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Jim Sularz Jul 2012
(Omaha to Ogden - Summer 1870)
© 2009 (Jim Sularz)

I can hear the whistle blowin’,
two short bursts, it’s time to throttle up.
Conductor double checks, with tickets punched,
hot glistenin’ oil on connectin’ rods.

Hissin’ steam an’ belchin’ smoke rings,
inside thin ribbons of iron track.
Windin’ through the hills an’ bluffs of Omaha,
along the banks of the river Platte.

A summer’s breeze toss yellow wild flowers,
joyful laughter an’ waves goodbye.
Up ahead, there’s a sea of lush green fields,
belo’ a bright, blue-crimson sky.

O’er plains where sun bleached buffalo,
with skulls hollowed, an’ emptied gaze.
Comes a Baldwin eight wheeler a rollin’,
a sizzlin’ behemoth on clackin’ rails.

Atop distant hills, Sioux warriors rendezvous,
stoke up the locomotive’s firebox.
Crank up the heat, pour on the steam,
we’ll outrun ‘em without a shot!

‘Cross the Loup River, just south of Columbus,
on our way to Silver Creek an’ Clark.
We’re all lookin’ forward to the Grand Island stop,
where there’s hot supper waitin’, just befor’ dark.

On our way again, towards Westward’s end,
hours passin’ without incident.
I fall asleep, while watchin’ hot moonlit cinders,
dancin’ Eastward along the track . . . . .

My mind is swimmin’ in the blue waters of the Pacific,
dreamin’ adventures, an’ thrills galore.
When I awake with a start an’ a **** from my dreamland,
we’re in the midst of a Earth shatterin’ storm!

Tornado winds are a’ whirlin’, an’ lightnin’ bolts a’ hurlin’,
one strikes the locomotive’s right dash-***.
The engine glows red, iron rivets shoot Heaven sent,
it’s whistlin’ like a hundred tea-pots!

The train’s slowin’ down, there’s another town up ahead,
must be North Platte, an’ we’re pushin’ through.
Barely escape from the storm, get needed provisions onboard,
an’ switch out the locomotive for new.

At dawn’s first light, where the valley narrows,
with Lodge Pole’s bluffs an’ antelope.
We can all see the grade movin’ up, near Potter’s City,
where countless prairie dogs call it home.

On a high noon sun, on a mid-day’s run,
at Cheyenne, we stop for grub an’ fuel.
“Hookup another locomotive, men,
an’ start the climb to Sherman Hill!”

At the highest point on that railroad line,
I hear a whistle an’ a frantic call.
An’ a ceiling’s thud from a brakeman’s leap,
to slow that creakin’ train to a crawl.

Wyomin’ winds blow like a hurrican’,
the flimsy bridge sways to an’ fro.
Some hold their breath, some toss down a few,
‘till Dale Creek disappears belo’.

With increasin’ speed, we’re on to Laramie,
uncouple our helper engine an’ crew.
Twenty round-house stalls, near the new town hall,
up ahead, the Rocky Mountains loom!

You can feel the weight, of their fear an’ dread,
I crack a smile, then tip my hat.
“Folks, we won’t attempt to scale those Alps,
the path we’ll take, is almost flat.

There ain’t really much else to see ahead,
but sagebrush an’ jackalope.
It’s an open prairie, on a windswept plain,
the Divide’s, just a gentle *****.

But, there’s quite a few cuts an’ fills to see,
from Lookout to Medicine Bow.
Carbon’s got coal, yields two-hundred tons a day,
where hawks an’ coyotes call.

When dusk sets in, we’ll be closin’ in,
on Elk Mountain’s orange silhouette.
We’ll arrive in Rawlins, with stars burnin’ bright,
an’ steam in, at exactly ten.

It’s a fair ways out, befor’ that next meal stop,
afterwards, we’ll feel renewed.
So folks don’t you fret, just relax a bit,
let’s all enjoy the view.”

