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Paul Gilhooley May 2016
Clickety click, Clickety clack,
The train it rolls along the track.
The kids all get restless the parents all natter,
But at least they aren’t crying, so that doesn’t matter.

Clickety clack, Clickety click,
A child hollers out “mum I feel sick!”
“What did I tell you about eating those sweets?”
“Don’t make a mess all over these seats!”

Clickety click, Clickety clack,
The guard sitting bored, in his cab at the back.
We thunder through towns and all of its people,
Passing by churches, and that old pointed steeple.

Clickety clack, Clickety click,
A drinks cart on the train? Ah just the trick,
A nice cup of coffee and a cold can of beer,
“How much?  You’re kidding!”  I won’t get much change here!

Clickety click, Clickety clunk,
Oops, sounds like that rail's missing a chunk.
We cross over bridges, spanning their rivers,
I must close that window, it’s giving me shivers.

Clickety click, Clickety clack,
I’m getting hungry; I could use a good snack.
Back comes the hostess with her goods laden trolley,
No chance I’m parting with even more lolly.

Clickety clack, Clickety click,
So many destinations, which one should I pick?
Should I stay local, or should I go far?
It’s certainly more peaceful than driving a car.

Clickety click, Clickety clack,
It feels like we’re speeding along a fair whack.
The seconds to minutes, the minutes to hours,
From towns and their houses, to fields and their flowers.

Clickety clack, Clickety click,
Wherever I’m going, I’m getting there quick.
Bright eyed young faces, an adventure, exciting,
The doddery old folk, complain when alighting

Clickety click, Clickety clack,
We pass many crossings and a ***** old shack.
How many golf courses and quaint country pubs?
And weekend gardeners out pruning their shrubs.

Clickety clack, Clickety click,
These seats so uncomfy, now my neck's got a crick!
Now finally I've reached my long journey’s end,
And I'm glad that I've shared it with you my dear friend.

© Cinco Espiritus Creation
2012
R Dickson May 2016
Clickety clack clickety clack,
Suitcase wheels over the cracks,
Business men and business ladies,
Men and women some with babies,

The noise they make with heavy pacing,
Sends my heart heavily racing,
Pneumatic tyres would be better,
I'll need to send the makers a letter,

Small cases with high pitch sound,
Ladies with fast walking grace,
Heavy gait of business men,
Large cases with a steady bass,

Trip trap across the road,
Off the pavement to the gutter,
Checking left and right for traffic,
Straight across without a stutter,

Clickety clickety clickety clack,
Two abreast and walking past,
Clickety clickety clickety clack,
Like a train approaching fast.
Clickety-clack
Clickety-clack
Here on the railroad track

Shadows dance around me
Unknown if they are real
Cool fingers touch me
Up my spine sending chills

But I hear nothing except the
Clickety-clack, Clickety-clack
As I walk down
The railroad track

Under a ladder
I have walked
A black cat in front of me did dart
the mirror I was holding
Fell and shattered
Now perches an owl in my path
Beak opening to speak
All I hear is *Clickety-clack


Clickety-clack
Clickety-clack

As I stand now
Upon the railroad track

Bright light in my view
I know what it's of
Horn blares into the night
It's sound envelopes me like a glove

But I am deaf to it
For all I hear is
Clickety-clack
Clickety-clack

As I lay down
On the railroad track

Silence is best
Laying here to rest
The last sound I hear
Clickety-clack, Clickety-clack
                    *my heart, give it back...
Jayne E Apr 2020
I'm not a game to be played
when feeling bold
then quickly dropped into cold
once your nerve wavers thin
affection shifting to chagrin
looks like I am tricked again
as inauthentic you crept in.

clickety clack clickety clack
does this train on the track
I did not leap under its wheels
I pushed them down the sickly feels.

you are not some toying thing
to be cajoled to dance and sing
as my will does ebb and flow
this is it, there you go, there you go
you hot you cold you shy you bold.

clickety clack clickety clack
does this train on the track
I did not leap under its wheels
I pushed them down the sickly feels.

we are not we and never where
distant boy and gold hair girl
so I do you and you do me
across the sea to shining sea
if we could I think we would
it's written now so should be good
the feels were felt deep under hood.

clickety clack clickety clack
does this train on the track
I did not leap under its wheels
I pushed them down the sickly feels.

there still will be the filling up
your nectar unto my loving cup
I pulled you in you pushed away
the push and pull is how we play
a pretty glisten on the morn
did offer stickily sweet to adorn
fingers tips and lips did drip.

clickety clack clickety clack
does this train on the track
I did not leap under its wheels
I pushed them down the sickly feels

we switch it up we switch it down
in penners pens a friendship found
and so unbidden feels abound
I'm laid bare across your knee
my breath held pulse running round
I know you know I want it now 'la fessee'
this newly new thing sees me free

clickety clack clickety clack
does this train on the track
I did not leap under its wheels
I pushed them down the sickly feels

© J.C.
This is a slightly tweaked rewrite of an older poem...brought back to mind after listening to train sounds during lockdown...go figure lolz.. (originally written on a train ride)
Jayne E Apr 2019
I'm not a game to be played
when feeling bold
then quickly dropped into cold
once your nerve wavers thin
affection shifting to chagrin
looks like I am tricked again
as inauthentic you crept in.

clickety clack clickety clack
does this train on the track
I did not leap under its wheels
I pushed them down the sickly feels.

you are not some toying thing
to be cajoled to dance and sing
as my will does ebb and flow
this is it, there you go, there you go
you hot you cold you shy you bold.

clickety clack clickety clack
does this train on the track
I did not leap under its wheels
I pushed them down the sickly feels.

we are not we and never where
distant boy and gold hair girl
so I do you and you do me
across the sea to shining sea
if we could I think we would
it's written now so should be good
the feels were felt deep under hood.

clickety clack clickety clack
does this train on the track
I did not leap under its wheels
I pushed them down the sickly feels.

there still will be the filling up
your nectar unto my loving cup
I pulled you in you pushed away
the push and pull is how we play
a pretty glisten on the morn
did offer stickily sweet to adorn
fingers tips and lips did drip.

