Poems about train


№ 1210232

My Train (long)

I never did fall in Love with the train so much after I moved into this house just three long months ago. I have spent many short nights near it, allowing its strong and heavy heart beat to pound heavily throughout my dreams, along with its striking whistles and screams, disrupting, even awakening me at some moments. I use to envy the train, and dance near it within the darkest moments of the night. It used to read me stories in the sheer warmth and brightness of a day next to my dear oceans and stones. Its powerful vibrations would sweep through me; a calm disruption yet shattering danger; as if I would be so high that I would forget to move out of the way! Or strong arms wrapped around, as if to protect me from my own danger. This was my train.

And when I would first come to visit this house, it was the train that brought my heart pleasure. I would run up to its rusty frame, and speak of old technology and street art and sing along with all those noises that would penetrate the air!

ВЂњIt is my culture! It was my home! ” I would say.

All its great horns and moving. It rumbles on through, with no warning or consequence, shifting our city and angering young men in cars.

(And I think some men need to be angry. )

And Today I fell back in Love. My cigarette on porch step, she came through like an old friend. Although today my train looked sad. She was not moving so quickly, and struggled to cross. But I know why she slowed. Exposing bare metal and paints, we all needed this reminder, so we watched her strut slowly. Have I forgotten of good art? This old grandmother of oil. Rattling my City; sweeping, grinding through. Economists and Street Kids alike! We all know of this train. Now lets watch it apart:

The old man near the tree does not have a home, though we watched it together. If he could, he would smile and kiss me on the cheek, though we both know I could never accept such kindness. You see, this neighborhood is the sort where kind neighbors come door-to-door asking for spare cigarettes rather than sugar, and where beer and cocaine could be considered a better party. So I shook her hand once, and exchanged good smiles and smokes, spoke shortly on the porch of our hobos and trains, and agreed in mutuality that we Loved our strange home.

ВЂњThis is such a great neighborhood with such character and jazz! ”

Its roaming ground people, empty pockets and buildings, seeming so goddamn ugly thus enchanting us all! That building like a tree lit up by the night, it was my great shining beacon directing me to light.

My rock.
My Land.

My rattling, tattered home, where I so nestle with Mine, my music, your screens. Our Moon and your Sun. And it blows...

long,  train.

Author: Lucy
Date: 07/04/2020

№ 1209696

Train of Thought

Window in the front,
Portal by his side.
Performed a stunt,
And stopped the ride.
For him, it was a choice made,
For others, no other way.
Walls were only there to aid,
Bricks for someone else to lay.
There was no need to be afraid,
For everything, they had to pay.
Time he wished he could trade,
For tracks that sometimes go stray.
Forest always seen as a shade,
Not answering, when they pray.
In the end, the words will fade,
Everything is written in the final play.
To care for lights,
He was taught.
Now through nights,
The train of thought.

thought,  train.

Author: Vladimir Kuntic
Date: 06/04/2020

№ 1209352

The train

The many people push off the train.
I must stay on, but everyone is leaving.
And pushing me along with them.
Their dull faces not caring that staying,
Not going with the flow of people,
Is everything to me.

As I'm about to be pushed out,
I fight back, looking back into the train.
There is a couple standing there,
They somehow escaped the flow.
Holding hands, smiling brightly.
Moving in closer.
"NO!!! " I shout as the people block my sight
And I'm carried out.

No... that was my everything.
That should have been me.

I should have been her.
I should have been holding his hand.
I should have been happy.


Author: Alice Kay
Date: 06/04/2020

№ 1208747

Train Tracks

I read my body like a road map
My breasts become mountains
My hips are flowing bodies of water
Here's to the not-so-lean lines
That tell me where the highways are
The railroad is the predominant form of transportation
In the quaint little town I depict on my skin
Train tracks cover inch by inch of me
From wrist to chest to thigh
Smothered in scars
That tell you where I've been
And where I hope to move away from.
Every good map has a starting point
For me, that was sexual abuse
Was verbal aggression
Was gas lighting
Then the extra distance in the middle
Was suicidal thoughts
Was bulimia
Was starting therapy
Was never being good enough for anyone
I'm not quite to where I want to be yet
But I'm progressing to the city of
I am good enough for me
Now I worship these train tracks
No more fresh blood
But I can kiss the scars
I find myself in love with my existence
Rather than ashamed of my past
I will handle my map like ancient scrolls
Like a golden altar
Not settling for any silly lover
Who does not exalt this sacred land, this body
And to love where I am going,
You must honor each and every place
I have been.

tracks,  train.