Rawlins, is a rough an’ tumble, lawless town,
barely tame, still a Hell on wheels.
A major depot for the UP rail,
with three saloons, an’ lost, broken dreams.

Now time to stretch, wolf down some vittles,
take on water, an’ a load o’ coal.
Gunshots ring out, up an’ down the streets of Rawlins,
just befor’ the call, “All aboard!”

I know for sure, some folks had left,
to catch a saloon or two.
‘Cause when the conductor tallies his final count,
we’re missin’ quite a few!

Nearly everyone plays cards that night,
mostly, I just sit there an’ read.
A Gazetteer is open on my lap,
an’ spells out, what’s next to see –

‘Cross bone-dry alkali beds that parch man an’ beast,
from Creston to bubblin’ Rock Springs.
We’re at the backbone of the greatest nation on Earth,
where Winter’s thaw washes West, not East.

On the outer edge of Red Desert, near Table Rock,
a bluff rises from desolation’s floor.
An’ red sandstones, laden with fresh water shells,
are grooved, chipped, cut an’ worn.

Grease wood an’ more sagebrush, tumble-weeds a’plenty,
past a desert’s rim, with heavy cuts an’ fills.
It’s a lonesome road to the foul waters of Bitter Creek,
from there, to Green River’s Citadel –

Mornin’ breaks again, we chug out to Bryan an’ Carter,
at Fort Bridger, lives Chief Wash-a-kie.
Another steep grade, snow-capped mountains to see,
down belo’, there’s Bear Valley Lake.

Near journey’s end, some eighty miles to go,
at Evanston’s rail shops, an’ hotel.
Leavin’ Wahsatch behind, where there’s the grandest divide,
with fortressed bluffs, an’ canyon walls.

A chasm’s ahead, Hanging Rock’s slightly bent,
a thrillin’ ride, rushin’ past Witches’ Cave.
‘lot more to see, from Pulpit Rock to Echo City,
to a tall an’ majestic tree.

It’s a picnic stop, an’ a place to celebrate –
marchin’ legions, that crossed a distant trail.
Proud immigrants, Mormons an’ Civil War veterans,
it’s here, they spiked thousand miles of rail!

We’re now barrelin’ down Weber Canyon, shootin’ past Devil’s Slide,
there’s a paradise, just beyon’ Devil’s Gate.
Cold frothy torrents from Weber River, splash up in our faces,
an’ spill West, to the Great Salt Lake.

It’s a long ways off, from the hills an’ bluffs of Omaha,
to a place called – “God’s promised land.”
An’ it took dreamin’, schemin’, guts an’ sinew,
to carve this road with calloused hands.

From Ogden, we’re headin’ West to Sacramento,
we’ll forge ahead on CP steam.
An’ when we get there, we’ll always remember –
Stops along an American dream.

“Nothing like it in the World,”
East an’ West a nation hailed.
All aboard at every stop,
along the first transcontinental rail!
This is one of my favorite poems to recite.   I wrote this after I read the book "Nothing Like It In the World" by Stephen Ambrose.  The title of this book is actually a quote from Seymour Silas, who was a consulting engineer for the Union Pacific railroad.  Stephen's book is about building the World's first transcontinental railroad.   Building the transcontinental Railroad was quite an accomplishment.   At it's completion in 1869, it was that generation's "moonshot" at the time.   It's hard to believe it was just another hundred years later (1969) and we actually landed men on the Moon.   "Stops Along an American Dream" is written in a style common to that period.   I researched the topic for nearly four months along with the Union Pacific (UP) train stops in 1870 - when most of the route's stops were established.    The second part of the companion poem, yet to be written, will take place from Ogden to Sacramento on the Central Pacific railroad.   That poem is still in the early formative stages.   I hope you enjoy this half of the trip on the Union Pacific railroad!   It was truely a labor of love and respect for all those who built the first transcontinental railroad.    It's completion on May 10th, 1869 opened the Western United States to mass migration and settlement.