clickety clack clickety clack
does this train on the track
I did not leap under its wheels
I pushed them down the sickly feels

we switch it up we switch it down
in penners pens a friendship found
and so unbidden feels abound
I'm laid bare across your knee
my breath held pulse running round
I know you know I want it now 'la fessee'
this newly new thing sees me free

clickety clack clickety clack
does this train on the track
I did not leap under its wheels
I pushed them down the sickly feels

J.C. 08/03/2019
Joanna Garrido Jan 2019
She left with a case, not even a note
Heels clicking she never turned back
Clickety click, clickety clack

Where’s mum - little faces pressed
against the glass, eyes searching
Come away, says he, have your tea

She left for another, in her best coat
Heels clicking, she moved on with glee
Clickety clack, entertained on her back

Where’s mum- little cheeks stained
with tears, still eyes searching
Get to bed, says he, you’ve still got me

She left for the new, her old life remote
Heels clacking, she felt they did click
Clickety clack, her heels left no track

Where’s mum - little hearts plead
Eyes searching and searching
Clickety clack, she’s not coming back.

29/01/19 JG
r Aug 2014
Out my window
the same world
different day, day after day

I want to grab my bolt bag
tie a red bandana
around my sweet mutt's neck
hop a train, act sane
for a change

Georgia's down the tracks a spell
and Birmingham's half-way to hell
New Orleans in September
sounds pretty good

Woof and me
living free
no cares to carry on our backs
singing clickety-clack, clickety-clack.

r ~ 8/13/14
\¥/\
  |.     Clickery-clack
/ \
Clickety, clack, clickety,clack
Went the bright red shoes
Down the pavement to the right  and into a shop of blue
clickety, clack,clickety, clack
Said the bright red shoes, went to the mall and had it all, then traded the bright red shoes.
Stephan Cotton May 2017
Another shift, another day, Another buck to spend or save
A million riders, maybe more, delivered to their office door
Or maybe warehouse maybe store.
Or church or shul or city school, right on time as a rule.

Clickety, clackety, clickety, clee,
I am New York, the City’s me
Come let me ride you on my knee
From Coney Isle to Pelham Bay
From Bronx to Queens eight times a day.

Ride my trains, New Yorkers do
And you’ll learn a thing or two
About the City up above, the one some hate, the one some love.
On the street they work like elves
Down below they’re just themselves.

Through summer’s heat they still submerge,
Tempers held (though always on the verge),
They push, they shove – just like above –
The crowds will jostle, then finally merge.

Downtown to work and then back to sleep
They travel just like farm-herded sheep.
In through this gate and out the other,
Give up a seat to a child and mother,
Just don’t sit too close to that unruly creep!

With these crowds huddled near
Just ride my trains with open ear,
There’s lots of tales for you to hear.


Dis stop is 86th Street, change for da numbah 4 and 5 trains.  Dis is a Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.   77th Street is next.  Watch out da closin dowahs.


     I’m Doctor Z, Doctor Z are me
     I’ll fix your face or the visit’s free.
     Plastic surgery, nips and tucks
     You’ll be looking like a million bucks.

     Looka those pitchas, ain’t they hot?
     You’ll look good, too, like as not!
     Just call my numbah, free of toll
     Why should you look like an ugly troll?

     You’ll be lookin good like a rapster
     Folks start stealing your tunes on Napster
     Guys’ll love ya, dig your face
     Why keep lookin like sucha disgrace?

     Call me up, you’re glad you did
     Ugly skin you’ll soon be rid.
     Amex, Visa, Mastercard,
     Payment plans that ain’t so hard.

     So don’t forget, pick up that phone
     Soon’s you get yourself back home.
     I’ll have you looking good, one, two three
     Or else my name ain’t Doctor Z.


Dis stop is 77th Street, 68th Street Huntah College is next. Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Watch out da closin dowahs.


     It was a limo, now it’s the train;
     Tomorrow’s sunshine, but now it’s rain.
     The market’s mine, for taking and giving
     It’s the way I earn my living.

     Today’s losses, last week’s gain.
     A day of pleasure, months of pain.
     We sold the puts and bought the calls;
     We loaded up on each and all.

     I’ve seen it all, from Fear to Greed,
     Good motivators, they are, both.
     The fundamentals I try to heed
     Run your gains and avoid big loss.

     Rates are down, I bought the banks
     For easy credit, they should give thanks.
     Goldman, Citi, even Chase
     Why are they still in their malaise?

     “The techs are drek,” I heard him say
     But bought more of them, anyway.
     I rode the bull, I’ll tame the bear
     I’ll scream and curse and pull my hair.

     So why continue though I’m such a ****?
     I’ll cut my loss if I find honest work.



Dis is 68th Street Huntah College, 59th Street is next. Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Watch out da closin dowahs.


     He rides the train from near to far,
     In and out of every car.
     “Batchries, batchries, tres por un dolar!”
     Some folks buy them, most do not,
     Are they stolen, are they hot?
     “Batchries, batchries, tres por un dolar!”

     Who would by them, even a buck?
     What’re the odds they’re dead as a duck?
     “Batchries, batchries, tres por un dolar!”
     Why not the Lotto, try your luck,
     Or are you gonna be this guy’s schmuck?
     “Batchries, batchries, tres por un dolar!”


Dis is 59th Street, change for de 4 and 5 Express and for de N and de R, use yer Metrocard at sixty toid street for da F train.  51st Street is next. Dis is a Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Watch out da closin dowahs.


     “Dat guy kips ****** wit me, Wass he
     tink, I got time for dat ****?  Man, I
     got my wuk to do, I ain gona put
     up with him
     no more.”

          “I don’t know what to tell this dude. Like,
          I really dig him but
          ***?  No way.  And
          He’s getting all too smoochie face.”

     “Right on, bro, slap dat fool up
     side his head, he leave you lone.”

          “Whoa, send him my way.  When’s the last
          time I got laid?  I’m way ready.”

          “Oh, Suzie,..”


Dis is fifty foist Street, 42nd Street Grand Central is next. Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Watch out da closin doors.



