Array ( [sid] => 186945 [catid] => 1 [aid] => mick [title] => Music of theRails [time] => 2020-04-22 19:57:07 [hometext] => [bodytext] => The clicking of the steel wheels along the iron tracks.
Music of the ancient trains that time has long surpassed.
Up the mountains, underground, through the towns and back.
With sing song names conductors call, to trainmen in striped caps.

The ghostly chill of tunnels. The narrow aisles to walk.
The clatter of her smoking car, the bar, cigars and talk.
Her piercing whistle opens dawn and splits the blackest night.
While blurry scenes like movie screens flash past her window lights.

She leans around the corners of granite canyon walls,
where pine trees hide the silent white of crashing waterfalls.

In musty ruby carpets and old mahogany,
down corridors of sleeping cars she kept with dignity.
Velvet chairs and china plates adorned her dining cars
While she defied the mountain sides along her tracks great scars

Ash grey cities stood in blocks against the winter damp.
Clotheslines sagged between them like human postage stamps.
She belched beneath the blazing sun or blackened starlit skies.
She pulled along as rain and snow beaded her windows eyes.

Today she lives on tabletops in miniature royalty.
In tribute to the locomotive, gone with history.


[comments] => 1 [counter] => 34 [topic] => 21 [informant] => softerware [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => Lifepoems ) Your Poetry Dot Com - Music of theRails


Music of theRails
Date: Wednesday, 22nd April 2020 @ 07:57:07 PM AEST
Topic: Sad Poetry

Contributed By: softerware
The clicking of the steel wheels along the iron tracks.
Music of the ancient trains that time has long surpassed.
Up the mountains, underground, through the towns and back.
With sing song names conductors call, to trainmen in striped caps.

The ghostly chill of tunnels. The narrow aisles to walk.
The clatter of her smoking car, the bar, cigars and talk.
Her piercing whistle opens dawn and splits the blackest night.
While blurry scenes like movie screens flash past her window lights.

She leans around the corners of granite canyon walls,
where pine trees hide the silent white of crashing waterfalls.

In musty ruby carpets and old mahogany,
down corridors of sleeping cars she kept with dignity.
Velvet chairs and china plates adorned her dining cars
While she defied the mountain sides along her tracks great scars

Ash grey cities stood in blocks against the winter damp.
Clotheslines sagged between them like human postage stamps.
She belched beneath the blazing sun or blackened starlit skies.
She pulled along as rain and snow beaded her windows eyes.

Today she lives on tabletops in miniature royalty.
In tribute to the locomotive, gone with history.




This poem is Copyright © softerware


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