Skeleton Man took over the library’s story hour yesterday
It was October, but still, frightened children ran away
What can we do? The board hired him the other librarians said.
He will be a real hit tomorrow, Day of the Dead.
The children were screaming, refused to come back.
Their mothers and fathers were following them to the railroad track.
They wanted to jump on trains and go to Omaha or Utah maybe.
Skeleton Man had scared them witless, they thought he had rabies.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
my small hands cradle the glass,
the world outside our home
muffled~
inside our home,
a warm, soft glow
illuminates
the delicate
glass snow globe.
inside the lantern of glass,
a tiny village sleeps~
chimneys hold their breath
frozen mid-curl~
a single railroad track
vanishes
into powdered streets~
a church steeple
tilts slightly whispering
to the
snow drifts.
I bend closer,
the world outside~
now forgotten.
tiny windows glow
with
borrowed yellow~
plastic flames radiate
in miniature
hearths.
a tiny pine tree stands
sentinel
near the town square,
its tinsel
hung by
invisible hands.
Shake it! Dad exclaims.
I squeal with delight.
the miniature world blurs white~.
each flake suspended,
mid-fall, mid-flight,
caught between
the weight of sky
and earth.
Nothing melts here, he said, not even time.
Sixty-four years later,
something stirs
when I
shake
that lantern-shaped
snow globe~
the faint ghost
of a winter
I will always
remember.
my best day has not come yet
She’s on the railroad track
I hear her clicking and clacking
I feel she has my back
She will impress me with her wisdom
She will grace me with a terrific twenty-four hours
Opting to bring me sunshine
or lovely rain for flowers
My best day is awaiting
a signal from the commander in chief
When she finally gets here
It might be a great relief
Maybe she came yesterday
Or even Wednesday last
I probably will not know
Until after she has passed.
Vendetta machine scammed me again.
I put in a buck fifty for a dime's worth of chocolate.
It responded with nothing but disgust.
The metal hook just wouldn't let the package go.
Wiggling it in front of my greasy nose
Like a pugilist in his muscled prime.
I quickly struck the metal man from both sides.
left right-left right...
Then a quick jab
to its laughing glass eye.
I tried rocking it
front to back, front to back.
It looked like a drunkard
wobbling along a broken railroad track.
But the metal hook still held fast.
At my mental end and out of breath.
I stuffed a wad of toilet paper in its metal grin.
To warn others of the sugar scam within.
A co-worker rounded the corner and bubbled "happy Monday".
Ditto, I grumbled...walking quickly away.
Without the blessing of a chocolate bar.
A photo of my past reveals a pattern
Like a stroll that one would unfold;
Like a one-way forward railroad track,
Portraying rather interesting facts and
Saying to all that, usually, I did not go back.
Unlike God's creation, it was not 'all good';
Nor does it show that every assignment was finished.
By no means was I in any way tarnished and diminished.
Although hard, tiring, and bruising, I learned to strive.
The sunsets inspired me, and sunrises moved me ahead.
The rash upon my wrist
awaits the railroad track
Nail
to penetrate my flesh
and
hang.
The cabooseman rubs his white gloves together
waiting to pass the railroad
Mail Station
and catch the white bag
that
hangs.
And onward the Train travels through
the tunnel of Hell
and then up the railroad tracks
to the Heavens where stars
hang
like lightbulbs.
At the dead-end street or cul-de-sac stands a tall silver lamp pole,
And a portable basketball hoop. I wish I could say there lives not a single soul.
What if the lamp pole sat on a game board on City property?
As fast as this little town is growing, we could play a game of monopoly.
A railroad track there was once, now a highway, and businesses
within a four-block radius causing dizziness.
Traffic so fast, there are a lot of accidents. If you cross the line,
watch where you turn, it’s your fault if you have the stop sign.
Ambulance wails and police sirens sound that drown
Your thoughts, almost all day long around town.
If you stand by the lamp pole, you’ll see them, go by.
You look up at the sky and pray; please don’t let them die.
I am only three houses down from that lamp pole
and highway when I take my dog out for a stroll.
11/9/2023
Old Number 9 was heading down the line,
All clickety clack on the railroad track.
It was making time, looking so sublime,
Wore a coat of black on its iron back.
Going round the bend, moving at top end,
The Engineer's eyes spied a big surprise.
And that one detail was a missing rail,
With a lack of ties, was the train's demise.
Now hitting the brake was a big mistake,
It was way too late for the engine's fate.
Flipping on its side, took a gravel ride,
Like a metal plate on an icy grate.