     Abogados es su amigos, do you believe the sign?
     Are they really a friend of mine?
     Find your lawyer on the train
     He’ll sue if the docs ***** up your brain.

     Pick a lawyer from this ad
     (I’m sure that you’ll be really glad)
     You’ll get a lawyer for your suit,
     Mean and nasty, not so cute.

     Call to live in this great nation
     1-800-IMMIGRATION.
     Or if your bills got you in a rut
     1-800-BANK-RUPT.

     We’re just three guys from Flatbush, Queens
     Who’ll sue that ******* out of his jeans.
     Mama’s proud when she rides this train
     To see my sign making so much rain.

     No SEC no corporations
     We can’t find the United Nations.
     Just give us torts and auto wrecks
     And clients with braces on their necks.

     Hurting when you do your chores?
     There’s money in that back of yours.
     Let us be your friend in courts
     Call 1-800-SUE 4 TORTS.


Dis is 42nd Street, Grand Central, change for the 4, 5 and 7 trains. Dis is a Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Toity toid is next.  Watch out da closin doors.


They say there’s sev’ral million a day
From out in the ‘burbs, they pass this way.
Most come to work, some for to play
They all want to talk, with little to say.

Bumping and shoving, knocking folks down
A million people running around.
The hustle, the bustle the noise that’s so loud
Get me far from this madding crowd.

“We can be shopping instead of just stopping
And onto the next outbound train we go hopping.
Hey, it’s a feel that that guy’s a-copping!”

They want gourmet food, from steaks down to greens
Or neckties and suits, or casual jeans,
It’s not simply newspapers and magazines
For old people, young people, even for teens.


Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Dis is Thoidy toid Street, twenty eight is next.  Watch out da closin doors.


     “So what’s the backup plan if
     He doesn’t get into Trevor Day?
     I know your
     heart’s set on it, but we’ve only
     got so many strings we
     can pull, and we can’t donate a
     ******* building.”

           “Hooda believed me if I tolja the Mets
          would sail tru and the Yanks get dere
          by da skinna dere nuts?
          I doan believe it myself.  Allya
          Gotta do is keep O’Neil playin hoit
          And keep Jeter off his game an
          We’ll killum.

               “My sistah tell me she be yo *****.  I tellya I cut you up if you
                ****** wid her, I be yo ***** and donchu fuggedit.”

     “I wish you wouldn’t talk like that.
     And we can just **** good and
     Well find some more strings to pull!”

          “Big fuggin chance.  Wadder ya’ smokin?”

               “Yo sitah she ain my *****, you be my *****.  I doan be ******
                wid yo sistah.  You tell her she doan be goin round tellin folks
                dat ****.”


Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Dis is Twenty eight Street, twenty toid is next.  Watch out da closin dowahs.


     Do you speak Russian, French or Greek,
     We’ll assimilate you in a week.
     If Chinese is your native tongue
     You’ll speak good English from day one.

     Morning, noon, evening classes
     Part or full time, lads and lasses.
     You’ll be sounding like the masses
     With word and phrase that won’t abash us.

     Language is our stock in trade
     For us it’s how our living’s made.
     We’ll put you in a class tonight
     Soon your English’ll be out of sight.

     If you’re from Japan or Spain
     Basque or Polish, even Dane,
     Our courses put you in the main
     Stream without any need for pain.

     We’ll teach you all the latest idioms
     You’ll be speaking with perfidium.
     We’ll give you lots of proper grammar
     Traded for that sickle and hammer.

     Are you Italian, Deutsch or Swiss?
     With our classes you can’t miss
     The homogeneous amalgamation
     Of this sanitized Starbucks nation.


Dis is Twenty toid Street, 14th Street Union Square is next. Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Watch out da closin doors.


     “Ladies and Gentlemen, I hate to bother you
     But things are bleak of late.
     I had a job and housing, too
     Before my little quirk of fate.”

     “There came a day, not long ago,
     When to my job I came.
     They handed me a pink slip, though,
     And ev’n misspelled my name.”

     “We’ve got three kids, my wife and me.
     We’re bringing them up right.
     They’re still in school from eight to three
     With homework every night.”

     “I won’t let them see me begging here,
     They think I go to work.
     Still to that job I held so dear
     Until fate’s awful quirk.”

     “So help us now, a little, please
     A quarter, dime (or dollar still better),
     It’ll go so far to help to ease
     The chill of this cold winter weather.”

     “I’ll walk the car now, hat in hand
     I do so hope you understand
     I’m really a proud, hard working man
     Whose life just slipped out of its plan.”

     “I thank you, you’ve all been oh so grand.”


Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Dis is 14th Street, Union Square, change for da 4 and 5 Express, the N and the R.   Astor Place is next.  Watch out da closin doors.


     The hours are long, the pay’s no good
     I’m far from home and neighborhood.
     All day I work at Astor Place
     With sunshine never on my face.
     Candy bar a dollar, a soda more
     A magazine’s a decent score.
     Selling papers was the game
     But at two bits the Post’s to blame
     For adding hours to my long day.
     All the more work to save
     Tuition for that son of mine: that tall,
     Strong, handsome, American son


Dis is a Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Yer at Astah Place, Bleekah Street is next.  Watch out da closin doors.


     Summer subway’s always hot, AC’s busted, like as not
     Tracks are bumpy, springs are shot ‘tween the cars they’re smoking
     ***.

     To catch the car you gotta run they squeeze you in with everyone
     Just hope no body’s got a gun 'cause getting there is half the fun.

     Packed in this car we’re awful tight seems this way both day and
     night.
     And then some guys will start a fight.  Subway ride’s a real delight.

     Danger! Keep out! Rodenticide! I read while waiting for a ride.
     This is a warning I have to chide:  
     I’m very likely to walk downtown, but I’d never do it Underground.

     Took the Downtown by mistake.  Please, conductor, hit the brake!
     Got an uptown date to make, God only knows how long I’ll take.


Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Dis is Bleekah Street, Spring Street is next.  Watch out da closin doors.