Jim Sularz
Katelyn Foley Jun 2014
People fall in love in mysterious ways, could you tell me this one thing before you leave to walk along another beach on another island far far away? do you love me? do our hearts collide and make a happy day? what is love? what is us without the memories and fun? what am I without you? what is love without truth? do you love me? because I love you, love, they say love is a very strong word and feeling but in my eyes this for letter word does no justice to how I feel about us, should I let you go to pursue your dreams or beg you stay and make me happy? can I tell you this one thing? My heart is shattering, breaking everytime I think about you leaving me, I cant loose you, maybe love is strong enough to keep us together but I need to hold you, I miss you, I love you and I need you but you don't see that because I cant tell you... bye
I need advice
Quentin Briscoe  Dec 2011
RED
Quentin Briscoe Dec 2011
RED
Blowing like a hurrican...
You got *****, she got game...
managing the both of them...
jugglin and polishin...
she shine em up hair and all...
Yea shes just glad you had a ball...
man watch out shawty sick...
tosie pops she loves to lick...
so how many does it take...
she'll find out just you wait...
lil red riding hood...
at grandma's house she blew it good...
This big bad wolf I ate her Great...
Taste so good, Regurgitate#
Nicole Whitticar Oct 2017
My future just dialed in with terrible news
the world was ending and there was nothing I could do
and I was shocked to find it was not because you left,
it was not jesus coming back to name my sins
the answer to this question, and many more, is inside each individual
like a philosopher, I often peel back surface layers in hopes there is something beneath what I fear most, I  think about the past and future as if an oracle put me to it-
I scan, ponder and reminisce on all of the mysteries I have unfolded and the ones awaiting me
to believe there is something better beyond my knowledge limits my willingness to adventure
I must find the better, the good of it all, and let it devour me-
I must crawl into the depths of the volcanoes and stay with the sacrificed,
I must give my enemies a piece of myself to feel whole again.

One must test limits to know where they stand in relation to who they will become.
-Every answer can be answered with a simple self examination.
love  Mar 2021
My boat
love Mar 2021
Not a single blow of wind,
Pushes my boat further.
Nothing plays with its sail,
So it neither goes north nor south.

Rain,
Hurrican,
Storm,
They all come and go.

But my boat sits there,
In the middle of the sea.
As if the forces of nature don't exist,
It sits there awaiting nothing.
Zac Truskowski  May 2014
Fire
Zac Truskowski May 2014
Fire, you are such a ******* liar, which once respected passtion and love, you are not the symple of death and hate. I know when fire is at the gate to my soul. Becuse everything stops being so cold. But with fire comes false hope, i let you in and you take everything and go. Fire burns everything not even the stuff i thought was fire proof is save. It destorys everything down to the last inch of space. Fire can mean love which is always a false symble. It is always in my heart for the wrong reasons and when it leaves everything is burnt and turned into ashes. Fire can be a symble for Passtion. A passtion that i lost long ago, weather it be sports, art, or even just enjoying myself. That fire comes in a burns strong like a hurrican, But when it is done leaves nothing hopeless dreams. Fire is nothing but power, power people take for granted. Use it to there advantage when they see other people are weak. Fire is nothing but a liar which i why i always carry a bucket of water.
shatteredpoet Jan 2019
this is the three seconds
before the floor breakd
and i'm pulled into the hurricane
of every thought inside my head

my head and my heart is at
war before i can call your name
but i think that
maybe this is ok
because now i have a 200 page poetry book
with your name written on every page
and the story of us written in ink
but i'm bleeding because the paper
cut into my skin a little too deep
and the words tore into my heart

i was too late to love you and
admit to you that you were the one
thing i have yet to give up on
but now my heart is only bleeding
on the edges of the words
"i don't love you"

now the three seconds are up
and suddenly i'm thrown into the hurrican my mind has created
in hopes to win against
the force of my heart

— The End —