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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.
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)
Kristen Moxley Jun 2010
Huffah! Rise up!
Today a new day
So glamorous
So grand and gay
That each passing of tree frogs shall
Slither
Spoil and spit
My naked toes never touch ground
Or do they?
My flitting flee turns heads around
Upside-down
I bemuse continually
Continue to follow through
Weightless in flight
In plight
Black-tailed hawks soar shrivingly with might
I gather and twirl and spill
Arms afloat and fingers outstretched
I greet the world
Hello!
Lovely lures linger in my spine
Ascend to my neck only to
Explode with confetti out of my ramby ringing ears
Explode with laughter!
Such yippity yap cannot view
Such vague heights
They don't catch me
I spill thrice with slender legs ahooved
We all come crashing down
I give a smile
Take a frown
Such grace and beauty
An epiphany to some
An engagement to all
Bliss meets ground in the fall
It rains colors
Tickling tiny eyelashes
Clickety-click I blink!
Oh woe! How my soreness traps all reds!
Shades of yellow
Shades of gold orange brown
Teet and totter
Only to divide and conquer
My fellow
Autumn leaves as Autumn comes
For I make no rule away
Grass grasps and clings
Leaves no trace but in my hair
How it curls and shines with flings!
I lick the sweetness of blue
Gumdrops begone I beg of you
Clamber to my lips
I kiss the sweetness in pips
Of more than two
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
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
Nat Lipstadt Dec 2014
Our Verse into Psalm

"who massages our words
into a masterpiece,
our verse into psalm..."

sourced from a dialogue one year ago: http://hellopoetry.com/poem/548741/the-contriving-is-all-that-remains/

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
humbling words,
just now discovered,
a reflection invitation,
commenced and ended,
an essay of simple facts

two topics theme,
revealing a man's evolution

a confession oft repeated,
he writes too much, (used to)
a readily apparent truth

but when the self-soul-peering
hits bottom,
forced to reflect
back and up, and around,
acknowledging self is a four letter word,
a poking from reviewing
a year ago gone prior scribbled response,
leads to a conclusion
to answer his puzzlement

easy acknowledges
he has prior peaked,
certified and certifiable,
his best words gone by,
bye and bye,
so how now antiquated,
this tiresome task
of endless interior internal examination,
once more
he asks of himself
the Psalmist's question (121:1)


"I lift my eyes up to the mountains:
From whence shall my help come?


from you,
y'all

my poems are now and will be
just stories told,
stories of you

of a lost wedding ring,
of a young woman's striving
to answer her most essential question,
reflections on being four years old,
on Eastern Seaboard geography
Thanksgiving Day air turbulence,
a young woman's sobriety celebrated,
her poetry, richer and health effused,
of lovers who cannot ever be,
of jobs lost and freedom gained,
physical pain that knows only
the optics of poetic relief to salve,
aching and unrequited awed and flawed love
that has no remedy defusing,
older schemers, puppy love rediscoverers,
of special young men
who see by their nature,
far better into
nature's window that answers the human soul,
children foreign born, here & passed,
whom I have never met, but,
who are poems
dearest in my breast,
as if, no,
as they are mine own...

and on and on

could travel and travail,
but the clickety clock says
bread to be earned,
wistfulness hour over,
all that's need is a conclusive,
one octave,
a summarizing single note,
a lady last rinsing of the soul

your stories are my psalms,
your heartache and triumphs
my masterpieces,
thy foibles are my filament,
your stories, my revelations

turned my eyes to the mountains,
seeing only my own mountains,
that engulf and surround,
hearing a single,
simple voice answering,
it is their mountains
that deserve written attention,
and therein and thereby
can you write humbly
and walk upright
^
^Psalm 37:37
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
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
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.
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
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.
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.
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 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
/ \
Seth Milliman May 2016
I'm the worded avenger,
The clickety-clack of typewriters delight.
These are all I have of me,
Words that don't betray and leave.
What else can there be?
But empty pages filled with hollow words,
Leave all to be desired.
For reading can lose all its love,
When all words created expire.
Jedd Ong Nov 2014
I.
gravity
helps me realize
where exactly
you are.

and newton,
well newton
for all his
hang ups on
the temptations of
eve,

i guess got
it right
first:

what separates me
and you
and the rest of the world
is not
hope or magic

but rather
the pendulum swings of
chance

(arbitrary force)

the oscillations maybe
of a rickety train platform
on which our
footprints
converge, diverge,
and resonate

like naturalized frequencies.

II.
frankly,

i

don't want to talk
about the physics of it all.

i just want to sit
alone,
on the steps of this train
station,

and gently soak in the
clickety clacks
of these intersecting lines.

i

just want to
watch
as their doors open
and close,

and feel the rhythms
of their machinated dance,
and

sort the footsteps
that sift out
according to shape, color,

distance.

III.
as we speak,
i have already begun
to count
how many
stops

still separate

you.

and i.
Judy Ponceby Apr 2015
Lighted sentries stand guard
Over slickened steel rails

Rails that reach into the painted skyline
Traversing life's trail to the clickety-clack of time

Time's learn-ed history passes by
Enlightening life's travelers at every bend.
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.
Clickety clack did you hear that, the kobolds are back!
More kobolds you say, I'll frighten them away. I will keep the little lizard folk at bay.
That's good that you say that you're willing to keep the creatures away because here comes the 5000th kobold I've seen coming this way, oh God it's going to be a long day.
Copy right Michael Robert Triska 2018 written for a Dwarven apocalypse game Dungeons & Dragons.
KathleenAMaloney Jan 2016
So many Sophisticated Words..
clickety, clic, Believing..
True Love.
clickety, clic... shh
tap, tap, tap..
a lovers persuasive ways

Desire, Lifted Up, Free  Breath Becoming
Essence.
Pure Allowing
Love's  SOUL
Wild, until It Becomes Fire Again..