     The trains come through the station here,
     The racket’s music to my ear.
  &nbs
Images, overheard (and imagined) conversations.  @2003
Riding backwards on a train
Leaning my head into the window
Seeing my own reflection – Clackity
Clack – Clickity Clackity Clickety Clack,
Don’t talk back, Clackity Clack.

What I see in the passing frames
Bridges, houses, brown fields
And rough terrains.
Clackity Clack, Clickity Clack
Don’t talk back, Clackity Clickety Clack.

There goes an old barn beside an Azores tree
There goes an Azores tree beside an old barn
My God there goes another one – that’s three
Clackity Clack, Clackity Clack, Clickity, Clickity
Don’t talk back, Clickity Clack.

Telephone poles all passing as one
Streets and warehouses, street signs
And red lights – green and now a nun
Clackity Clack, Clackity Clack
Don’t talk back, Clackity Clickity Clack.

Into the tunnel we clamber and scramble
Concrete walls all painted with daises
So close to the glass we go into this gamble.
Clackity Clack, Clickity Clack, Clackety Clickety
Are we coming back, Clackity Clack.

Deep under the bay we travel
As loud and deep as the devil.
All held back by nothing but gravel.
Clackity Clack, Clickity Clack
Please don’t crack, Clackity Clack

When all at once into the terminal we fly
We made it – me – myself and I
Slowing to almost a crawl - good-bye!
Clackity, Clackity, Clackity Clack
Next time I’ll check my Zodiac.
Me trying to describe riding on the San Franciso Bay Area Rapid Transit system. Better known as BART.
If you care to listen to my musical interpretation of this train ride you can listen to it on YouTube available at the following URL; You will need to copy and paste the URL into your browser and once it loads click on the arrow in the bottom left of The YouTube player to start up the music.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Js4JzBmPY0c
r May 2014
No trains in this town
Not the passenger kind, anyhow
Unless you are a hobo
Riding the rail
Singing clickety-clack, clickety-clack
Dreaming of a girl
A pint of Beam
A lost dog named Woof
wearing a red bandana
Warm nights
Sunshine
Sweet Georgia.

r ~ 5/25/14
Stu Harley Oct 2015
listen
to
the
orchestrated
and
syncopated
clickety clack
clankety, clonk
clickety clack
honks air
through
their
snouts
the sound
that horses
make
when they
trot plop gallop
with their
horseshoed feet
upon
the
resonant
red cobblestone streets
brings
sweet music
to
the
blacksmith's ears
betterdays Mar 2014
Ethel echidna
had a date wid Pike,
a fiiine!
young hedgehog
who be doin' the backpack

she got n' egg
ya see bout a rave
up in the mountains
in a black cathederic cave
doof doof in the dandenongs

d' message said
up dee track
where the ding dongs
don't dare follow
round d' hollow n'
up the back

Ethel she preened
and she polished
the dreds down her back,
clickety, click, clack.
painted her claws
a fetching shade
of orange neon
all watched on by
Pike the backpack peon

then to the doof
dey departed
at a fast shuffel
leaving behin
barely a ruffle
in the burrowed air
they followed
d'directions to
d' right section
dis dey knew
by d' sound of
d' massive party
goin down

on payin d' dosh n'
getten d' mark
off dey went
inta the fray
***** boy mumbled
"woyhoy gotcha!"
when he saw who
was providin
the goodmuse vibing
up ona stage
Jagger the emu
was a struttin'
with Ringo the dingo
on drums an bongos
while Hendrix
the numbat riffed d' strat
an  Entwhistle
d'frogmouthed owl
grooved on his gibson
wid ***** left stage staring

Ethel got bizzy
check'n out the dancefloor
lookin for bling or moves wid a sting
perhaps a little ******* headbangin

well down
at the southdoor
trouble was brewin'
foul words
was spewin between
d magpie n seagull crews
till the bouncers,
kanga & roo
hustled dem
all outside for a brew

up near the stacks
Pheobe the lizard
was flashin
a matchin
frill n grill ensemble
while Stan, her man
was fillin his bill
at the buffet table
as only a pelican can
at the grub bar
sat the kookaburra trio
Max,Tom, Deccy
havin a speccy
at tha lady
cockatoos n' galahs,
givina chuckle
at the bruhaha
they had created
comin flyin from
near n' far to this
surberb n spectacular
festival of fauna
"tho hot as a sauna
best dis year sofah"

jus inside
d' recovery corner sat
Horn a blue tongue lizard
feelin a bit pukey n' flat
den dere was
Kayla n' Jac
a pair o koalas
who now be zonin
from d eucalyptus
dey been a chewen
alldayz

outaback time it's awastin
with dis watchin n waitin

Ethel hit the floor
wherever
she booggied,
grooved or h-banged
she got a big crowd,
given her ground
to shake
her dreds around
cause dat girl
is dangerous
wid her dredlocks man,
to which Zach
the one eyed wombat
can well attest

Now not bein a dancer
***** got lonely
so looked upa chat
with the rest
of d' backpackin crowd
he swapped recipes
for green brownies wit
Boomer the orangatang,
harvest spots wit
Goth the friutbat,
Hamish de otter,
quiet de globetrotter,
did giv ***** some tips
about surfin rips
furder down de coast.

so dey shimmyed
an dey shammyed,
dey talked
an dey squawked
till d' old sun
came out to play
den dey wandered
and dey wended
back down
d' track to d' town
to sleep d' day away.

as to our Ethel
and *****,
well
dey crawled
gingerly
inta their bed,
they cuddled
an dey clicked,
dey kissed
an dey snicked
and dey
blew dey
selfs away
Mr Bigglesworth Mar 2013
Clickety clack, clickety clack go the perfect white plastic teeth as they clip together
Reality bites like a pair of comedy dentures sprung from the pocket of a sad faced clown
Look again; are they plastic? Or are they waterloo teeth plucked from the warm corpse of a cold friend
Either way they are far too close to my face for this to be funny.
For redemption he squeezes his droopy flower between finger and thumb
But to no avail.....The comedy squirt is missing; it is as dry as the tears on his powder white cheek
Squeak, squeak, squeak goes the wheel on his unicycle as he painfully pedals away
But it is not he that failed you....No it is those that stole the part of you that used to be easily pleased
Like thieves in the night, feasting on your happiness and enjoying the thought of wonderful you falling from your erroneously perceived perch
Well let them take their pound of flesh, if they can rejoice in my pain it will only erode them from the inside out
I renounce such bitterness because before long I will find me again, I will be stronger and better
I will take flight and alight a pedestal far higher than the one they imagined I thought I was on