Author: Sarah Frances
Date: 05/04/2020

№ 1206716

Train ride

The trees are rushing by
As we're headed towards the setting sun
- full speed, next stop: Horizon!

A smell in the air
- I'd be able to pick it out anywhere -
Of moonflower and lavender,
A hint of citrus
Soft, soothing and a spark
Of adventure

Images are flashing by
Like the landscape beyond the glass
My mind is a blur
My eyes fixed on the fiery sun
- fighting for her place among the clouds

A voice is singing
About regret and lost chances
Sad and full of sorrow

Memories are popping up
From the foggy mind:

Words that should have made their way to the lips
- and those better left unsaid

There's faces of lost love
- and those that should have been caressed
Instead of being turned away

As I look upon the lake outside
Its waters still as a mirror
- reflecting the dusky sky -
Despite our passing speed
I cannot help but wonder
Whether all my decisions were
- in the end -
The right ones
Leading me to all those wondrous places.

I don't regret a single thing
Because the train is only moving forward
And there's none scheduled
For the past.

ride,  train.

Author: PS
Date: 04/04/2020

№ 1205776

Steam Train 1956.

Steam rushes up
From the steam train
At the station.

It twirls up and along
The roof like
A released demon.

You watch it with
Your young boy's eyes.

People rush past
To get on the train.

You sit watching
Wondering where
They are destined.

You smell it.
The train smell.

The sounds of steam
And power.
Like a dragon.

Porters walk past
With wagons of luggage.

You dream of being
An engine driver.

To the seaside.
That time with your
A year back.

Big steam train
Dark black.

steam,  train.

Author: Terry Collett
Date: 03/04/2020

№ 1204956

Trying to write a poem while on a train

I was sitting on a train with my pad and a pen, trying to write a poem. I had no title, but I had written down the first line

... I was sitting on a train with my pad...

A man sat opposite me.
After a minute or so of scanning his paper and throwing cursory looks in my direction
He enquiried "What are you writing? "

"I'm trying to write a poem about a man trying to write a poem on a train
Who gets asked by a stranger 'what are you writing'.

"Can I be in it? ", asked the stranger opposite.

"You already are", I replied.

The train pulled out of the station.

poem,  train,  write.

Author: eatmorewords
Date: 02/04/2020

№ 1204728

Still life taken from a moving train, 1997

A person on the metro, six stops from their destination
Leafing through a brochure titled How
To Get Rich Quick -
Sighing in disgust,
"I was never allowed to go on the metro
When I was young, " boasts the woman
Sitting beside them, an accessory of
The Scene. a prop
(voice is loud and nasally, and the person - five stops - considers moving)
Quick smile, polite:
Which means, go away. or, at the very least, don't talk quite
So loud
Okay? okay?
A softcover Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary is under the seat, discarded,
Sharpie skidding through it (four stops) at every jolt
Of the train.
This is normal, all trains are jerky sometimes, and the loud woman
Expresses her concerns.
An old man, older than both people,
Older than anything really - coughs.
Wet coughs.
The person frowns, but quietly, so
The woman and man won't notice.
(they are well-practiced in the art of subtlety)
Three stops. the woman leaves
But the smell lingers
And the dictionary, having slid back
One or two rows for effect
A flock of tourists board. kids in the seats
Parents hanging tiredly to safety holds
(be still be quiet keep your hands to yourself, mandy
A little boy of six clinging to the person's jacket with
Sticky warm fingers)
Two stops, and the boy asks why they look so sad.
What they're reading.
They have perfected the art of silence
But little boys don't understand silence.
The mother hovers in the background
Sneaking dirty looks at the person,
Wax smudged smile going crooked at the edges
One stop,
The boy asks where they got their hair
(my head;
He is unimpressed)
He is kicking the lonely dictionary
Providing it with company,
Or maybe unaware.
They leave, and the mother hisses something at them as they pass -
Clutches the boy's arm.
The dictionary has been stuck on the word spectral for three days,
And the train hums to life.

life,  moving,  train.

Author: bucky
Date: 02/04/2020