White Water of Intending
Intend Thee This
A Minds Eye,
with the inky Goodness of a Hard Pen
Rocking Mystery.
Laid upon the Soft Paper
of Amen's Scribe in Waiting...
Certain Victory for the Out Come.

This House is Mine.
Bill keeps on calling asking for money
He laughs when I say no, and then demands me to lend it to him
He wants me to lend him his paycheck, the green to feed his family
Clickety-click, he receives my silence, the insult of my indignation
I only have enough to worry about my needs, not his
Why does he keep calling, paying me an unyielding hello?
Who does he think he is, insulting me into giving him his desires?
We just don’t seem to click, yet in the end, somehow we do
Liam C Calhoun May 2016
An hour might as well be a year,
A life, a night lacking sleep,
Something sweet but just outta reach,
Or song, one line, that one line,
With memories sweeter than ice cream,
And crescendo akin to broken mirrors.

Long gone, would be the “clickety-clack,”
The coming and going of a train;
Meaning to stop, but only to pass you by,
Offering the slightest dust, hints to where
You should have been come ‘morrow;
Left would be an only, lonely to posit –

Why can the gulls go when I can’t?
A memory from the day I wanted to die; now my daughter is sleeping next to me in a bassinet.
Ronald Jones Sep 2016
He loves to hear the rapturous whistle blowing clearing his mind of dark despairs,
to breathe in the scented whoosh of the slowing wheels
as he stands on the platform watching the arrival of another train.

Coast Starlight, Sunset Limited, Southwest Chief, each with a name.
He joins the other watchers standing there without shame
to greet the wave of an engineer or porter, sunshine or rain.

It's the pageantry.
It's the arrival and departure majesty.
It's the impromptu theater soothing a soul's troubling pain.

There are times he books a Pullman berth, its pillow he snuggles
to lose all the world's cares and struggles,
while rocking so blessedly to the clickety-clack refrain.

One such morning enthralled by seeing America's historic prairies
outside his window, he sets forth prancing through noisy unbalancing vestibules that make him even more merry!
till he reaches the car where like a king he'll reign.

Breakfast in the sun-splashed diner, pancakes and ham,
joking with the headwaiter, and being lavished with free side dishes by the cook, and smiling broadly like a suitor when a lady blushes
from a compliment he makes on her gams.
Though never too busy to sneak a look at the lunch menu where he decides he'll order later the hot meatloaf sandwich with gravy on a wheat bun of  7 "healthy" grains.

Late afternoon in the club car, a Coke by his side
he asks the guy opposite, "Enjoying the ride?"
"You bet! Beats the hassle with planes."

The stranger continues, "Going far?" he asks.
"No. Here and there. Keeping active since my wife passed."
"Ah, nobody wins the life game."

"Honey, the kids want a hamburger"-a stunning blonde stands over the guy who rises, shakes hands and says goodbye.
The train watcher feels a loss he can't explain.

But the lulling vistas of farmland and the soothing whistle blowing such pleasing keys
soon abolish all traces of unease.
He knows when arriving at his destination he'll be the first to ride back again down the all-healing railway lane.
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.
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
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
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
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!
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
Swathi eruvaram Jul 2015
Strolling on unknown streets
Ignoring strange glances
Neglecting salty sweat stains
I pick up pace gasping for air
How about I surprise you with something!

Clickety click on my phone
Oh there's time, I can take a jigety jog
Scorching sun, racing vehicles, smoky air, dusty path
I walk and walk and walk
Up, down, across
My thirsty throat calls for a drink
But I have no time to think

Here is where I can get the play doh
Wow, moulds, roller, cutter and more
Some flourescent sheets for craft
And a new book hows that
Done so where's the next one
Ah, there I see, hunky dory
Two perfect caps and some body lotion will just do
All done now all I do is run
Back to school... back to school as fast as I can
Common legs! Ignore the pain just think you can

I enter the gate and you steal a quick glance of me
Oh man, but there is another minute or two to be
You tap on the glass and sob in tiny tears
I rush within to pick you up and help you let go off your fears
Some words, a hug and few kisses do the rest
You see the bags in my hand and smile your best
A teary thank you and a happy one
Now lets go home, school is done
Olivia Kent Sep 2013
Keys

Sat in front of the keyboard.
End of another long and lonely day.
Not that this piano's grand.
Cannot play a note.
The world is out of tune.

Life's secrets are locked away.
In Pandora's box.
The key, it's rusty.
Jammed in the lock.
A relief it seems.
Be careful not to snap it.

Key winds the clock.
Tick Tock.
Without the key to wind it.
Maybe all life stops.
Need the clock.
Keep the beat of a lonely pulse.

Key is a clue in a mystery.
Query the keys.
Need to seek the answers.
Unlock a feisty mind.
This key winds a spring.
Spring will be sprung.

The heartbeat drum will find the rhythm.
Of the failing grand piano.
For the solo orchestra of one.
One minus another.
Clickety clack.
Back on my keyboard I tap!
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
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 —