“Just words!” screams that child in my soul...Actions are stifled like the image of a five year old you with a cloth clasped to the face; breathing on the anaesthetic evil of life.
You want to help but you can only see him through the one way glass of time, what is done is done and can only be undone through reliving this terror and fixing the damage
His struggle is short lived and the monsters descend, dragging him by a foot naked and bruised, head banging the contours of this corridor of depravity
He cannot hear your screams but his fill your ears like the blood of a million paper cuts, not one measured but together a pain like no other
Where was his saviour? Or was he always considered as a low risk category a misconception of strength and need
Was his ***, the white of his skin, the bread on his table, the money in his mothers pocket and the education he received render him ineligible for salvation
In short...“Yes”...he was expected to save himself and learn to save others...Those less fortunate.
Little do they know in some ways, once you’ve scratched the surface, they were far luckier
Their vices were less harmful than his own devices, as a little knowledge is dangerous
With great power comes great responsibility but some can be responsible for others without learning to take care of themselves.
Vivian Apr 2014
the metro came
clickety-clack, clickety-clack,
velocity spit out by metal wheels
and metal gears.
and I thought about
How It Would Feel
jumping in front of that
mechanized Titan.
(loving you is not easy)
brutalizing pain and then
nothing but ******* blessed silence.

then I realized
I already knew this sensation.
(loving you is not easy)
arham Apr 2014
The clickety-click-clack-clack of keys clicking
and the creek-creek-creek of the rusty chairs,
you grinding cavities into your teeth.
Is this your definition of time passing?
Time here is slow.
Almost unmoving.
You see a window,
consider the possible way through it.
Boredom does have a tidy death streak.
Rockie Jul 2015
You remind me to sing and dance,
To live life and rhyme,
This train is
Clickety clack, clickety clacking
Onto the track
With a little guide from the hand that is yours,
I'm thankful for you guys,
The friends that can act more like sisters
And play the music we listened to
In each others rooms,
Because our friendship has grown to the point,
That our every nothing days
Become the days that is *something.
D Conors Oct 2010
Hot Coffee at the Tracks.
clickety-clack,
steam from the cups and pots,
steam from the stacks,
this whistle-stop with a cup of "Joe,"
on the way home with yet many miles to go...

____

See the painting that inspired the poem:

"Homeward Bound" by David Tutwiler
http://www.myhdwallpapers.net/wallpapers/Train-station-painting-original.jpg
D. Conors
02 October 2010
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2014
I am circumcised, therefore, I enunciate...

circumcised: to purify spiritually

On the eighth day,
from my nativity,
circumcised,
as is the custom of my
wandering tribe.

marked thusly,
perma-identity carded,
thusly begins the path,
a pink-bricked road this one,
not to the Mighty Oz,
no phony curtain pulled aside,
where anyone goes to get
spiritual purification
for a price

Ah, you suspected something else,
something explicit,
not me~style,
give you honey,
road provisions,
come along for the observing his
clickety clackty clock

Ready?

For where we venture there is only
one exit,
And you are so not ready - I am who I am and I am
not ready too...

every line an enunciation,
every stanza an annunciation,
Angel Gabriel, a solo duo, unlike
Beyoncé and Jesus
we be on our way to any kind of purity,
poetry can buy

who knows what awaits us,
could be catholic, universal,
even the uncircumcised
get a chance to enunciate.

let me offer a clarification.

proclamations and sensations,
conditions and exploitations,
brown eyed girls, and surfer boys,
functions and malfunctions too,
abbreviations or adjudications,
conjugations in the congregation,
exhumation, the final excommunication,
I shun none,

I enunciate this:
false starts and junction boxes,
too many so so tired,
when can I lay down my shovel
and cease the decreasing deceasing of the body

this day nears complete,
and soon to eat
the last meal,
and still I ask

when can I lay down my shovel,
when will purity be mine,
my spirit's circumstances
repeat the commercial,
I am circumcised, therefore, I enunciate...

forgive my abstrusion,
my metaphors always offer perfect laxity,
choose the interpretation that pleases most
and my drift is toward the end of days,
when will my brow be a motif of
anointment and crowning head birth?

This is my Enunciation.

I cannot yet lay down the shovel,
and this writ is as of yet, still uncircumcised -
completely incomplete, it will be finished
when the spirit says
you are the purity,
the trinity of two hands holding two others holding two others holding two others and the chain is perfect because
it is broken perfectly, a forever repetitive respective handle with care
process

Forgive my visionary words that
give little clarity,
so summary due you,
This is my
Pronoun citation
I am
I am circumcised, therefore, I enunciate
on my way to the purity of spirit.
It just happened  on the way to sitting down to supper.
i love to write poetry with food
the clickety-clack of the knife on the dining board is my metre
the veggies going choppity-chop are the words
the masalas are the embellishments
that lift them to another level altogether
the pressure cooker whistles,
something in the frying pan sizzles
the flavours rise and fill my home
with the smell of cooking
the gravy thickens
the pulse quickens
in anticipation of the tasting
the aromas tease as i’m tempering
a little coriander for the topping
and I’m done!
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
   09.09.2012

Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
"There is no sincerer love than the love of food." - George Bernard Shaw.
Just realized that a foodie like me hasn't written any poems about food! Had to set that right!
Lynn Greyling Nov 2014
You watch me all the time
With eyes that see much more
Than the mirror often ever shows.

Softly pleading, watching quietly,
Following the purpose of my actions,
Reading me therein.

You are my mirror,
And my crazy logic
Reflects the recognition in your mind.

You understand what I cannot explain,
You are the beacon in my storm-sea.

