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He was walking along the tramway
On the other side of town,
The lines had shone in the darkness,
There wasn’t a tram around,
The road from the rain was glistening
Reflecting the roadside lights,
Then the man stood still, and listening
On this coldest of winter nights.

It had been so still and silent
Once the shoppers all had fled,
Out of the city centre,
And heading on home to bed,
But he was one of the homeless
Adrift on the city’s streets,
And prey to the wind and weather
That the homeless people meet.

His coat was ragged and weathered,
His boots were holed in the soles,
He hadn’t managed a shave for days
So his beard looked grey and old,
His pants, held up by a piece of string
Were the sorriest in the town,
And his face was racked with misery,
For he looked just beaten down.

But now as the lights of the bedrooms died
On either side of the street,
The dark was becoming palpable
As he dragged his weary feet,
But still he stuck to the tramway lines
As the quickest way to the docks,
Hoping to find a brazier’s heat
To dry out his sodden socks.

But still he stood and he listened
For sounds in that dreadful night,
It seemed that animals snapped and snarled
Beyond the reach of light,
The homeless went with a rumour
There were wolves out there in the dark,
For many a trace of blood was found
By day, out there in the park.

And there in the dark of alleyways
He could see the eyes a-gleam,
Waiting for him to pass them by
Before they would pounce, it seemed,
He shivered under his ragged coat
And pulled the collar up high,
Thinking it might protect his throat
When they came for him, by and by.

The wolves then bayed at the crescent moon
As they watched his figure pass,
They saw him shaking in fear and gloom
Like walking on broken glass,
But suddenly there was a rumbling
And the lights of a late night tram,
He moved aside then as if to ride
When a wolf tore at his hand.

Then suddenly there were three or four
In a fury of rip and snarl,
Tearing apart a bag of bones
Of the man who was known as Carl,
His blood seeped into the tramway tracks
As the tramway driver stopped,
And watched as they tore the man apart
With one of the city cops.

The council workers came out at dawn
To clear up the grisly mess,
They’d had their orders from City Hall
To dispose of homelessness,
The keepers, out from the city zoo
Recaptured the wolves out there,
But ready to let them out again
When a killing was in the air.

‘We have to clean up the city streets,’
The mayor had long opined,
‘Get rid of the homeless, nice and neat,
The residents sure won’t mind.’
The street’s a virtual jungle when
The lights in the streets go out,
And all you’ll hear is the scream of fear
When a homeless person shouts.

David Lewis Paget
chimaera Jan 2015
Death.
No clothes' tearing,
no hair pulling,
no howling mourners.

Modern days' life and death.
A tramway ride.
You jump out,
willingly,
pushed,
surprised,
whatever
- you just jump out.

A few will stare,
for a moment,
to see you vanishing,
back then.

The ride continues.
All empty spaces
are bridged.
Emptiness is not
politically correct.
12.1.2015
L G V Mar 2013
Beaumaris,
carnival of soft pastel tones
of damp evenings
of tramway cars
with small orange lights
distracted bystanders
the empty bridges
the silent horizons
pale lace on a parasol,
light sepia dreams
of a particular Monet,
forgotten, unseen
before the rains came.

Many years later,
I found her
so tenuous, so subtle
in what little was left
yet there it was, her soul
all new shades
of melancholy.

Now I just swim,
every now and then
in that blue ocean
of her blueness,
the Sea of Oblivion.
In the glimpse  
of bright reflections
of sunshine
on the water,
of salted afternoons
in a country
where it no longer
rains
A small poem inspired by the life and work of Clarice Beckett (1887 – 1935).
chitragupta Feb 2019
I miss the Norwesters
I miss the heavy rains
I miss hurrying to catch a bus
Completely drenched

Oh Kolkata!
Without you I am
Like a fish out of water

I miss the olden buildings
I miss the bustling streets
I miss riding the tramway
With a song playing on repeat

Oh Kolkata!
Without you I am
But a fish out of water

I miss the winter sunsets
I miss evenings by the lake
I miss Maharaja's kachoris
And jalebis on a steel plate

Oh Kolkata!
Without you I am
Just a fish out of water

I miss the yellow taxis
I miss the hawkers' stalls
I miss the political graffiti
Adorning the walls

Oh Kolkata!
Without you I am
Still a fish out of water

Now I'm so far
But yet so near
My heart can't shelter
These hopes and fears
Rejection, reduction
I feel choked once again
Within your walls of nostalgia
Maybe I'll be safe

Oh Kolkata!
Show me a way
To return to the water
Homesick. That's all folks.
I've never had a fistful of love,
because my fist is too full of dirt
from digging graves.

