Short Boxcar Poems
Short Boxcar Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Boxcar by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Boxcar by length and keyword.
Behind on my rent…
the door slamming behind
A beggar of memories,
doomed to remind
Last boxcar of hope
on a railway of dreams
From here to tomorrow
—trapped in between
(Villanova Pennsylvania: August, 2020)
I tried to sleep, but the trip is long
Now far from home where things went so wrong
This whole train now I call mine
My boxcar upon the line
Bottle of wine, a cork and a song
11-22-19
Contest: Five Word Challenge
Sponsor: Beth Evans
Runaway Train
Conductor No Brain
Off His Track
Didn't Look Back
Cargo Debris
Blowing In Breeze
Poor Boxcar Willie
Got Knocked Silly
Sam The Man
Was Simply Canned
I Did Yell
What The Hell
At the end of this dark alley
Under the streetlamp, on a boxcar
My graffiti screams
"This is MY territory"!
I've made my mark
In this concrete hell
See my soul
Exploding on this wall
Vibrant urban colors of expression
Shouting without words
You cannot
Silence me
Cityscape Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Julia Ward
1/28/20
Soup kitchens,
holed shoes, torned pocket
Shared bed,
stenched wall, damped floor
City siren,
whispering ally, neon glare
Brown bag,
trembling hand, goosed skin
Silked lined crombie,
blackened nails, matted hair
Stray dog,
molded bread, scavanged bin
Lost lust,
torn soul, wretched hope
Dedicated to "Boxcar Brian"
This day,
I feel the metal rails shiver,
hear a distant loco coming,
bound upon its fixed route.
I move on,
enter the scattered brush,
no need to turn around
to look at those many
freight containers rumbling by.
This day
I'm on a pathless journey,
my boxcar is empty, my cargo light.
The world crosses over me,
moves on.
At 12:00
High-Noon
The train
Left New York
For the
Coast
Inside,
Echoed
A warning
From a shell
High dry
And remote
In the boxcar ….
“I’ll be back
In the spring
For rebuttal
When the lead
You have now
Is worn thin
“I’ll be back
for one run
Up the Hudson
With new oars
Pulling deep
From within”
(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2016)
Huddle in a corner of an opened boxcar
rolling through meadows and golden crops
In the melting gloom sits a vagabond
who's clothes are caked in congeal, odour, filth.
A wandering existence
a choice of rootless alienation
waves goodbye, goodbye to
smoldering embers of outrage.
9/24/2017
Form V - Verse Me A Poem
Sponsor: Broken Wings
Theme - 1. Vagabond
The greens of the forest open my mind
tantalizing me with their well-kept secrets
wowing me with their varieties and textures
refreshing me with a shiny coolness not found
in concrete landscapes or graffiti-decorated
boxcar yards. Bringing with her loveliness
side dishes of baby blue soft sky and dainty
pure scented violets that arouse my dendrites
and entice my imagination like nothing else does.
"Have a toke" ...
what a joke.
There isn't a doobie big enough
that anyone could roll.
"Here, have a sip" ...
Oh yeah, right.
Even a train boxcar full of booze
would only be a blackout ride.
"Wanta a line?" ...
Those poppy fields are way too small
and my soul too immense
to ever fence in my mind.
With my chemistry
there's never enough to fix reality,
so staying connected to the cosmos
is the greatest "high" for me.
Gypsies garbed in colorful robes
fortune tellers on the seaside boardwalk
sneers they get from nonbelievers
“Vagrants,” they call tramps
hobos from Hoboken to Alcatraz
quietly passing the bottle to all in the boxcar
don’t confuse thieves with gypsies and tramps
we can say, “No,” to gypsies and refuse handouts to tramps
the desperate who steal find a new home in jail
*Entry for Lisa’s “Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves” contest
. for public domain
Let them feel the love that they don't feel
in a boxcar on a train.
Take their hands unsteady as they are.
Let them feel welcome home.
All they've seen is caravans and roads,
so many people on their way,
runnin' scared, their children in their arms,
nowhere safe to pass the night.
So let us please open up a door.
Take them in. It's only right.
Don't say, "Lord, your life was all in vain,"
this year's only Christmas night.
Moving on into the night
I struggle with ideas,
Trying in desperation to fit words
To a subject I don't even understand
A train sounds its horn
A sound born of forlorn lament
A cry shorn of language
Torn between anguish and mourning
Research work
Rattling across my inner landscape
Paraphrase paraphrase paraphrase
Mindless conglomeration
(The third line of the third verse is an echo of Charles Bukowski's line "boxcar boxcar boxcar" in the poem Boxcar)