When you touch me
You lift me high and slip me away
Into warm oblivion for one long moment…

The clickety-clack of wheels on the rail
Bring to me the reality of leaving behind
A dearness which is irreplaceable,
And unforgettable.
Tulip Chowdhury Apr 2014
This hotel has six levels,
Massive car parks
Sprawling floors for guests

That hospital has four levels,
The airport has three,
And the bus station too
Has its own levels
Level 1 and Level 2.

Boston railway station;
So many levels again,
Trains on Blue Line,
Trains on Red Line
Then clickety click,
Clickety click
to a big mall.
More levels to pick
To shop till one drops
From Level 1 to Level 4.

Wait,
I have a level too,
A level between rich and poor
Between richest and poorest
A middle class perhaps?
Or a lower or upper middle?

Ah, no, I fit into none
I wish I could find a new level
Just another level
That would make people mark
A level behind my status
A me, just a ME.
He sat in a small compartment by
The window, on a train,
The passengers huddled around him
Saying, ‘Tell that one again!’
He spoke in a low and measured voice
As they held their breath, to stare,
Watching his hands, as they described
Vague circles in the air.

There wasn’t a sound outside, except
The carriage, clickety-clack,
A sound that would tend to hypnotise
As the train sped down the track,
In every one of his listeners
Was a picture, in each mind,
That spoke to them of that better life
Which had been too hard to find.

And seagulls circled the skies above
As he primed their minds with ‘If…’
And led them all in a straggly line
To stand at the top of a cliff.
The sea was blue and the clouds were grey
And the rocks below sublime,
As they teetered there for a moment where
They stood, at the edge of time.

For then he’d show them a garden, with
The form of an only child,
Who seemed to be so familiar
That most of them there had smiled,
The scent of a pink wisteria
Had wafted the carriage air,
And then their tears rolled back the years
As they whispered, ‘I was there!’

He showed them a woman in mourning
With a cape, and a darkened veil,
Who knelt alone by a headstone,
Each listeners face was pale.
The bell of the church began to toll
As it sounded someone’s knell,
His face was the face of the gravedigger
As he held them in his spell.

The carriage was filled with waves of fear,
The carriage was filled with joy,
He’d tell of the death of a mountaineer,
Of a child with a much-loved toy,
Their tears they’d dry as the train came in
To the tale of a Scottish Kirk,
And one by one they would rise to leave
And head off the train, to work.

But the Storyteller would stay on board
And close the compartment door,
His restless hands were trembling still
As his eyes stared down at the floor.
The train heads into the future while
The past is deep in his well,
He sits and weeps in the corner for
The tales that he doesn’t tell.

David Lewis Paget
LET us go out of the fog, John, out of the filmy persistent drizzle on the streets of Stockholm, let us put down the collars of our raincoats, take off our hats and sit in the newspapers office.
  
Let us sit among the telegrams-clickety-click-the kaiser's crown goes into the gutter and the Hohenzollern throne of a thousand years falls to pieces a one-hoss shay.
  
It is a fog night out and the umbrellas are up and the collars of the raincoats-and all the steamboats up and down the Baltic sea have their lights out and the wheelsmen sober.
  
Here the telegrams come-one king goes and another-butter is costly: there is no butter to buy for our bread in Stockholm-and a little patty of butter costs more than all the crowns of Germany.
  
Let us go out in the fog, John, let us roll up our raincoat collars and go on the streets where men are sneering at the kings.
Kay du Monte Aug 2013
I was the jubilee runner
You were the southbank stroller
Carried away in your hair

I turn to see you turn,
To turn my steps into
Paused awkwardness

On the platform to my
Heart you stood, standing
Me still dead in my tracks



You were April’s showers
Raining down on my grey
Metro , the girl outside

Waterloo station,
The one sharing my
Thoughts unspoken

Watershed second
I was London’s haze
Set adrift in your eyes

Parted, but closed around
Your  boho-chic attired
Kohl hairedness

I see you
Southbank bound
In my eyes forever

Open note to the
Sky you set me adrift
In, in that shy second

You were I, were we,
Were us, less them
All we, paused in the throng

Framed in my clickety
Clacking jubilee my
Train-track love

Story, I was the jubilee
Runner to your
Southbank stroller
Thia Jones Feb 2015
Commuter trains go clickety clack
up and down the trickety track
except when it snows
or leaves the wind blows
then you can’t get there or back
This is today's effort for the WordPress Writing 201 challenge - incorporating the prompt Journey, the form Limerick and the device Alliteration.
JAC Jul 2018
With a great silent sound
as station after station passes
a woman in a rose-covered satin shawl
gingerly rests her head against the glass

the papers that will bring her home here
in a backpack hugged desperately to her
the beaded bracelet from her daughter
slipping down her waning wrist

with fearless eyes and steely jaw
she slows her pulse to just over normal
the black columns holding tonnes of city
whipping past her rattling window

clickety-clack
clickety-clack
clickety-clack

the tired train track
beats like a weary old heart.
I love bringing the sound of the train into stories.
Gareth Nov 2016
The Devil summons his demons
While earthly mortals sell their souls
It's a game of master and slave

In the cold grey offices
It's where they meet
To devour your soul
Clickety clack , clickety clack
Rows and rows of puppets
Sitting in front their screens
In hopes of recieving more money
to put themselves further in debt

They gather round the coffee machine
Plastic smiles that go for miles , awaiting to clock themselves out.

This where Everything is measured
Productivity
With walls
full of
charts.
And
Business
is
regarded as art.

