Surviving

Feeling the warmth of the sun on a cloudy day. A glimpse into a blind billy goat's unique, ever changing perspectives.

2015 04 30 Poetry: Locomotive April 30, 2015

Well here we are. The last day of April is here. This is also the last day of National Poetry Month.

This is the second year I have taken part in recognizing this event, but unlike last year, I was able to post an entry a day on my blog. A poem a day, for thirty days. That makes, umm, let’s see, carry the 2, divide by, umm, yep, 30 poems!

As the poets of old have given the world their gift of pen, so have they given their gift of inspiration. I know, I know! I’m always spouting off about inspiration and such. Well, it’s true. Without inspiration, would anything ever get done? I’d rather not find out and thank you very much.

I love trains. what boy, or man doesn’t?

So many times as a young lad, I can remember hearing a train whistle and feeling the hair stand up on my arms. Pure electricity running through my veins as the large, endless line of magnificence rolled on by. I would count the cars and imagine where they had been. So much imagination, right there in front of me.

This poem is about those same locomotives that ran up and down the rails of my childhood. It’s a poem to honor the engineers, the rail workers, the loading dock crews, their families and their ability to dare to dream.

Without you all, this country would never have grown into what we are today.

Thanks for stopping by my blog today, and thanks for all the comments, emails, likes and new followers that Surviving has seen this month.

I’ll probably go back to my regular posts after today, but then again, were any of my posts ever regular? grin

Take care, and keep on Surviving!

dp

***

Locomotive

I heard the sweet lullaby of a train whistle late last night
I pictured the long line of freight cars as they strolled down through the valley
I didn’t care where the train was going
I didn’t care where the train had been
The powerful, harmonic whistle sounded the same no matter
I wondered if the train could talk, what on earth it would say
I wondered if the rolling locomotive would share a story or two
I wondered how many stories the invincible steel prowler had
I pictured writing down each incredible story with a grin on my face
I imagined hopping on board the steel wheeled traveler and taking a ride
A carefree ride on a journey to nowhere in particular
A journey to the edge of my imagination, and then back
A trip back through the tracks of time
I kept imagining as the train whistle continued to blow
I continued pondering as the steel locomotive wheels continued to turn
I imagined where the engine was born
I pictured the tireless worker taking its first breath as its magnificence rolled down the steel rails for the very first time
I pictured, as I imagined, while I wondered
Then I heard the whistle once again
I heard those same, melodic tones that had tucked me in on so many nights
Those same, magical whispers dancing across the tree tops at night
That same soothing song that echoed along the evening breeze
I remembered as a child, counting the cars as they rocked through the crossing
I remembered watching in awe as the train tiptoed across the trestle
I harkened back to the wide eyed gaze of an impressionable child
I thought back, I remembered, and then I smiled

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2 Responses to “2015 04 30 Poetry: Locomotive”

  1. Zgal Says:

    Hi Deon, I enjoyed this post for I, too, as a little girl spent many of my days along the railroad tracks in the 1950s. I was a little girl who played along the tracks all the time, looked for frogs and snakes in the stagnant water in the ditches along the tracks, and carried the wiggly little creatures home in pockets or struggling to escape my firm, grasping hands. I laid pennies on the rails and stood back when the trains came through; searched through the stones beneath the rail to find the flattened penny – what a treasure. And, the most daring feat was to have the guts to walk through the underground tunnel that took me across the creek and through the hillside into the city. Summer time, for me was spent in such adventures, and in swimming the the creeks that surround where I live, and winter was ice skating on those same two creeks. This girl never played with dolls, but spent time alone out in the woods, along the tracks and in the creeks – always in love with nature. Solitude was always my friend as a child, and remains so as an adult in my seventh decade of life. Imagine my delight when one day, fifty years later, I learned about the writing of Annie Dillard, another little girl who chose to spent time observing the smallest details in nature. I have since found a number of such women writers. Lynda

    • DP Lyons Says:

      Hey Lynda. Thanks for stopping by. I’d love to be able to listen to some of your amazing journeys through your childhood. Sounds like the only boring people were the ones who weren’t right there beside you. grin
      Take care.
      dp


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