It was a dark hole
into an Aladdin's cave of old tools.
A small window
gave the only light and fell
on a rough sawn bench wearing
scars inflicted by years of use.
Saw cuts, drill holes
and the miscued gouges
of chisels had crusted to
dark scabs. Oil stains blotched
the surface like age spots.
Reclaimed tin beaten flat
on an anvil length of railway line
covered the walls in a mosaic
of odd shapes glazed
in powdery rust. The floor
was hardened clay compacted
over decades by a pair
of shuffling boots.
It seemed almost a holy place,
a grotto cut into a life to house
precious things a man valued
back then. Tools bore a sanctity,
a purity of purpose,
the blessed instruments
of a craftsman kept
and looked after for life.
Some were venerated relics
passed down by generations.
I closed the door,
leaving the cobweb draped
silence intact.
Soon to be demolished,
its contents will be thrown
into bargain boxes
at the local trash and treasure.
Sad how the age bundles up
and dumps the holy
to feed an empty core.
What am I aware of?
Fingertips
the plastic beat of an electronic heart
as I type - not in the moment
but racing down stream
to a whirlpool
where words surface.
The last sip of coffee
coating the back of my throat;
a lost and found shelf
at the end of a defunct railway line
where my voice
rattles in an empty tin box.
Aware of this self
picking up discarded symbols,
shaking them
wanting them to speak for me.
Aware of this hard backed chair
and its strange power
to reach into a river
and pull out the long drowned.
A faraway place
I lived in the interior of the Algarve for many years
in a converted stable made into a cottage that
was smelling of mules when it rained.
After the heat of summers, winters were, if not
Welcome, but accepted as good for the land
Rain and damp, how great to have a wood burner
and a gas stove for cooking when electricity
broke down as it often did.
International problems of the time had a feel
of distance, nothing to with us away from the
braying crowd and the insanity of pop- culture
Walking in the woods reclaimed by nature
once small homesteads were here, people lived
in need, till they gave up this unequal struggle
and left to find their luck in the USA or Canada
Domestic trees grew wild was oddly shaped
cottages reduced to heaps of stones under
which rabbits had found homes; and to not forget
the boar is not hunted, getting bothersome.
When my dog crossed the railway line and not
looking, I sank into gloom, the romance had gone
I had not succeeded in my endeavour, time
to leave; eventually, everything comes to an
end, only time remains and is silent.
The trains of cunning
Two men in a vast field of grain waited for the trains
to meet on a one-track railway line, one a mathematician
had worked out where the train would meet
the other was a reporter skilled in muddying the news.
Of the train drivers, one has a skilled hand used to getting
his way, the other was an upstart backed by western money
and told to call the older man’s bluff.
And there, in the brilliant winter light, they saw the trains
At great speed nearing, the point of no return.
There was a side track where one of the trains could stop
And let the other one through, but would they choose
To be sensible; we shall not know.
I mighty missile struck the track and blew part of it away
The driver of the eastern train was able to stop, but not so
the driver of the western train that ran onto the prairie
that had no cowboys or cattle and exploded.
The mathematician was happy his calculation was right
the reporter wrote an obfuscating article telling readers
the west had won; the man from the east smiled his
calculations had been spot on.
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!
a stroll beneath this old stone bridge
is a stroll through time and mist
where remnants from another age
and graffiti coexist.
where nitreous oxide cannisters
and weeds and grass combine
to choke the past from the valley floor
of its long lost railway line.
A short cut through the tunnel led me home,
a route I'd taken many times before
but on that misty, cold October night
along its path a nightmare lay in store.
An unfrequented disused railway line
its tracks and sleepers long since cast aside,
pitch black and narrow,weathered through the years,
a glint of distant light its only guide.
I started on my way without a qualm
my crunching footsteps echoed all around
but halfway through,with dread, stood petrified
my heart pulsated wildly at the sound.
A haunting scream rang out and pierced the soul
its echo adding tenor to the plea
I froze, against the dank and frigid wall
for what seemed like a vast eternity.
Sideways and softly feeling my way back
I reached the tunnel entrance and then fled.
Next day the headlines screamed the grievous news:
'At the old track a girl has been found dead.'
31.01.21
Murder In The Tunnel Poetry Contest
Sponsor : Kai Michael Neumann
The children had a simple thing to do
To go to the shops on an errand through
But there was a railway line between home and the shop
And danger lurked in their short walking hop
They waited for one train to pass through the crossing made
And ran out after it passed as the terrible scene played
But there was one going the opposite way
Meant it hit them hard and smashed their lives away
What I see sometimes as the image remains
Of being there that day where nobody gains
Was one of the crowd who gathered to gawk
Laughed and said make sure you pick up all the pieces as you walk.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Today I walked the railway line
Far outside of town
Far from all the friends I've known
And the ones who cut you down
Mused on my achievements
Met failures with a frown
Something restless deep within
Keeps me coming back around.
Forever chasing shadows
Fighting battles lost long ago
Deciphering the cruelty
That many long to show
Not all those who wander are lost
A verse pinned to my mirror read
For it surely is a winding path
That to this moment, led.
Wobbly bits , Hairy bits and dangly bits galore
So if you're feeling squeamish
Draw your curtains and lock the door
For today is the day in Yorkshire
When the naked ramblers go on tour.
They will walk beside the railway line
From Settle to Carlisle
All their bits a bouncing
For mile after mile
You are welcome to join them
but you can wear nothing but a smile .
One of the guys must have fallen in a puddle
I think his name is Jim
Some things shrink when they're in water
and you'll feel really sorry for him.
The lady garden of Hairy Mary
Really needs a trim .
One lady must be American
Well her wobbly bits have certainly gone
To the very deepest south .
She's spitting out tobacco juice
From the corner of her mouth
Her lady garden looks angry
With that mass of ginger hair
Goodness gracious , She bent over
Now that really gave me a scare.
I hope I have inspired you
So if you're feeling brave
Pop into the bathroom
and give your bits a shave
Then you can apply to join
The naked ramblers society
Don't forget to give me a wave
I'm the guy hiding behind the tree.
Screaming to the clouds, relentless rain and breathless apathy.
Beautiful in the midst of the imaginary storm.
‘You left me to scars, Robert Smith and this twisted .45’, as if anyone was listening.
Railway line, as if a train ticket could fix anything.
Suited disapproval, facing last nights clothes and the knowledge she’s not been home.
Platforms and timetables, blur into one irrelevant escape.
Nights and days, just as if the sun dictates what she should be doing.
They call if time, she threw her watch into the river and considered following it.
Summer, ‘08
Teenage years, the best of your life
Twisted: fantasy, reality
And the fine line between the two.
I do not picture the brown-eyed sadness,
Pools of hazel windblown on the heath,
Any more than I picture the days of childhood,
Less than idyllic pastures spread beneath.
On some soft corner of a sun-bleached street,
Or at some still patch of disused railway line,
I feel and glimpse the vivid life before,
The picture-perfect visions caught in time.
The waterfall on the heads of the valley road,
Black pipes upon the pinnacles of brick,
Rainbows in the spray that rushed and fell,
To rock-pools where the rocks lay black and slick.
Or the sinkholes in the field filled up with rain,
The fireworks in the bottles in the grass,
The bikes with three speed gears that were rode
As effortless as time in racing past.
The rope tied to the bough out in the lane,
Swinging, spinning, feet dragged in the dirt,
Laughter at the foolish slapstick plunge
When falling down seemed hardly ever hurt.
I do so picture the green-eyed aching,
When times of longing for those days remain,
I simply love the error of my ways,
And wish to do all of those things again.