Long Rails Poems
Long Rails Poems. Below are the most popular long Rails by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rails poems by poem length and keyword.
It all started as fun like it usually does
Back when she was a great girl who'd always been beautifully loved
Way back before she'd been brutally touched
She goes out weekly and has a few drink like most teens
She doesn't let boys get close, only in their dreams
She goes to university to try and make her future career better
One day she gives in to peer pressure
She's scared when alone, but they don't feel Fear together
Her friends pressure her into popping pills
Now the world is not as real
She's feels high but low at the same time
Trying to think, but is struggling with her mind
She leaves the bar with a strange guy, who spoke kind words
There's no harm in a little flirt
Is what her friends say, but that night he gets her out of her skirt
Takes her home, but never calls back
Her whole confidence, begins to fall flat
Now she's doing lines of cocaine almost daily
Her and her friends haven't spoke lately
She's going off the rails, her friends should be keeping her on track
This is when her whole world starts to turn black
She used to say she'd only give a chance to a man who treats her
But her new man, disrespects and beats her
She knows her time is coming, she doesn't have long left
She keeps taking the wrong steps
Her dreams are broken and faith's lost
Her teeth are rotting and she's had a severe weight loss
We all know how enjoyable sex is
But she doesn't enjoy it, she's sleeping around for her next fix
As long as she gets the drugs she doesn't care about being respected
She's happy to continue destroying the beauty she was blessed with
There's places she doesn't want to visit on her next trip
She's not into small talk or sharing the facts
She's just doing what she can, for her next heroin bag
Her man beats her worse than before, because he finds out she has aids
No new beginning
No happy ending
No chance of winning
She's almost at the end of the chapter on her page
She's never been suicidal
But she's been caught in a vicious cycle
She grabs the knife and cuts until she bleeds
Tears in her eyes, right before her heart no longer beats
I wrote this based off the world we live in, so this girl doesn't exist
But there are plenty of true stories just like this
I wish this had a happy ending, because this girl was meant to set the world alight
But it's a sad story of how drugs ruined a girls life
Once, this world created in me,
A box of a mind.
With dark corners
And scary rooms with unopened doors,
Never talked about, Never answered,
But always, always thought about,
Always, always questioned.
Days and nights spun so fast, it seemed.
Weary me, in that box,
Always ran,
Callousness pushing me from behind.
Then, one day, I stopped running,
The world still pushed, but I slipped away.
The burden of unanswered doubts,
Seemed too heavy,
Over my perfectly drawn square shoulders.
I let go.
The squares, I bent,
Into circles and spheres and myriad magical shapes.
The windows smelt damp, creaked loud and ghastly,
The doors stuck hard to the walls.
The Walls I saw tall and high,
Had paintings I never noticed till then.
They had the hues and lines,
Of broken dreams, and unfelt love,
Incomplete poems and unwritten stories,
Dull and lifeless, yet they stared,
Sharp and staunch at my guilty eyes.
And memories twirled like hurricanes,
Twisted my body and soul,
Took me to shores I lived for long,
Yet haven't known them ever well.
Stinking with guilt, I realised,
Those moments of machinery monotony,
I forced myself over and again through,
To stay a part of this vicious crowd.
Not any more, I decided,
I was not ready to give up.
The starved me, could no longer hold,
And pushed the creaky windows open,
And as The shine glided into my room,
I saw, for once, the glow I missed everyday.
The art that scared me then,
Now began melting, into rainbow colours.
The deafening noise now vanished,
Into the the sound of rain dances.
How meek I felt, I forgot for a moment,
Thrusting the hard doors out,
I stood there, drenched,
Lost in the pouring love.
As I looked back, I saw,
The box I was in, crashing down,
Into a thousand pieces.
The fury of the rushing waters,
Seeping through the dreary corners,
That held all my pain and fear and guilt.
The windows and doors forgotten,
The scary strokes faded,
And all that came out,
Was the magic of The Rainbow Shine.
And so My Friend, please don't wait, like me,
Long times lost, timid in the box.
For the windows and doors are windows and doors,
And not the rails of a locked cellar.
