
reckless hands, like
conductor of a
runaway train
calmly announcing the
next station?
Are you?
Are you in love's
reckless hands, like
Titanic's captain
taking the iceberg
for a mirage?
Are you?
Are you in love's
reckless hands
like your nightly dream
of reincarnation in a
magnanimous palace and servants
pouring red wine
in your empty glass?
Are you?
Are you in love's
reckless hands,
are you?
We’re all waiting on the death train
To take us all away
Some will kick and scream
Some will merely say
Where does the death train go to
Is it a journey of despair
The million-dollar question
Nobody really cares
All aboard the death train
The ticket is totally free
The conductor will point to the sign
You won't return at three
The track is never ending
Your life you’ll get to see
The answer you always searched for
Will be revealed right after three
The door is finally opened
The platform sets you free
You see the sign before you
To be or not to be
The answer was the question
The conductor says with glee
All aboard the death train
Stopping just to see
Life's unanswered question
You never got to see
Revealed at the very end
Just as the clock struck three.
One kiss and I fall like
A green leaf on the bed
Your lullaby lips
Go to my head
I find my body tingles
At just the thought of
Any kind of interaction with you
Real or imagined
So much so I wonder if it
Will be harder to deal with reality
Should we ever meet
Than it is to live in fantasy
Ears hug your baritone voice
When you call like a conductor
I have no choice but follow
Your lead the music we create
From love letters via text
iPhones FaceTime we make
A fantasy world where we
Are together despite distance
I close my eyes and listen
To my red heart beat for you
Musically yours beats for me too
So why don’t we cross thousands
Of miles to share reality
Versus an internet smile
Since childhood my vivid and alluring aspirations
painted my rainbows with different colors,
not the ones I was after and truly adored...
who has ever heard of a teenager being bored?
Anytime I saw a train leave the station with its smooth rhythm,
I wanted to be that conductor who could never fall asleep,
and at every stop he would look carefully before closing the doors...
then, laid-back, watch the changing landscape and whistle his tunes!
If imagination had not been there to tackle my reflective tendencies
that were, indeed, rooted in all aspects of the present wilderness,
I wouldn't have cultivated this passion and turn it into a realistic dream...
which allowed inspiration to enter the subconsciousness of this thinker's realm!
The fast-paced postman delivering mail to mailboxes seldom locked, thrilled me;
he looked so sharp and handsome greeting folks, and it would have been an honor
to chat with them, listening to their suggestions and helping them thoroughly...
I visualized myself as such, and even practiced it daily in front of large mirror!
If tons of ideas hadn't fed the urge to jot down details with ebullient imagery,
unless I wasn't aware of their poignant meaning and powerful message,
I wouldn't have let fantasy create an extraordinary dreamer out of someone so ordinary...
to adorn dullness with my cheerfulness and change winter to spring!
Sitting there on the wet cold pavement
Here is warm solace from a cold bottle
Preaching the gospel of the destitute
Exploring the vanity of my self defeats
Anger leads to harmonious frustrations
I’m lying to friends that I don’t really like
These strangers who randomly joined me
To share confidences and profane insight
Tonight there are stories I want to tell you
But no one hears my words, silent they are
Dreams I once felt, they lightened my heart
Now thoughts that pierce with anxiousness
Times were so different then today’s now
Now was never what I believed would be
A path I thought to take went to somewhere
Not imagined, leading astray, winding away
Quaff the rum and feel the heat in my limbs
Numb my ranting and close my blind eyes
Silence the mute people who talk of nothing
But of failures they embraced to themselves
Should I continue to fight for a pyrrhic victory?
Own the end of the struggle, defined by the road
Or talk about beginnings to start the ending of all
Leaving on this trail, is there another path to take
These Kinetic forces that define my movements
Dancing to fates that hate the songs being sung
Music of remorse, harmony of horn’s cacophony
The orchestra that’s directed by a fickly conductor
Are these choices made ago, set by today’s reality
Or can the things that I do now be fixed in the past
Is it now time to do the things I want to do tomorrow
Can I stop what was begun by not ending the game?
The remorse of love not taken, not made, not tried
The safety of shelter when nothing is done or risked
Words that aren’t said to people who weren’t listening
So what is worse, not being who you were not to be?
Tonight, I am going to get drunk and explore my faults
Laugh at those jokes not told and cry from pains not felt
Dream of success not earned and defeats I am proud of
Try to be the man I was before I was a man full grown
He couldn’t fit his shopping cart
And suitcase through the door
And screamed at the conductor
(Quite a challenge to ignore).
Once seated, he spread out and then
Removed his socks and shoes.
Assessing just how nuts he was,
This added to the clues.
I glanced his way and sorrily,
I somehow caught his eye.
He then began describing
That the air was awful. Why?
The radiation on the train
Was there to make us sick,
But only some could feel it –
Those intelligent and slick.
I transferred cars while he still raved
And finished out my ride
In uneventful fashion
‘Til the trip home did provide
Another whacko, eating fries
And blaring on her phone
A news report in which
A screeching baby had been shown.
Incessantly, that baby wailed;
She played it on a loop.
I hoped that some brave soul
Would to the rescue somehow swoop.
But no – I had to listen
For we urbanites pretend
That it’s normal on the subway
For the crazies to offend.