With a hundred cars under twinkling stars,
Showered through the sky, how the sparks would fly.
Followed in its path of colliding wrath,
After savage cry, the caboose would die.
Every broken wheel and this mass of steel,
Was now laid in check on the earthen deck.
With the cargo's pride that was once inside,
Scattered all to Heck, just another wreck.
I remember the green grass, leaves of the trees turning brown.
Walking down the stream not caring that gold lay at the bottom.
Fishing at the dam a stick a string and a hook loaded with bologna.
Laying Pennies on the railroad track, waiting for the train.
Walking through the junkyard enthralled by all the mangled metal.
Playing football in a field of mud after the heavy rains.
First time I had french fries, hot and salty from the golden arches.
Watching cartoons from the playground at the drive-in theater.
Free from the worries, free from the traps
of greed.
All I have left, is the grass turning green, and the leaves turning brown.
I stare at the blues and oranges of the world
refusing to be pressured
there is such beauty in everyday things
even the railroad track signs
how many people have gone past this site
without seeing any of it?
how many people have cried tears here?
can they be scooped up and reused
or are they forever glued to this crossroad?
a car honks
impatience wants me out of the way
I am not ready
the time is now
and I am here for a reason.
I sit firmly, waiting for a sign.
Daisies came courting
I gave them a whack
Next was a bum
From the railroad track
I chased him off with my trusty broom
“How will you ever find a groom?”
My mother chastised me high and low
“I’m not looking for one,” I let her know.
Puffing languidly by blowing the whistle, there came
the mementos of zig-zag meter gauged companion,
The first consignment on the railroad track, locomotives shipped from the United Kingdom,
by crossing 586 bridges, beautiful Himalayan Mountain Ranges,
37 tunnels of major attractions arrived at the destination,
A first venture, to boost up the drop's tea and coal transportation.
That day, a track known as Brahmaputra Valley,
literally airdropped as an island railway went conversion,
became history to usher the broad gauge interconnectivity of the remote region.
Eleven years later in 1892, thousands of men and women
gathered to cast the last glimpse of the railway track
at the eastern part of the Indian Continental,
to become the witness of the track's last communication.
An emotional moment, when the train ran for the last time
on the 115 year old meter gauge line
by flagging and blowing the last whistle of the dominion.
To bid tearful, joyful adieu to the first whistle
of the last morning, on the old track of the 65 km
railway line, inaugurated in 1881, in the so called
Land of the Raising Sun as commemoration!
Three steps forward and two steps back
Fifteen miles down a railroad track
Walking from misery in a no-good world
A no good job and a no-good girl
Leaving disgraced in other men’s eyes
Troubled haven from my lonely cries
Staring at rails while cursing my fate
Flirting with memories to compensate
Though, this journey I must despise
I welcome the birth of a new sun rise
I entered this flight from an agitated state
Longing to sing hymns at heaven’s front gate
For all the good that wealth would bring
All gone now, in a faded dream
Down this track my future may wait
My mind and feet in a furious debate
Which wins now, only God can tell
How long I tread upon this rail
What solitude I hope to find
A few poultry acres enters my mind
A cow for milk and fields for bread
Maybe an old tractor under a rundown shed
There are things this rail could bring
One good wife would make me a king.
I was reared in ruins,
East London brick dust
on lard spread on bread.
Nobody had a ticket out.
My grubby figure
daubed by days of oil and dirt,
a boy by a railroad track.
Trains slid passed
screeching on pumping brakes.
People not from here
going somewhere else.
Once a little girl dressed
in posh clothes,
(I mean, not rough flannel),
jiggles of fancy ringlets
a clean hand waving.
My senses shaking
and shaken,
marveling at the beauty
of those that passed on by.
I told mother,
she shrugged not understanding,
maybe she had yet to learn
my train-yard language
She was a lock-in woman
& spoke only
as a long ignored dog would
if asked about
the meaning of life.
I was reared in ruins,
East London brick dust
on lard spread on bread.
Nobody had a ticket out.
My grubby figure
daubed by days of oil and dirt,
a boy by a railroad track.
Trains slid passed
screeching on pumping brakes.
People not from here
going somewhere else.
Once a little girl dressed
in posh clothes,
(I mean, not rough flannel),
jiggles of fancy ringlets
a clean hand waving.
My senses shaking
and shaken,
marveling at the beauty
of those that passed on by.
I told mother,
she shrugged not understanding,
maybe she had yet to learn
my train-yard language
She was a lock-in woman
& spoke only
as a long ignored dog would
if asked about
the meaning of life.
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