And before the walls drew demons for you,
Break free,
Soak in love,
The kind that seeks the real You.
Form:
The Whittlers
The stately county courthouse was their usual meeting place,
a columned Greek Revival, and a lovely public space.
They sat upon their benches under lofty pecan trees,
wood shavings on their ankles and some cedar twixt their knees.
Those old boys were called the whittlers, but that was a disguise.
They came to talk of memories and hang out with the guys.
Born long before the TV went and addled peoples wits,
they could tell some stories that would cause your sides to split.
They'd kid me 'bout the pile of books that I had just checked out.
Said I was sure to ruin my eyes and fry my brain no doubt.
But I guess they got a kick out of their young devoted fan,
'cause they'd trot out all their stories and tell them all again.
There were stories of big ranches and oil boom shanty towns,
of work on rigs as roughnecks and touring rodeo clowns,
and how they used to ride the rails when no work could be found.
But the way they spun those stories had me rolling on the ground.
And in between a whittle and another spit and chew,
they showed me how to whet a knife and tie a buckaroo.
Though they had so many stories and lessons to impart,
I'd have to hear the cowboy code before I could depart.
"You give a man a good hard shake and look him in the eye.
If you mess up, tell it straight, never cover with a lie.
Always give a full day's work and live out each day with heart.
A man's no good without his word, so finish what you start.
Protect the weak and help them, and respect your elders, too.
Never leave a friend behind, nothing else will ever do.
And when your days on Earth are done, according to God's plan,
you can face up to the reaper, and meet him like a man.”
If that was all I learned from them, that lesson was enough.
For a kid without some guidance, this life can be quite tough.
Other folks made fun of them, and thought them no account.
For me they were the heroes I would trade for no amount.
The stately county courthouse still stands upon those grounds,
although now those shaded benches are nowhere to be found.
And where once the mighty whittlers carved and held their court,
the squirrels now gather up pecans and chase around for sport.
© December 28, 2013
Memories of a bookworm. Considerable poetic license taken.
In the green Adirondack foothills lies
the haven of our old summer camp,
once a place of adventure and outdoor joy,
and the loud cries of precocious scamps,
their energy you never could tamp,
scurrying ’round on small, rapid feet,
leaping into the pond without a beat.
I remember coming here myself,
gazing up at the grand totem pole,
the mess hall with fieldstone fireplace,
where countless tall-tales were told,
and lordy, was the pond bitter cold!
There was a trading post for candy, snacks,
and toilets which all amenities lacked…
To scampering kids it felt like we were
far off in a rugged wilderness,
that tall white pines just rolled on
in a vast and uncharted forest,
and we were just the ones to explore it!
The only sign of steel on our trails
was a pair of rusted, forgotten trial rails.
Then I came back here as an adult
and found the revelry was long passed,
the town had bought up all the old camp,
no kids raced swiftly ’cross the grass,
it had been too good of a place to last,
folks blamed it on poor demographics,
cell phones, and parents afraid of risk.
I suppose I should be thanking the town,
because the made the space into a park,
at the very least it will be preserved,
even though it’s missing that old spark,
and youngsters sprinting ’round on a lark,
they’re even cleared out some new ground…
by tearing half the rustic buildings down.
The trading post, now a picnic pavilion,
the staff cabins now an empty field,
the docks pulled up and carted away,
the pond belongs now to minnows and eels,
not entirely sure how I feel,
out there we swam and swamped canoes,
now it’s blocked off from public use.
The mess hall, at least, is still standing,
they say it’s becoming a historic sight,
but to see it still present, all alone,
somehow just doesn’t feel all that right,
with its clap-board fading in bright sunlight,
at least the boat-house still rises near,
though it’s probably collapse within the year.
I turned away in a very glum mood,
made my way to my car rather slow,
thinking of all I had done here
that my children are never going to know,
there are few places like this left to go.
it brings a well-known though to my mind:
Damn you, damn you, damn you time!
Where were you so long ago?
All those eons before a tot.
In some distant god’s château?
No. Not there. You were not.
On a shelf of surplus stock,
A soul dressed up in heavens frock.
