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Äŧül Jun 19
Kindly avoid going to any hill station,
While planning to go bear some hesitation.

You are so very hot,
But the hills are not.

What if you go there when,
All that area starts boiling then.
My HP Poem #1745
©Atul Kaushal
yeano Apr 29
Spoons, spoons, no forks or knives
He pulls no punches, but lives to dive

Gent of the water, October is coming fast
Spiny, dark, but still worthy of his Queen

He says, "I will catch you everything including
pearls that will match the timeless beauty of your eyes."

I say, "Ok, will you draw the butter too?"
He drew a stick of butter.
Matterhorn Apr 17
The subtle whishing
Of flowing gasoline
Sets the mood;
An ****, teal-colored,
German-engineered insect
Rolls up to the pump
Alongside mine.
I note the empty car seat
Cramped in the back
As she steps out,
Her balayage-curls swishing
As she flashes me
A cursory,
Carefree smile.
Grinning stupidly back,
My eyes gloss over;
Déjà vu grips me and
I search my memory
For her face—

The insect scuttles off;
My tank is full.
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2019
Kitt Apr 14
Despite the emptiness of the train station, I can hear the sounds of people.
Headed to work.
Headed home from work.
Day shifts, night shifts
Social visits
Business ventures.
All of the emotions and all of the stories they carry, unbeknownst to one another
save the innocuous and inadvertent clues given
by way of their postures or countenances, caught in glances
and forgotten just as quickly.

The station is full of ghosts,
of memories lost and faded from time.
Sentiments once deemed of utmost importance
but that now lie as irrelevant as those deemed unimportant.
All of them, lying together
as dead as dead can be.
There is an eerie chilliness to the air,
but I can’t bring myself to pull out my jacket and bundle up.
Somehow, the cold feels
fitting for the mood.
I haven’t been here in so long, yet I can still hear the ambiance
from so long ago.
I could almost feel the murmur of conversation
the occasional flipping of pages from books or newspapers
the omnipresent thundering of railways
the laughter of children on their mothers’ laps on the way to visit Grandma.
I can hear the patter of expensive Italian shoes
the shuffle of worn work boots
the clicking of heels
the scuff of flats
all running together
as the masses shift and shuttle hither and thither.
I thought about the loafers and stilettos that had once scuffed these hard floors.
I thought about how, in the moment, they must’ve seemed so vital,
so necessary.
But now?
Expensive and cheap shoes are buried together on decaying corpses.

I had lived near the train tracks, once upon a time.
After the world came crashing down around me,
it was only in rebuilding it that I found
something as benign as the sounds of a railway to be comforting.
But I did, somehow. It was a reminder of the world that went on
despite it feeling like it was at an eternal standstill.
Of course, back then I was completely unaware
of how I was building up a collection of memories
centered around that very sound.
I didn’t realize how I would forever hear that sound
and be brought back to a simpler time.
I never knew how important it would become, or the memories it would bring along with it.

And the rain came down,
and it kept coming down,
so nourishing to the parched earth
yet so gloomy and low. It fit the mood.
An event that must happen, for the world to survive
But that, in the moment, only feels like a dreary moodsetter on a blustery day.
It isn’t too dark out. Despite the rain coming down in torrents, it’s still bright.
As I drive along the highway I see that rays of
sunshine are poking out from behind the clouds, and I think that,
somewhere along the distance, from the right vantage, where the brilliant sun rays
hit the storm droplets at just the right angle, there might be a rainbow
somewhere.
Just too far gone down the road for me to see it.
Equality in demise
Arisa Mar 3
I missed the bus seconds after the last passenger boarded.

Now I sit here alone,
Waiting for another vessel
To drag me to my destination.

The air is cold,
And my heart is still thumping away
Due to physical exertion to reach the thing I missed -
But like everything else,
My hopes,
My dreams,
They're too far to reach.

I don't know how to end this
But mention the tiny speckle of headlights
And the roar of the large vehicle in the distance.
So now I think:
'There's always another bus.'
One of my meh poems.
Gabriel Bonney Sep 2018
I have stepped out onto the railroad station
I had found my train, after contemplation
Inside my heart, a feeling for two is stored
My only question: will you take me aboard?
(Hence my profile picture)
Tanay Sengupta Aug 2018
In to the night,
As the breeze soothes the mind.
A lonely owl steps out to the light,
Leaving his nest behind.
As the moon shines
And the wind blows;
The nightingale hymns
And the gaslight glows.

Nocturnal creative artists at work.
The night only fuels their quirk.
Then a sudden cacophony disturbs the air.
A noise no one can bare.
From a distance it can be heard.
It whistles, but it is not a bird.

It slows as it reaches its destination.
Breaking through the peace with its whistle.
The train stops as it reaches the station.














Tanay Sengupta, Copyright © 2018.
All Rights Reserved
This is based on a true story. I was at a train station in a village, waiting for a train which was about 6 hours late. While waiting I could not help but notice the surroundings since it was a village, needless to say there were many interesting things to see. I have noted a few things here. I hope you like it.
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