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Charlie Rose Apr 2021
The train roars past me
A beast of iron and fire
Howling in the night

Cries echoing through
This neon suburbia
A bordering stream

The calls and track sounds
Swirl through the air throughout town
Day and night, constant

At night, a soft lull
At morning, a wakeup call
At day, a wild rush

Blue and gold cargo
The steel shine of passengers
Hailing to old times

A call to my soul
To jump and destroy, to run
A wild beast astride
Jaicob Apr 2021
Drowsily dreaming the dreary day away,
I lean 'gainst the sill, looking out on the city.
Deep sighs cascade from my open mouth
Before I close my eyes and hum a diddy,
Remembering the people who've shown me pity,
As the train rattles on heading south.
My rail tracks seem to have disappeared
Only the red autumn leaves seem to have covered
A cold melancholy in the air hovers
As I look beyond to see what uncovers

But the truth is that it is an endless journey
There’s no special place ahead, no sanctuary
Just the train, and the passing estuary
The destination seems lost, as I realise it was only imaginary.

Now I yearn for meaning.

What is this train journey,
Where is it leading?
Maybe it’s better to just hop off
And enjoy it from the beginning.
Enjoy the journey because there's no destination.
Have another drink,
Why don't you?
Take another sip?
The bartender's watching us closely but
If I give him a hearty enough tip
He'll leave us be
And we can slip
Down to the train tracks
Like our slurred words.

We won't make love but we'll
Lay on the mercury speckled rails
Singing our heads off,
Drinking some more ail till
The horn blares and
The insides of our eyes pool with gaudy lights from
Heaven above

And we're rolled to bits,
Leaving nothing behind but a trail
Of blood and
The heavenly light of tails.
I wish I could have made it a little less shallow but it messed with the already poor rhythm
Ruheen Mar 2021
I remember the inside:
A little red; a bit of grey.
Rows of leather seats and carpeted floors.
But it was when the journey began,
And I sat down,
My feet dangling over the edge,
Just like my anticipation -
They told me we'll be under the sea.
But I felt us moving;
The slow hum I heard eased me.
My eyes flickered to the window,
My parents' voices faded,
As I watched my reflection.
Then I noticed her. In the window.
I recognized her,
From where we had left.
It was while I was on my feet,
Hand clasped in my mother's,
But eyes fixed on her.
The girl sat waiting, sketchbook in her lap,
Pencil in her hand with her legs crossed.
It was crowded and clamorous,
Yet she paid no attention,
Her gaze set on her art,
Her movements steady.
The girl's raven hair was tied
And I think she wore something blue.
We went in together.
We sat on the left,
She sat on the right,
And drew.
And drew.
And drew.
And her pencil left dark marks on snow-like paper,
As her hands moved fast, then slow.
I couldn't help but watch.
I strained to look away,
But the window only showed…
Black. Bricks.
Darker than her hair. And her pencil.
We were underwater, but I didn't care.
I was more intrigued by the girl
Who sat so close, but was so far away.
Practically living in a different world.
I was helpless, shy, way too curious.
I wondered what she was thinking. And drawing.
It was pure, innocent, fascination.
Then the train stopped.
She stopped.
I stopped.
Because we had arrived.
We left.
She was gone.
I was bored.
Again.
A memory
Jennifer DeLong Mar 2021
As , I am sitting here
I got the past
traveling through
its taking a train
showing me pictures
making me remember
Its quite a change
so much is new
I wonder how it knew
I needed to see and feel
to remember you
so long gone
it makes me think
it makes me feel
so many things
but , I run into you
that is again true
I think of you
when driving
When sitting on the beach
So many memories
come traveling through
and its something
I wish you knew
so the train has stopped
at the station
time to depart
I will be back
to think of you

Β© π‘±π’†π’π’π’Šπ’‡π’†π’“ 𝑳 π‘«π’†π‘³π’π’π’ˆ 3/7/2021
jrae Mar 2021
Bleary-eyed, an old man asks for change,
coins rattling in his hand. A woman
hands him saltine crackers across the aisle.
β€œGod bless you,” he mutters, takes a seat,
and unwraps the plastic with shaking hands.
He smiles at her before she leaves the train.

Tonight, the passengers on the train
are surprisingly quiet for a change.
We are all staring down at our hands.
And then the silence breaks - a woman
cackles aloud to herself in her seat.
Her laughter travels up and down the aisle.

I overhear a conversation across the aisle
between a couple who’ve just entered the train,
and are searching for a pair of empty seats.
They’re muttering β€œthe country is changing”
and they say they are afraid. The woman
sighs, and reaches for her lover’s hand.

I look over at a child holding her mother’s hand.
I meet the little girl’s gaze from across the aisle.
I see myself as a child too, but to her I’m a woman.
I wonder how often the little girl rides the train.
Does she long to see something else for a change -
something other than the back of a seat?

I notice a lady who has started dancing in her seat,
snapping her fingers and waving her hands,
bobbing to a silent beat. I imagine her changing
into a sequined dress and waltzing down the aisle,
giving everyone a performance to watch on the train.
I imagine standing up and dancing with that woman

and then everyone begins to dance with the woman -
we all jump up onto our seats
and suddenly we are in a ballroom, not a train.
We are tapping our feet and clapping our hands
to the music - the little girl across the aisle
is dancing with the old man who asked for change.

The train stops. We’ve arrived at my station. The dancing woman leaves the train. The passengers change and now there are strangers in their seats. I wave my hand goodbye to the little girl as I walk past her down the aisle.
"A Sestina is a French verse form, usually unrhymed, consisting of six stanzas of six lines each and a three-line envoy. The end words of the first stanza are repeated in a different order as end words in each of the subsequent five stanzas; the closing envoy contains all six words, two per line, placed in the middle and at the end of the three lines. The patterns of word repetition are as follows, with each number representing the final word of a line, and each row of numbers representing a stanza:

          1 2 3 4 5 6
          6 1 5 2 4 3
          3 6 4 1 2 5
          5 3 2 6 1 4
          4 5 1 3 6 2
          2 4 6 5 3 1
          (6 2) (1 4) (5 3) "
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