Perhaps a spirit not yet wrought,
No. Not there. You were not.
Then began your book of life,
It’s made in volumes three.
The past, the present,
And the yet to be.
Will you write only pleasant,
As you pen volume present?
Avoiding matters to disavow,
Parting life’s waves by your prow.
Crashing the crest before the break,
Leaving burst bubbles in your wake.
What great act earns its worth,
And a lasting mark upon the earth?
Is that mark worth the grind,
Should your labor be realigned?
The train of life rolls on rails of time,
And travel stops at the end of the line.
When that ending word is writ,
The final one that you submit.
When there is no more yet-to-be,
You close the cover on volume three.
The tome is closed. Where do you go?
To the place you were taught?
To some distant god’s château?
No. Not there. You are not.
Your Book of Life, a mere spark,
Bounded by bookends of eternal dark.Where were you so long ago?
All those eons before a tot.
In some distant god’s château?
No. Not there. You were not.
On a shelf of surplus stock,
A soul dressed up in heavenly frock.
Perhaps a spirit not yet wrought,
No. Not there. You were not.
Then began your book of life,
It’s made in volumes three.
The past, the present,
And the yet to be.
Will you write only pleasant,
As you pen volume present?
Avoiding matters to disavow,
Parting life’s waves by your prow.
Crashing the crest before the break,
Leaving burst bubbles in your wake.
What great act earns its worth,
And a lasting mark upon the earth?
Is that mark worth the grind,
Should your labor be realigned?
The train of life rolls on rails of time,
And travel stops at the end of the line.
When that ending word is writ,
The final one that you submit.
When there is no more yet-to-be,
You close the cover on volume three.
The tome is closed. Where do you go?
To the place you were taught?
To some distant god’s château?
No. Not there. You are not.
Your Book of Life, a mere spark,
Bounded by bookends of eternal dark.
Being an American in Australia isn’t easy,
but I’m trying to integrate;
I’m trying to fit in.
Just one of the boys with all the right expressions
under my belt, like:
pasty glut
cosmetic spring roll rut
five o’clock shadow cigarette butt.
I mean, I’m trying to integrate;
I’m trying to fit in.
I try to talk about the good ol’ U.S. of A.,
and I’ve never mentioned Uncle Sam once,
except to suspect he lives inside Colonel Sanders
who also gives me a big pain in the ass
with his mysterious suppository herbs & spices;
cos I’m trying to fit in, see?
I’m trying to integrate.
Okay, I can get nervous about women,
and cover it up under muscle and toughness, O.K.!
Say: “All sheilas are made fer ****in’!”
while dreaming:
leather cock thrust
beer lubrication
violet steak lips!
Say: “All poets are poofs!” and
beat my balls around fields of green
with wooden sticks so stiff and clean, screaming
semen icing power
spread on scones of breasts!
Bloody hell! Can’t ya see?
I’m trying to integrate,
trying to fit in.
Like wearing high-heeled snow-shoes
and roller-skater shirts;
doing al the expected things, even tho’
my Balinese sarong trips me up occasionally.
I’ve got a sun-tanned *******,
and I’m keeping me nose to the ground,
no bloody fear! I’m integrating, ya see?
Trying to sit in.
I’m a tough-fisted slow-sauntering grog-pissing
knife balling tit watching ***** hating self-deceiving
regular visionless mate of no matter:
Swallowed by deserts
and the fear of ******s;
Tortured by sun
and the freeze of lost passion;
Murdered in business;
resurrected in wages!
Enslaved in the cities and
imprisoned by FACTS
that stretch from my body
in steel rails of tracks I ride on,
I hide on:
I’ve lost where I’ve been.
But I’m integrating
(yeah, INTEGRATING!)
I’m just fitting in.