Lifeless being
A cog in the machine
Spewing out profits
For the elite
But don't dare be late
Or you out on the street
Because the devil and demons
Don't give a **** about you
It all about that profit
annh Aug 2020
old telegraph road
clickety-clack
births, deaths and marriages
tappity-tap
did you hear the news?
yackety-yak

it is my duty to inform you...
flippity-flop
the pleasure of your company is requested...
clappity-clap
at 2:03pm (AEST) Monday, weighing 6lbs 7oz...
drippity-drop

old telegraph road
yackety-yak
eighty miles of cable
tappity-tap
biographies dotted and dashed
clickety-clack
- .... . -. / -.-. .- -- . / - .... . / -.-. .... ..- .-. -.-. .... . ... --..-- / - .... . -. / -.-. .- -- . / - .... . / ... -.-. .... --- --- .-.. ... / - .... . -. / -.-. .- -- . / - .... . / .-.. .- .-- -.-- . .-. ... --..-- / - .... . -. / -.-. .- -- . / - .... . / .-. ..- .-.. . ... / - .... . -. / -.-. .- -- . / - .... . / - .-. .- .. -. ... / .- -. -.. / - .... . / - .-. ..- -.-. -.- ... / .-- .. - .... / - .... . .. .-. / .-.. --- .- -.. / .- -. -.. / - .... . / -.. .. .-. - -.-- / --- .-.. -.. / - .-. .- -.-. -.- / .-- .- ... / - .... . / - . .-.. . --. .-. .- .--. .... / .-. --- .- -.. .-.-.- / -- .- .-. -.- / -.- -. --- .--. ..-. .-.. . .-. .-.-.-
BOY heart of Johnny Jones-aching to-day?
Aching, and Buffalo Bill in town?
Buffalo Bill and ponies, cowboys, Indians?

Some of us know
All about it, Johnny Jones.

Buffalo Bill is a slanting look of the eyes,
  A slanting look under a hat on a horse.
He sits on a horse and a passing look is fixed
  On Johnny Jones, you and me, barelegged,
A slanting, passing, careless look under a hat on a horse.

Go clickety-clack, O pony hoofs along the street.
Come on and slant your eyes again, O Buffalo Bill.
Give us again the ache of our boy hearts.
Fill us again with the red love of prairies, dark nights, lonely wagons, and the crack-crack of rifles sputtering flashes into an ambush.
wordvango Oct 2015
started with a few beers I drank next door
at Micky's place , her telling me about her sick kid
and how her dialysis went today. She updated me
on the minutes from the last meeting of
the Clayhatchee Man Haters Club.

They actually have T-shirts and little pins,
and I asked if possibly I could be named
the Most Hated Man-of -the-Month.
No, she said, we all love you, she answered.
Well, **** what do I have to do to be honored, then
I said.

Felt small, for, I do love being honored.
Then, I hugged her, as she always insists I do
before leaving, and went  home straight to my fridge. Wrestled with the twelve pack
I just bought earlier, and six beers fell to the floor.

I put them in a bag and visited my best friend Shannon
and his adorable wife, Nancy, right across the street. I enjoy them, a card Shannon is, he works construction, as I do. And I guess I semi-intentionally did not tell him the beer I offered him had fallen, with a thud to the floor. I gave his wife one too but tapped the top before.
I got (us workers only understand practical jokes)
a big laugh as he opened his and it foamed up through all over.

So out of beer, I and my shadow, walked barefoot acroos the
street to Alice's Convenience store to add a backup stash to my three
beers left. On the way back across Hwy 92 asphalt I heard clickety clack as my shadow was right there, a Black lab, who was left for her alone by some ******* and she turned up on my doorstep hungry.

Amazing how little it takes to make true love. A little food, a pet on
a head, a dry place to lay a head occasionally, amazing how a shadows
long nails clickety-clack on the asphalt. My shadow loves me , is there as soon as I get home her tail wagging.
She ran in my apartment as I put two Olde English in the fridge to cool
in case I needed them later, jumped right onto the couch and rested her head on my pillow.

I opened up my browser, did a little checking on my sites and notices.
Then Big head, I call him that, he is about a year old with the head of a soccer ball came through the open door. Looked over the food dishes took a nibble or two, then jumped up next to my shadow and pushed his head against the black lab, purring.

Big head just started hanging here a week ago. Where he came from , I don't know. But he is welcome, the looks of my two stray female, not spayed yet cats, Panda and Babay, attest to that.

Eventually I will drink a couple more beers , write something, almost like this, and try to find a spot to lie down, if all my shadows let me.

my happiness, tonight
is never ended.
Ashwin Kumar Jun 2021
I deeply miss those days
When I used to travel
Of course, not just by any vehicle
But a vehicle with a thousand wheels
Clattering away on iron rails
Like there is no tomorrow
A vehicle I had fallen for
Hook, line and sinker
Since the age of two
A love that I refuse to let go of
And a love that refuses to let go of me!

I deeply miss those days
When we railfans got together
Not simply to eat and drink
Not simply for some chat-chit
But to follow our passion
And shoot videos of trains
Thundering away into the sunset
Like there is no tomorrow

I deeply miss those days
When we railfans got together
And did train trips using circuitous routes
Akin to moving from the head to the mouth
Via the entire body!

I deeply miss those days
When I used to do solo train trips
On a monthly basis
Sometimes, even twice a month
An ideal way to **** work stress!

I deeply miss those days
When I used to write blogs
About every trip of mine
And post them in IRFCA
The largest association of railfans
At least as far as India is concerned
Including many railway officials
With an encyclopedia of information
About the Indian Railways
Whether it be the locomotive classes
Whether it be the train operations
Whether it be the timetables
Or even the food!

I deeply miss those days
When I used to lie down
Not on a bed, but a berth
And get lulled into sleep
By the gentle swaying motion
The rhythmic clickety clack
And, occasionally
The melodious chugging
Or the mesmerising humming
Of the roaring diesel
Hauling our train
Accompanied by its horn
Which itself, was music to the ears!

I deeply miss those days
When I used to sit on my Side Lower Berth
And watch scenery fly past me
As we traversed the countryside
The villages and the small towns
The cattle, goats and sheep
The farms and paddy fields
The bushes, shrubs and trees
The ponds, lakes and rivers

I deeply miss those days
When I used to travel the Konkan route
Through a plethora of bridges and tunnels
Lakes, rivers and mountains
And a plethora of greenery
Accompanied by the fierce chugging
Of the ALCO engine hauling us
Or the rhythmic humming
Of the EMD engine hauling us
Of course, it was a diesel heaven!

