railroad
old, weathered, worn
repair, replace, or leave
sadness at loss or joy renewed
God's choice
the smell of my youth
curiosity of danger
on coming train
Walking, walking, walking!
Impossibly long stretches of walk,
Miles and miles of uncertain journey,
In blazing sun, in sweltering heat,
Tranquil villages with shady trees,
Home, the destination!
Thirsty, hungry, bleeding, exhausted!
With fatigued wives and starving barefoot children they trudge,
Little babies hanging like sandbags from their shoulders, they stumble,
Tears dry on children’s cheeks!
Men and women…they walk, walk, walk
Until their feet can not move an inch further,
Leaving the cities, where they toiled in exchange for a few rupees…
Day after day, months after months,
Hunched under shanties, with empty rumbling stomachs,
Cruelty is the only language they faced!
Trudge beside railroads, follow tracks,
No buses, no trains, no vehicles,
Only two weary feet to carry them to the destination,
Human bodies plodding with all their might!
It’s the darkest of moonless nights…
A few stars glinting in the somber sky to guide them to destiny!!!!
Universe seemed calm, and uncaring!
Come Rest, Come Sleep,
Come Death…blood-stained tracks,
Home eluded them for ever!
lost distraught crisp leaves
blend into new home on old
rusty railroad tracks
bathed in still shadows
from an afternoon glow
and wrapped inside splendour
half faded half gone
this house from a time
remote silent and slow
stands trapped by the past
in a world moving on.
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.
A train runs Cape Town to Cairo.
It will be through here by and by.
The route is straight as an arrow,
It’s like riding clouds through the sky.
lit up with the power to attract and excite
and framed by a window of the toy shop that night
a miniature world of trains, bridges and hills
took my mind off the cold from the late autumn chills.
there were signals that moved and tables that turned
and lights in the engines as if coal had been burned
frustrated by others who had gathered there too
I pushed them aside for a much better view.
I stood there transfixed and stared through the glass
at the landscape of plaster and fields of fake grass
I watched as the locos passed by on the track
to then vanish through tunnels somewhere at the back.
there were small plastic figures all standing in line
frozen on platforms and frozen in time
they weren't duly bothered they'd missed the last train
safe in the knowledge it would be round again.
Christmas was near and if things worked out right
I'd be playing with trains Christmas morn, noon and night
but I let out a sigh before turning to go
- I had already asked and my wife had said "no".
In heat
the pulse of your streets.
I've heard the crack
of hard political whips
that pinch the air.
Cores of human topography,
your aging neighborhoods.
Your people kick cans
counting gravel like jewels,
while chiselers roast dogs
in the courthouse.
Swine flu kills
the papers.
And already the sky is
feverish.
In your train tunnels
a violinist plays pianissimo.
I've seen
railroad men search for him
along your tracks.*
But you are always
the sweltering sore
of the Atlantic.
A rusty mouth
for dark ships.
A blind brick town
of boarded storefronts
and ***** flicks,
you are buried.
Brown bag your way
to the last alley.
The tenants throw
rocks at your windows.
The rain has stopped
washing your sewers.
*From an old legend of
railroad workers on the east coast of the United States.
Published Black Buzzard Press - 1982
Tribute to Dawn of Day: Stories from the Underground Railroad
From
Tennessee
Virginia
Mississippi
Kansas
Wisconsin
To free states in the north and Canada
I grieved upon the grave of the slave
Tears circling the tomb
Securing his name
For their bloodshed
From whips and blows
By the masters and relatives
On the countryside
Down south
Oral histories and tradition passed down
Children
An investment
Field hands
Skilled labor
Textile production
Seamstresses clothed the slaves
A hovering over of threat of violence
And a whipping
Secret prayer meetings held on the plantation
The Underground Railroad
Station masters housed runaway slaves
in logged cabins
Conductors run the wagon
$50 reward for their capture
Images of faces with no names
Abolitionists regarded as extremists
A threat to the order of the day
******* fought in the Civil War
Share cropping
And Jim Crow
Then migration to city ghettos or slums
Marckincia Jean
Narrative
09/26/19
trains of thought
emblazoned with slashrune graffiti
children count the cars
It took 2 years, 35,000 men
And 10 million dollars to build,
But the railroad in Skagway, both scenic and cool,
Still keeps passengers awestruck and thrilled.
It climbs to the summit in just 20 miles
Where it reaches to 3,000 feet
And for heart-stopping views on a narrow gauge track,
The experience cannot be beat.
You can stand between cars if you're daring and dressed
In some layers to keep you like toast,
But it's worth it, for that's where the vistas impress -
And the mem'ry will stay with you most.
In times oft-forgotten great freight trains rolled through.
Each boxcar was tagged in a swashbuckling hue,
Flamboyantly hawking some stale, mawkish view.
Now all that remains is the desolate track.
Clickety-clack, clickety-clack:
Our eeriest memories’ ethereal track.
Those heart-pounding engines, in Santa Fe red!
Their sheer mass of metal would thrill me with dread.
With full sound and fury they powered and led,
Not seeing they followed that rigid steel track.
Clickety-clack, clickety-clack:
Time’s mindlessly marching, immovable track.
I wonder too often just where they’ve all gone.
What exploits or griefs will their odysseys spawn?
Then, hearing their whistle, I’m fearlessly drawn.
I shadow their ghosts up the unexplored track.
Clickety-clack, clickety-clack:
Our haziest days’ inevasible track.
Down the railroad track
Through the countryside of trees
In a luscious place
The way is the underground
They say If you runaway we'll you ground
The scary ,weak black kitten
Couldn't step,it is harshly beaten
The days are dark nights
The rays are dark lights
The shining northern star of hope
Is the guide ,a freedom rope
The way is the underground
The kitten's fugitive ghost is around
The kitten lost its whiskers
It is weak her eyes are on the paws
The kitten frost but it whispers
I still have these sharp claws
The shelter was the uncle's cabin, Tom
Whenever there is a lantern,it'd be our home
The way is the underground
Perilous it is,but the black kitten is still resisting around
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