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A mournful sound of a train
I’m not sure why
Makes me want to cry

Is it saying I’m going now
Like it’s saying goodbye
I might never see you again

Or is it saying i will be back soon
Wait for me
Don’t move

Pitiful mourning in the night
When everything is sleeping
Searing soulfully in the mist

Why does this sound
evoke emotion like this
I get up so it can speak to me

I grew up with it
It’s familiar to this child
A long comforting hug

Maybe it’s the strength
Maybe it’s the speed
Maybe it’s the a far off loud

A need to keep hearing
It's only a whistle
Holding in my memory
One of my favorite sounds
Jo Dec 2019
Fancy a place deep in the wood far
beyond the pathway of nine to fives.

A place more beautiful than imagined
by you or I.  

Just imagine the air and the whistle of
the wind, a walk in the pathways to
feeling akin.

With the trickle of the sunlight through
a patchwork of trees.  

And the moon shining brightly on a
winter’s eve. Ah, but to know such a
place at hand.

If only to escape the confusion of trying
to understand.
To read more of my writings go to: https://reflectionsoflight7.wixsite.com/home
Wren Aug 2019
Look down.
There’s a whole world below,
dug out and timber-framed,
mapped and named.
Its tunnels stretch for miles
under the mountain.

Once it shook with blasting,
screech of train, and whistles.
The coal was iridescent blue.
Headlights on a curved track
burst like shooting stars
out of the deep.

That mirror world is dark now.
The men laid down their tools,
and took the mantrip
to the surface, home.
In the quiet,
hear the mountain sigh.
was in canmore, canada for vacation. saw these words engraved into the sidewalk... thought it was really poetic!

/taken from the canmore city website/
Canmore was named in 1884 by Donald A. Smith, an employee of the Canadian Pacific Railway. The name originates from a town on the northwest shores of Scotland named in honor of King Malcolm III of Canmore. The anglicized version of the Gaelic Ceann Mór , Canmore has been variously translated as "big head" or, more likely, "great head" or "chief".

In 1886 Queen Victoria granted a coal mining charter to the town and in 1887 the first mine was opened.

The North West Mounted Police built their first barracks in Canmore in 1890. It was vacated in 1929 and turned into a private residence. Later, in 1989 the barracks was purchased back by the town and restored.

Through the early 20th century many of the coal mines in the Bow Valley began to shut down. The nearby towns of Anthracite, Georgetown and Bankhead closed down and many of the buildings and residents were relocated to Banff and Canmore. In 1965, Canmore was incorporated as a town with 2,000 residents. I
Johnny walker Mar 2019
Somewhere out there, Helen, she calls to me her voice carried on the wind that blows outside my door
that opens onto the outside
world 
Since she's been gone a world I'm no longer so keen on for Its much-changed world since my darling has been gone a world
alone
But I shall keep a candle burning bright In case her spirit you should pass my way come calling her voice carried on the wind that sings through the trees like a voice of an
Angel
Helen's voice carried on the wind that blows
At the spot people still glance as they pass, see it empty and give a sigh
You can still hear his cheerful whistling as you go by,
Now the corner where the strange man lived is dull and clear
The spot where he lived, the man from everywhere but here.

The strange man talked of places never seen
He talked of places no one had ever been,
He talked of beautiful princesses, kings and knights
He talked of fierce battles and winning fights,

People who were from out of town thought he was just a little queer
But the local people knew he was the man from everywhere but here.

He talked of Trolls and Giants as tall as the eye could see
He talked of maidens and fair ladies as beautiful as can be,
He talked of conquering fiery dragons without a scrape
He talked of guarded dungeons where he’d always escape.

All the people from far off would say “he’s full of beer”
But all the locals knew he was the man from everywhere but here.

He talked of tall trees and mountains oh so high
He talked of big castles that would scrape the sky,
He talked of great far off enchanted lands
He talked of places where good and evil always held hands.

People ask him if he was ever afraid to die
He’d take his finger and point to the sky,
With the same old sparkle in his eye,
He’d say the day that star up there is gone
That is the day that I will move on.

The people from out of town thought the man was just a little queer
But the locals knew he was the man from everywhere but here.

His cheerful whistling would brighten anyone’s day
His enchanting whistling would make the rain go away,
He’d sit in the same spot all day and talk to the young and the old
He talks to the nicest, the meanest and even the bold.

The people from far off would say “he’s full of beer”
But the locals knew he was the man from everywhere but here.

That winter the clouds rolled in and it snowed for quite a while
But no matter how cold the strange man always wore a smile,
He became so pale he was as white as a ghost
But no matter how cold he still had time to boast.

Boast about all that he had seen and done
Boast about all the pretty ladies he had won,
He’d tell you still about all the people he’d met
He’d tell you about all the sly traps he’d set.

The people from out of town thought he was just a little queer
But all the locals knew he was the man from everywhere but here.

The winter wore on and so did the snow
But the strange man never looked low,
That night the clouds rolled away
To reveal that the stars had gone away.

The next day the man had vanished out of sight
All that was left was his blanket and pipe,
The man never came back after that day
But his cheerful whistling will never go away.

At the spot people still glance as they pass, see it empty and give a sigh
You can still hear his cheerful whistling as you go by.
Now the corner where the strange man lived is dull and clear
The spot where he lived, the man from everywhere but here.
© 2016 Christine Mulvihill
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.
Tanay Sengupta May 2018
Let it be grey.
It has never rained like this before,
I like it this way.

I don't care if it is night or day.
For all the times I have felt sore,
Let it be grey.

They will not come today.
No one will knock on the door,
I like it this way.

There is nothing for me to say.
I want to listen to the clouds roar,
Let it be grey.

The wind whistles my stress away.
And I have nothing to cry for,
I like it this way.

My mind wanders away.
My eyes marvel at the downpour,
Let it be grey.
I like it this way.









Tanay Sengupta, Copyright © 2018. All Rights Reserved.
I leave this poem to your perception. Feel free to interpret it the way you want to. Happy reading!
As the whistle blows,
We stand too.
An order is bellowed,
Fix bayonets!
The time has come,
For our last breath.
As the whistle blows,
We go forth,
Into the mist.
As the whistle blows,
We die well.
A poem about WW1 and the trenches
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