I deeply miss those days
When I used to travel by "toy trains"
Whether it be the Neral-Matheran train
Or the Kalka-Shimla train
Or the Siliguri-Darjeeling train
It was so romantic
The way we crawled
Right through the heart of the mountains
With a plethora of tunnels
Bridges, viaducts and loops
After all the high speed drama earlier
It was a surreal change
Enjoying the scenery at our own pace
While getting overtaken by joggers
And sometimes, even animals!

I deeply miss those days
When I used to get down
As we stopped at a station
One of so many in our journey
And take a walk on the platform
To check out our loco
And sip from a piping hot cup of coffee!

I deeply miss those days
When we travelled in single-line sections
And our train came to a halt
At a nondescript wayside station
With a platform on only one side
And total darkness on the other side!
I waited for the signal on that line
To turn green, after a while
And heard, from a great distance
The horn of an approaching train
Followed by the lamps of its engine
As it proceeded to burn the tracks
And raise a great heap of dust
Thus shattering the calm of the night

I deeply miss even those days
When I used to go to office daily
Commuting by the famous Mumbai locals
As the train pulled into Vikhroli
I staggered into the First class compartment
Packed to the hilt
With pretentious male executives
Filling the air with testosterone
Such that it was quite a challenge
To even inhale the air properly
It was quite a relief
When Dadar arrived
But then came another challenge
The famous changeover
From Central to Western Railway
Across a sea of commuters
Followed by a brief ride
In another train, to Lower Parel
By the time I reached office
I was drenched in sweat
From head to toe
Not to mention, thoroughly fatigued
What to do?
After all, this is what life is
For the average Mumbaikar

I deeply miss those days
When train travel was the norm
Rather than the exception
However, as far as I am concerned
COVID19 may have taken me out of the train
But it certainly can't take the train out of me!
My longest poem, on deeply missing trail travel since the pandemic struck.
There is blood in my mouth,
liquid steel from sharp words that are cut from my teeth and flicked out of my mouth by my tongue.
My throat is literally drowning from words my brain produces
but cannot stop from throwing forth;
my mind producing thoughts like a steam train on a new track.
Clickety, Clack. Clickety, Clack.
And i thought different,
of you.
But my teeth are bruised from speaking to you,
my air pushing from my lungs, to give me breath to speak to you,
is death and rotten, it is done with you,
and, me.
There is blood in my mouth,
it dries around my lips and cracks open
everytime i breathe.
Sometimes i wish you had just hit me with your words,
that the cartilage under my nose had cracked
from the force your words threw at me,
that there was a full outward combustion
and it ran down my face,
dripped off my chin and left the building.
My brain keeps thowing these punches,
left, right, under, left, dive, hook, run,
and i am losing this battle, that began a fight,
that i never began
that i never wanted in the first place,
but there is now blood in my mouth
And i need to mop this **** up
and start again...
He had got on the train at New Street,
Found an empty carriage spare,
And settled down with the paper
With not one to disturb him there,
But the train pulled in at Sandwell
And the carriage door slid wide,
And in there walked a pair of heels
With a dimple and hips beside.

She sat on the seat across from him
And laid her bag on the seat,
Kicked her shoes on the floor, so he
Could see her pretty feet,
He tried to look at his paper but
The print got up and walked,
Up from her ankles to her calfs
And he found it hard to talk.

‘How do you do,’ was banal but
That’s all that came to mind,
She briefly looked from her knitting, and
He thought that her eyes were kind,
But never a word would pass those lips
She had the slightest pout,
And her needles clicked to the railway clack
As his mouth was drying out.

He’d bought some fruit in the Bullring
So he thought he’d have some there,
And at different times he offered her
An apple, peach or a pear,
But she shook her head so slightly and
Politely, in disdain,
As if the thought of a stranger’s fruit
From a man in a suit, might stain.

The train chuffed on through Wolverhampton
While he drank a Coke,
He knew that his time was limited
For she’d get off at Stoke,
He offered to put the window down
But she said it blew her hair,
Then he offered his name as Paul, but she
Was not inclined to share.

She crossed her legs and she hitched her skirt
Just slightly above her knees,
While his eyes looked up to the luggage rack,
Was this some sort of tease?
Her knitting needles were clicking away
Was she knitting some sort of sack?
It seemed like she was racing the train
Ahead of its clickety-clack.

The train went racing to Stafford,
In and out, but it passed so fast,
He said, ‘We’re almost at Stoke, that’s where
We’ll both get out, I guess?
There’s quite a nice little café
Down by the station in the square,
I’d like to buy you a coffee, if you want
I’ll shout you there.’

She stopped, and packed up her knitting
Tucked it carefully in her bag,
And said, ‘You must be Australian,
And coming here, so sad.
I’ve never been ‘shouted’ a drink before
But I think you’re rather nice,
I’ll let you know that you’re past first base
On your way to Paradise!’

David Lewis Paget
Anirudh More Mar 2014
I lean back on my swivel chair,
determined to not swivel around,
because you’re just behind me,
to the right,
but for now pride’s got the upper hand,
and temptation bids its time.

So with eyes shut
and ears wide open,
I resolve to lose myself,
In the clickety-clack
of your keyboard.

Instead,
I hear your chair slide back,
and you stand up,
as if my thoughts had offended you.

You walk away swiftly,
splashing your familiar fragrance
with the suddenness of your movements,
giving me something to hold on to,
in the hopelessness left in your wake.

I wish I had spent more time in gardens,
so that I could assign your scent a name.
Stu Harley Jun 2016
we
heard
the
wings of
the
monarch butterfly
beating together
as
she approached
the
ash pink rose
to
taste
the
nectar of the gods
click-clack
clickety-clack
Alex Diaz Jun 2010
The clickety clackety
of my mother's bureau always
started school mornings.
My rumpled clothes lay in a heap
by my feet.
Sweet lemon-water perfume stings
my nostrils, and piercing sunlight
winks through the shades.
Good morning, morning,
sing me a song
about dew-kissed lilies,
brewing coffee,
a jogger's
labored breathing,
and a sparrow's jittery chirp.

— The End —