Law began by living,
locomotion meeting the rails of electric rainfall,
Consequence coursing through interconnected crossbeams
making all form fruit of the first & final recipe,
one great statute spawned from the storm
billowing from Divinity's genius,
everything in the Universe existing to produce,
get busy, get bounce'n, grow wild & now,
receive with wisdom and take as thieves humbled by offering,
the original impulse from a manic God
pregnant from androgonous purpose,
a trillion movements in a single start, a fanatic for feral smarts,
stagnation anethema to the spectacular suspense of survival,
Natural Rights were for me
the moment my blood became mine, became a wet warlord
exerting presence in the wide open wrestle of Universe,
God the shadow & weight of my spark,
the window & scene of my good gumption, of my dusty dream,
self defense a mandate from the magistrate of my heritage,
freedom of expression an obligation humming from ancestors'
anniverseries applauded along the Appain Way headed
not towards Rome but forward to a higher home of honor,
a Law unto myself I am,
eating from the spines of lions,
sleeping atop pyramids built by a billion bones unbroken by battle,
afternoons auction affection for my amusement with discount
and the nights nudge nightmares asunder
with the release of red lightning
spelling the name of Creation in raw neon, breathtaking breakdown,
a script scribbled by a hand having the blueprint of dirt in it's fingernails,
I appeal to Adam, attest in favor of aggression's willpower,
to Eve I beseech, testify to the severity & sanction of self confidence,
let us smash all false law that stands as a wall to our fulfillment,
smack the eggshell of Man's authoritarian angst,
waking into a world of wakeful worries, confined by Common Law, U.C.C.,
walking through waves ment to wreck the arrogant
with a constitution inked by nerves electrified
by entertaining the urgency of a rampaging God,
thought of the great expanse thumping thoroughly through
the expeditions my expectations encounter,
black static undulating around the blue bulb of my brain,
sparks of ultimate consciousness mothering marks of miracles
in the becoming of birthright,
J.A.B.
PARALLEL ARE THE RAILS
(PRE-VERSE 1)
Feeling all alone
Cast away like a stone
Few friends what I got
True friends can’t be bought.
(VERSE 1)
Living is a joke
Think I’m about to choke.
Lookin’ at you
Lookin’ at me
Mirror is true (but the reflection is cracked)
False truths won’t set you free.
(Pre-Chorus)
I got my time
I got my rhyme
Beggin’ for a dime
Beggin’ for your time
(Chorus)
Bittersweet is the love (Sweeter than the lime)
Smellin’ like a clove
Burnt up in a stove
Rotting in a grove
Shrapnel of hardened nails
Pouring down like the rain
Storing away the parlayed pain
Parallel are the rails
Parallel are the rails
Parallel are the rails
Parallel are the rails
Parallel are the rails
(PRE-VERSE 2)
Heavy is the stone
When you’re all alone
Many friends were not what I thought
False friends are easily bought
(VERSE 2)
Drowning in the smoke
Deception is no joke
Reflection of you
Reflection of me
Mirror is true (but the reflection is cracked)
False truths won’t set you free.
(BRIDGE)
Dreaded are my locs
Dreadful are my thoughts
Locked away in my cerebral box
Cast away like abandoned lots
Got dreadlocks down below my needs
Beatles in the sound
Help me get around
Got hair like my ancestral Swedes
Brain damaged by Floyd
Brain examined by Freud
(PRE-VERSE 3)
Can I get a fix
Feelin’ a little sick
Like when I was six
Trippin’ over a stick
People like to stare
Like I’m some disease
But, I don’t care
I do as I please
(VERSE 3)
Ridin’ on a train
Lookin’ for a change
Freedom from the chain
Leaves me feeling strange
Lookin’ a little strange
Beaten by the chain
No time for change
Ridin’ on a train
(Pre-Chorus)
I got my time
I got my rhyme
Beggin’ for a dime
Beggin’ for your time
(Chorus)
Bittersweet is the love (Sweeter than the lime)
Smellin’ like a clove
Burnt up in a stove
Rotting in a grove
Shrapnel of hardened nails
Pouring down like the rain
Storing away the parlayed pain
Parallel are the rails
Parallel are the rails
Parallel are the rails
Parallel are the rails
Parallel are the rails
Lyricists Inc.
D.A.P. / Digital Analog Productions.
