A black child knows the song of heavy trains,
as clanging engines brought my father home.
His weary, sweaty, fat thighs bearing strain,
from cooking pots of food for those well-known.
We felt the forceful song of heavy trains,
not rails or trams that ride below the street.
A move that in your gut of gut does reign,
black power that comes up beneath your feet.
Our past has known the song of steel on steel
as trains have carried tired heads held high.
When we approached we heard the air brakes squeal,
and at that sound we thought our hopes were nigh.
We've listened for the song of trains for years.
Their mournful horns just croon a memory,
and often resurrect the blues of tears,
or flash across the mind as reverie.
For many years we've sang the sad refrain,
with strength and power striving in the soul.
This melody of freedom laced with pain.
The weight of all life's longings taking toll.
Oh, sing a song of praise for those who bare
the weight of heavy trains within our past,
a rocking to and 'fro' from here to there,
maintaining in our spirits WILL to last.
throughout the years, at different destinations
even through four seasons and twelve months
the trains come daily, arriving at the stations
people board during work days and holidays
some have a journey for hours on end
the minutes pass, as couples have conversations
seconds tick by on folk's watches...
On Friday nights we’d sneak into
the railyard and wait
in the shadows
between the floodlights for a train
slow enough for us to hop,
our hands already tingling
with the promise of flight.
We trotted beside the train,
waiting for the right moment
to grab a boxcar’s ladder
and climb to the roof like outlaws—
aware of the danger
and thrilled by it—
as the train gathered speed.
We jumped as it rounded the curve—
boots hitting gravel, hearts pounding—
but a voice barked out of the dark,
and then a dog, all teeth and fury,
came tearing toward us.
We bolted for the fence
without looking back.
We hit the chain-link fence at speed,
scrambled like fugitives—
I braced for asthma to take me
but my lungs opened wide,
no tightness, no fire, just breath
pure and clean, lifting me over
like I was born to run.
I landed laughing—
heart hammering, lungs still free—
and something in me shifted.
I had outrun fear, leapt past
the story that said I couldn’t—
and for the first time,
I believed it.
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 leaking liquid notes.
he twisted big words and bigger ideas
into and out of pretzel-like paragraphs
while talking too loudly to himself,
careful before answering what he didn’t believe.
he wondered aloud about life
then, umbrella in hand, turned quietly away,
only the lingering commotion of the depot
remained as a soon distant memory.
just in time to catch a southbound train
to another dot on the map…
while by-standers waved at strangers
with goodbye in their eyes.
@ tolbert
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 the carriage, past time
Hmm, bombastic amazing ladies, they talked cheerfully and just laughed
Night Train movie, this is one of the theatres in my life. Watching the life,
on the trains. People, passengers, young, old, different nationalities
Hmm, colorful existence is a tale in life. Nothing, everything is life.
Wembley Park Station
Arriving to home
The theatre closed
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 impressions, but the same views, melancholy, dream
Dead interactions? Yes, it’s that. The reason is the fear. It’s created psychologically.
Night trains. I love it more. Every people a sister or brother, but daytime also, but…
… something is different. But on the train, in a public community friendship is stopped.
Fear, inhibition. Fear from the psychology and law. Directness is punished.
Anti-humanistic science
It kills life, don’t be a human!
Hmm, there are answers
Brings it the trains of the science of dark.
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 softest rain falling
o'er battered fortress walls.
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.
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 wave
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 frustration
For the ticket to cross your border
I hear the trains clanking buffers
Over the bridge they rush through
You say there’s no reason to suffer
I would love to agree with you.
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 there is
a head of steam
and that whistle blows
they all know
that the clickety-clack, clickety-clack
pulses and echoes
just for them.
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 to be known
not necessarily understood.
Last lines are keys,
they unlock that invisible door
in your mind.
They are unreasonable
and that is why they say something
beyond the margins
of any page.
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 the ethereal rails
Revealing the symphony of life's grand design
Transcending mere existence, love prevails
As the train's wheels trace destiny's path
A journey embarked upon the ethereal rails
Infinite possibilities, intertwining aftermath
The merging of souls, a cosmic ballet
As the train's wheels trace destiny's path
Eternity's embrace, we willingly obey
In twilight's embrace, our spirits entwine
The merging of souls, a cosmic ballet
Every night, the train's melody unfolds
In the depths of sleep, its secrets it holds
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.
Some words simply never meant to be
Either sung, spoken, or written.
Related Poems