Unyielding, in an otherwise
Unfeeling wintry day.
Meek smilers, head-scarfed. Blizzard- blitzed.
Shine sweet greetings my way.
More of that iced swiping blows up;
Briefly skews the vision:
Two little chubby bullfinches
Perched their low branch upon.
The British Rail saying,
'See it, say it, sorted,'
is so annoying
it should be aborted.
Travelers, from abroad,
are befuddled then bemused,
when first by this phrase
their ears are abused.
But the worst is yet to come...
it sounds like, 'Sort it,'
over the tannoy
and must be fixed by he who caught it.
.
'tiz true
i sat
front face'd
beauty
and i shall not miss the beat
say'n
"thuh Blessing indeed"
and i without
i without contract
stroll'd hern
visible sheath
Her stout mitt's digits
mine eyne
latch'd absent
All ten held with careful
the McIntosh
Their thick
to it’s
crimson’d
full
Hern eyne
gazed 'bout mine
whilst
mine think travel'd
elsewhere
her coy
relaxed
Written: August 29, 2023
Voice Poetry Contest Sponsored by: Eve Roper
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The train whistles its song, ready to depart,
Embarking on a trip, with hope in every heart,
Passengers gather at the bustling station,
Anticipation rises, a pulsating sensation.
Beautiful ladies with elegance and grace,
Children with excitement on their faces,
Flowers in bloom, brilliant and bold hues,
Gifting a mother or lover grants eternal dews.
Sitting and standing, a crowd in motion,
Each with a purpose, a unique devotion,
Some engaged in the paper or conversing,
Others don't want the sights to be closing.
The sights are growing outside the window.
A swift panorama, ripe with tales innuendo.
Mountains and valleys, rivers and streams,
Nature's beauty, is like a painter's dreams.
The train chugs along, its rhythmic beat,
Carrying dreams, hopes, and memories sweet,
The station fades away, a blur in the distance,
Leaving behind chaos, noise, and coexistence.
the rail, one inch thick
with a runner of clean snow -
two birds in bare limbs
Nov 2022
out-stretch wings
and
stiff
broad sail
gathered
its bearings
what guide
the
red tail hawk
full flight
across the
iron rail
The old rail fence row is jagged and twisting
Between the fields now claimed by nature
Lie fallow the subject of a realtor’s listing,
The old rail fence row is jagged and twisting
As I look over the land my eyes are misting,
I miss the rustic place of my birth, for sure
The old rail fence row is jagged and twisting
Between the fields now claimed by nature.
written December 17, 2021
Two Loves
No two loves are
quite the same;
I guess, that's why
it's love – if not,
duplication would
be to blame...nothing
worth holding on-to.
Humane Nature
Human Nature I have
long forsaken – though
the lessons learned linger;
having grown far too old
to wish for harmony...
while never too jaded
to believe in Love....
A Stubborn Pumper
The heart is a stubborn
pumper, like a drummer
high on beats; his hands
and feet, loyal to the rhythm –
sensing, every pulse an answer
to Life –
Incompetent and scared
You’ll get caught
With your fingers
All unprepared
To carve the image
You have made
Say what you know
And never forget
To grow in grace
For you were placed
Here to change
The status quo
Being formal but kind
Will help you pass
The structures set
For your decline
Grab the rail
And hold on
While life sails
Cover your head
Note the haven
And return
With the next tide
My grandpa built a split rail fence.
He did the best he could.
He hand-dug every post hole,
Sweat and muscle, rough-hewn wood.
Didn’t compromise his standards,
He was sure to do it right.
He made it bull strong, horse high and hog tight.
The carnival just came to town,
Its gaudy midway, too.
Don’t favor taking chances,
But I’ll ring the bell for you.
Gonna swing that hefty mallet
And I’ll win the prize tonight.
I’m feeling bull strong, horse high and hog tight.
It’s funny how the solid things
Endure despite the years,
Through thunderstorms and blizzards,
Broken hearts and bitter tears.
But I promise if you let me,
I’ll be sure to do it right.
I’ll love you bull strong, horse high and hog tight.
The railway is expanding
So the government’s demanding
That anything that’s standing
In the way must be removed.
Remove the stock brick terraces
Our family homes and premises
For onward comes the nemesis
Of all we’ve known and loved.
Uprooted oaks and plane trees
Will be replaced by steel gantries
But what prayers will fill the chantries
For the soul that’s being crushed?
Only the rapid rattling rale
Of the stuttering high-speed rail
Will be all that shall prevail
Over the nightingale and thrush.
While we just keep on pretending
That our growth is never-ending,
That the world will keep on bending
To the might of human power
And we keep on moving faster
To escape the sure disaster
When we find we’re not the master
Of this world that we devour.
© Barry Freeman 15th May 2021
Bodies crammed shoulder to shoulder
Packed in wooden cattle cars
Their destination to them unknown;
Men, women, and children,
Old, young, and grown.
Bodies standing crowded and pressed against each other
Hearts filled with fear and despair;
Their screams and sobs of anguish and agony
Pierce the stifling air.
Their hearts and minds filled with uncertainty and sorrow,
Not knowing where they will be this time tomorrow.
There is worry and heartache all around
Misery and confusion abound.
History books may have stories that can educate and tell
But only God knows how many tears were shed on the iron rail.
All night I travel, in a dream…
asleep since midnight - plus sixteen.
A ghost train’s whistle, softly drawn
through orange-black at cusp of dawn.
The phantom locomotive chugs
with each and every stroke,
then crests the hill, going faster still,
churning out black ash and smoke.
From this smoke cloud falls a raindrop
though some might disagree,
say it’s called a devil’s teardrop,
but knowing which is key.
The truth is somehow mottled
and can scarcely be explained,
there’s no hand upon the throttle
nor conductor on the train.
Passing by a murky cornfield
where it seems we’ve been deceived,
witnessed by a tattered scarecrow
who will never be believed.
The fog hangs inauspicious,
while the dark clouds tell a tale,
of the shadow’s superstitious
witch’s moon on endless rail…
The night shift drags on
As I sit at the monitors
Security work is like that
Some nights once the cleaners leave
There is nothing to do
Except wait for the end of the shift
The monitors show the perimeter fences
They were installed
To monitor people
Who jump the fences
To graffiti the stabled trains
Then the northern most security light activates
Then the next south turns
And so on to the main gate
The lights stay for a time
Then darkness resumes
As I gaze at the clock
It says three am
The strangest thing is
It happen for the next two nights
So tonight I am standing at the gate
As my watch alarm goes off
It is three am now
And the lights do the dance
Until the light goes on the gate
Then the darkness envelopes me
There was an investigation
As to why the guard disappeared
There was no sound
Just a moment later he wasn’t around.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Rode here a man of some repute,
Banker and empire builder bold,
Who’d even tried to corner gold,
To lay him out a railroad route.
He addressed our town; here I quote:
“The westward way lies through your town.
It will bring commerce and renown.”
The people closed his way by vote.
They blocked his path; provoked his wrath:
“I will see grass cover this town!”
He rode off with ferocious frown
To route his rails another path.
The rail lines were laid south of here
At the wish of this financier.
The town near died, to his delight,
But folks held on out of sheer spite.
After he found his last reward
Someone cleared out his railroad yard.
There his personal Pullman lay,
Atalanta, in disarray.
Found, refurbished, and auctioned off
For a small sum at which he’d scoff,
The coach now sits where all may see
In the heart of our loved city.
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