David A. Porter 3/??/18
Tribute to “The Day Before You Came” * by Bjorn
in the first 1982 ABBA version
The day before yesterday
You came together to play
To lift our hearts in joy
Belting out in convoy
The day after he came
We celebrate whose fame
You wailed through self-pity
But ne’er called it Beauty
‘Infinite suffering thing’
Would that Eliot could sing
Pre-dramatic event
Your breaking-up you meant
“Pretty sure it must have rained”
”…rattling on the roof” hearts stained
The day after he came
Most songs seem sound the same
“Knowing you Knowing me”
Never meant to be free
“…my life…its usual frame”
“…sense of living without aim”
Yes “Some one is crying”
No some one’s conniving
At noon must have left for lunch
“…usual place…usual bunch”
The sad journey on rails
Must break hearts crammed in jails
Due at eight in the morn
Back at eight all forlorn
“And turning out the light”
Curled safe in bed at night
For the day after he came
My life burned on a flame
The paradox of joy
Is that it makes one cry
‘Parting is such sweet sorrow’
Better still safe routine in tow
“…I hid a part of me…”
“…in heaps of papers” for fee
And let the world pass by
Not knowing what is joy
Is joy carpe diem
Was day before he came
Now my life’s over due
I’ve met my Waterloo
The train’s an ugly monster
Dragging its hind legs after
Frida’s howl pack of hounds
Benny's sound track train pounds
Anna’s swan tones lament
Bjorn’s lines uptight breasts rent
Beauty’s not only content
It’s also the way you vent
Conceit’s the ermine cloak
Rattling skeletons croak
Bjorn’s true lines exquisite poem
Sung in sweet pain What’s its name
Notes
Words within inverted commas are from the song.
Single quotes indicate other well-known words.
*Rhyme scheme: 4 stanzas (3 of ten lines with concluding quatrain) in rhymed couplets of varying syllabic count.
1st stanza: aabbccde ff
2nd stanza: aagghhii ff
3rd stanza: ddggiijj ff
4th stanza: kk ff
Not all in perfect rhyme: rain/came (for instance)
The syllabic count (more or less): 14 (with the exception of the 4th
line at 18 and eighth (exception: 1st stanza at 10) and tenth at 6.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
Two majestic lords of the African Savannah,
Strike without cautions warning, or roar's announcement.
Nomads, prides outcasts, existing on the fringes edge of
Survival.
Instinct's primal predators, golden phantoms, shadows
Haunted silhouettes passing in the night, casting eerie images
Against canvas tents, and fire lights burning embers.
On heightened senses of enticement, these living
Killers, smell their preys fear, thus so crossing the line,
Cutting deeply into man flesh, leaving bloody paw prints
Behind them, and giving birth to their own legend.
Translucent specters, blending mirages melting,
Within the tall grasslands scrub brush, as if creatures
Of illusion, brushed by the hot Massai winds.
Caddish yellow-green eyes, pierce through humanities
Nightmare realm, for in reality's harsh view, it cannot
Be real, these ghosts in the darkness.
Carnivorous hunters patrol, the devils backbone,
Known as Tsavo, skeletal bone collectors,
Relishing in their trophies prize, beware their talons
Sharpened claws.
Man-eaters, rulers of this lost garden of Eden,
In the lions den, the bones of the dead scream in silence.
In this blood sports arena, these kings dominate over
The kingdom of men, dominion’s red cloak, is
Soaked in crimson's red, dripping freshly downwards
Towards hells cavern.
Mankind's greed, does drive this army of the walking dead,
Stalked by these feline demons, of the nights abyss.
Progresses iron horse must reach the African interior and
If poundage cost be in flesh and bone let it be so, paid.
Rushing waters forge, laid by steel rails bridge builder,
The holy architect whom carries, the long rifle of justice,
Assumes responsibility's heavy shovel, of the living dead's
Burial grounds.
Man vs. beast, teeth vs. bullets gunpowder, in the rising
Suns twilight, one shots sounding ends the fight, and alone
Lord remains to grieve for his fallen brethren.
In rages vengeance, the last warrior declares angers wrath,
And he is so slain by hail's gun blast.
But in Tsavo, the people still watch, for in legend, ghosts
Never truly die, yet remain hidden unto the hunger returns,
Beware, these ghosts in the darkness.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN