Trains Poems - Poems about Trains

I thought that I had matured enought to have the strenght within me To look and accept reality I thought I could look into the eyes of past and accept that it has passed Old camera i haven’t picked up in months is my only gateway to past regrets and memmories Vision blured with tears I can’t get past...

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goodbye in their eyes while waiting to catch a train, oftentimes he sat alone at the depot —afraid—scratching initials in the dirt and sometimes in his head. hours became a collision of minutes while he watched make-believe dancers, well-groomed gentlemen, and worn-out pieces of life. trains chugged by infrequently and rain pelted out musical tin tones on an oblong rusted bucket, singing baritone moans of...

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Night trains' theatre Saturday to Sunday, after midnight going home, the restaurant closed Walk to the station, get on Bond Street, the train works, takes me home, Change at Baker Street from Jubilee line to Metropolitan line, fast walk In the stations and subways walked people cheerfully, men and women Time after night, hmm, happy people traveled in...

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Night trains People in the night and the daytime, just traveling, silent lives No one talks, someone is reading a book, and others are playing on phones Still others are engrossed in the daily news. Interesting community. Friendship Every day, day by day, millions of people are traveling, going to work, church, or party But not the same experience, or...

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There once was a hobo that lived by the tracks Never ate a full meal, just ate lots of snacks He rode in a boxcar most everywhere he went And traveled for free, didn’t spend a cent He had a name most think sounds quite silly Friends and foes called him Boxcar Willy He made a friend, his name was Larry Only...

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Hearts such as mine such as yours should never travel on bullet trains. though the trip allowed but a few hours was never scheduled, never ours w' nowhere to go but forward into a dark unknown. not one to complain w'you tagging along the fare's still the same, I always loved your song. something soothing, calming enveloping me in timbre and tone like...

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Nigel likes to talk about planes And trains and motorbikes. He has a few friends Who like the same. I say to him: "Why does the piston go up and down?" He tells me, But I don't really understand. I go back to my poetry books And let my imagination soar. While Nigel gets on his bike and makes it roar....

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May we be blessed to acknowledge all the wonders in our life that have, for us, thus far accrued… and to begin each day with a word of thanks… and thoughts of gratitude. Today I’m thankful for trains and the way they make us all behave… How when we hear that whistle the youngest and oldest ones among us will smile…run to them..and...

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Coming down to this lost pier Under the bridge of no sighs The bollards not used, no boats moor here Back and forth on the river they ply Carrying tourists, and locals as well To destinations unknown I do not envy them, though cannot tell Which place to I do belong This spatial disorientation Is such an exhausting disorder Dislodged, I offer...

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It’s a boy thing the clickety-clack, clickety-clack of a train along its tracks all manner of boys from diapered toddler to arthritic codger from suited gent to aproned chef the clickety-clack, clickety-clack ignites within them the feeling of freedom and faraway places the clickety-clack, clickety-clack fills their hearts with a special joy enlivening their faces with an apple-cheeked grin and when...

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I wish I had a few ending words to complete a compelling story with. Maybe a poem with end lines that actually end, but then those kind of ending might die too soon. That’s how a poem should be, no defined beginnings and endings nothing finished, always moving on, moving into a falling away silence that speaks out loud. That kind of muse comes back at you; wants...

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What Is Happening? Yes, the little Genie asked What is happening? Children aren’t being taught To tell time, They can’t look at the clock and Know whether it’s one o’clock Or it’s 10 o’clock Who is teaching the children? Yes, the little Genie asked What is happening? Children aren’t being taught Cursive writing They can’t write their names What a sad thing to know The art of handwriting Is being let...

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Every night, the train's melody unfolds Its resonant hum, a whispered cosmic sigh In the depths of sleep, its secrets it holds Time and existence converge as it passes by Revealing the symphony of life's grand design Its resonant hum, a whispered cosmic sigh Within its rhythmic cadence, I find mine A journey embarked upon...

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Steam and smoke trains, dont fume anymore,lying like dead corpses or spare parts of what once was called the golden age;; If they would fume, it would only be a plaintive sigh, about their desolate demise; forsaken and rejected........ Thought to have lost their charm, their romance:too much archaic and rusted for a modern glossary, They don't whistle...

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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...

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