And the greatest fist I've ever known
is the one leaving bruises all over my insides.
But that fist has graduated
and been granted tools to be used as weapons.
And my insides which were once diamonds,
are now nothing but sawdust.

And I can feel the knife.
I can always feel the knife.

And stab me just for kicks
because it tickles my fickle chest
and makes me feel like I'm living in a French city
with a quick and fickle tramway system
that can take me anywhere I want to be.

But instead I'm always going to a town
a mere hour away
and sitting in traffic
in a stuffed automobile,
wishing I was where the trains are.

Because the trains that have always sang me lullabies
whisper melodies to me all the time now,
through smoke and haze and swirling lights.

I can feel the knife.
I can always feel the knife.

Call me Miss November
because I'm the first snowfall after the best time of year,
and I cut the world with my icicle sword of a soul.

Can you feel the sword?
I hope you can always feel the sword.

And I will leave and the world will be warm and happy,
and upon my returnal,
I'll give you beautiful sweater weather
and stab you with my icicle sword when you least expect it.

I can feel the knife.
You can feel the sword.
It tickles.

Me and Miss June sing a sister song,
making harmonies with our weaponry.
My icicle sword, her scalding torch.

Just call me Miss Emmy Lou November.
I'll sing a duet with you and depart for almost forever,
and leave with my sister, Miss June.

Wake up.
It's November.
I'm here.
Wake up.
I won't be here for long.

I was born red all over.
Never knowing if I'm meant for love or anger.
But angry leaves fall in November,
getting their revenge.
But nobody listens to anger
when it's falling to the ground so gracefully.

So come to my November house jam
and we'll all be angry and loving
and cold and happy and dreading
the latter end of my company,
and I'll be wishing sister June was with me.

I'm a blackhearted lover.
I'm a blackhearted grave digger.
I'm a blackhearted skinny lover
with skinny arms that'll never be able
to cover anyone from my frigid aura.
Eleanor Rigby Feb 2015
This morning on the tramway a stranger
Was singing our song.
I didn't know how to feel about it,
Whether I wanted to keep listening
Or change seats,
Whether I loved you still
Or didn't care any more.

So I simply looked out of the window
And smiled to the memory of us.


F.Z.**N
Sombro Feb 2015
In the city of hatred
Love is currency
In the town of the belated
Not all the eyes can see

Smile on the tramway
And watch the eyes adance
Glare at the luckless
The ones without your chance

Chuff down the street
Coffee your coal and steam
But don't ever try to meet
Those with less esteem
Some cities feel barren of humans, just people trying to earn their money
do, wah wotsit bop,

that's a line from a song but I can't place the singer, can't remember the line either, ****** it, my mind with its memory is still in the winter of a sand pit making mud pies and if you don't remember making them you weren't or aren't from way back then.

5 Park Drive
was never an address
it was a pack of cigarettes
and unless I'm mistaken,
Nellie from the shop
charged eleven pence
( in olde money )
for them
and those of us from back then
might still recall that,
I do.

Kay and her Bazaar
set in the old stables
at the bottom end
of Lodge Street,
gone
all
gone,
The Shakespeare,
gone
The Tramway,
gone,
The Yorkshire House,
gone,
The Blue Anchor,
gone,
but I know and you know
that these places live on
in the wild romances of
the memories that
we made in our youth.
Whit Howland Jan 2020
My hands touch
it

I'm a mime
and it's not there
as if I can jump off

into the night
this bottomless
well of ink

with nothing
more than a quill

enough to rewrite
my epic poem
the one

that turns

to a golden ticket
to ride
the tramway in the sky

Whit Howland © 2020

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