10-02-2019, 06:57 AM
Revision
Burnt Orange Train
I wandered around the old streets alone
Squared like a chessboard stripped of its hues
Set in weathered brown against the sky’s navy blue
I summoned memories of love on that senile train
Washing words down with pilsner and watching the rain
We sat amused and content on the cracked leather seats
On the blotted window shone dried drops with finger smudge
And all we had were hand motions and the occasional nudge -
Of the passengers within, we were becoming steadily wearier
Deciding to converse with the curious men, we crossed bravely a barrier
The dust-covered curtains fell down against teal carpet
They fit well there on the caterpillar locomotive, showing signs of time
And the four men, two old, two middle-aged, were robust, a rhyme
Of character and whim, for hours we talked and even prayed
They impressed me more than I them, so my thanks I then relayed
She sat to my left, looking amused, saying “Isn’t this grand?”
I whistled and shouted, smiling, hanging out the elderly caboose
Letting hair blow off my face and glancing at the grey-bearded muse
Grinning grimly, my body shivering from the mood, not the cold
At this point I returned, feeling assured that she’d be where she’d told
Back in the bar of the middle car I encountered the two younger men
Wearing tight faces they took my arm, appearing determined and stout
Turning the corners of their mouths slowly they motioned about
Pretending I understood, I finally did, and it was brutally clear
He’d simply asked if I’d sit down, and I could pay close attention and hear
Another story from my new friend, armed with Translate and smokes
Much obliged I took his offer – my heart was much too full
Like the sidewalks on a Bucharest Friday – my eyes the street lamps’ glow
I took another shake from my acquaintance’s rough hands
And asked him careful and slow if he’d been anytime to Indiana
The blank look on his face told me all I needed to know
Or maybe it was indifferent? Hell if I could decipher what he’d said
Nonetheless, I assumed the right answer, but went right ahead
And promised if he’d come, he would certainly have a place to stay
A place to sit, drink, talk, and waste away a day
I took his subsequent silence to mean (not that he was rude)
But that he would take me up on that offer – so instead of saying more
I hopped off, leaving a number on a white note between the seat and door
That number he found – and now I grin on this chessboard without hue
Because the rusty man on the train has called me more times than a few
I simply want genuine feedback from thoughtful minds on some of my poetry. I chose this poem as my first post because it is what I love most about poetry: telling a story for myself to later recount.
Burnt Orange Train
I wandered around the old streets alone
Squared like a chessboard stripped of its hues
Set in weathered brown against the sky's navy blue
I pondered when we loved on that old, slow train
Washing our words down with pilsner and watching the rain
Outside the blotted window there were dried drops and finger smudge
All we had were hand motions and the occasional nudge
A smirk or a nod to see the absurdity of the moment
Conversing with the peculiar men and crossing bravely a lofty barrier
The burnt orange curtains fell against teal carpet
They fit well on the caterpillar locomotive, smug and sublime
And the four men, two old, two middle-aged, were robust, a rhyme
Of character of sorts, nothing more, we talked and prayed
But they impressed me more than I them, so I send heartfelt thanks
And so I whistled and shouted, hanging out the elderly caboose
Letting hair blow off my face and staring down my grey-bearded muse
Smiling grimly, my body shivering from the mood, not the cold
At this point I returned, feeling assured that she'd be where she'd told
Back in the bar of the middle car I encountered the two younger men
Wearing tight faces they took my arm, piercing me with sharp eyes
Turning the corners of their mouths slowly and motioning about
Pretending I understood, I finally had, and it was clear
He'd simply asked if I'd sit down and I could give him my ear
Much obliged I took his offer - my heart was much too full
Like the sidewalks on a Bucharest Friday - my eyes the streetlamps' glow
I took another shake from my acquaintance's rough hands
And asked him carefully and slowly if he'd been anytime to Indiana
The blank look on his face told me an unsurprising no
Or maybe it was indifferent? Hell if I could decipher what it said
But nonetheless, I'd assumed the right answer
And promised if he'd come, he would certainly have a place to stay
I took his subsequent silence to mean (not that he was rude)
But that he would someday take me up on that offer
So instead of saying more, I hopped off
Leaving a +1 number on a white note between the seat and door
Burnt Orange Train
I wandered around the old streets alone
Squared like a chessboard stripped of its hues
Set in weathered brown against the sky’s navy blue
I summoned memories of love on that senile train
Washing words down with pilsner and watching the rain
We sat amused and content on the cracked leather seats
On the blotted window shone dried drops with finger smudge
And all we had were hand motions and the occasional nudge -
Of the passengers within, we were becoming steadily wearier
Deciding to converse with the curious men, we crossed bravely a barrier
The dust-covered curtains fell down against teal carpet
They fit well there on the caterpillar locomotive, showing signs of time
And the four men, two old, two middle-aged, were robust, a rhyme
Of character and whim, for hours we talked and even prayed
They impressed me more than I them, so my thanks I then relayed
She sat to my left, looking amused, saying “Isn’t this grand?”
I whistled and shouted, smiling, hanging out the elderly caboose
Letting hair blow off my face and glancing at the grey-bearded muse
Grinning grimly, my body shivering from the mood, not the cold
At this point I returned, feeling assured that she’d be where she’d told
Back in the bar of the middle car I encountered the two younger men
Wearing tight faces they took my arm, appearing determined and stout
Turning the corners of their mouths slowly they motioned about
Pretending I understood, I finally did, and it was brutally clear
He’d simply asked if I’d sit down, and I could pay close attention and hear
Another story from my new friend, armed with Translate and smokes
Much obliged I took his offer – my heart was much too full
Like the sidewalks on a Bucharest Friday – my eyes the street lamps’ glow
I took another shake from my acquaintance’s rough hands
And asked him careful and slow if he’d been anytime to Indiana
The blank look on his face told me all I needed to know
Or maybe it was indifferent? Hell if I could decipher what he’d said
Nonetheless, I assumed the right answer, but went right ahead
And promised if he’d come, he would certainly have a place to stay
A place to sit, drink, talk, and waste away a day
I took his subsequent silence to mean (not that he was rude)
But that he would take me up on that offer – so instead of saying more
I hopped off, leaving a number on a white note between the seat and door
That number he found – and now I grin on this chessboard without hue
Because the rusty man on the train has called me more times than a few
I simply want genuine feedback from thoughtful minds on some of my poetry. I chose this poem as my first post because it is what I love most about poetry: telling a story for myself to later recount.
Burnt Orange Train
I wandered around the old streets alone
Squared like a chessboard stripped of its hues
Set in weathered brown against the sky's navy blue
I pondered when we loved on that old, slow train
Washing our words down with pilsner and watching the rain
Outside the blotted window there were dried drops and finger smudge
All we had were hand motions and the occasional nudge
A smirk or a nod to see the absurdity of the moment
Conversing with the peculiar men and crossing bravely a lofty barrier
The burnt orange curtains fell against teal carpet
They fit well on the caterpillar locomotive, smug and sublime
And the four men, two old, two middle-aged, were robust, a rhyme
Of character of sorts, nothing more, we talked and prayed
But they impressed me more than I them, so I send heartfelt thanks
And so I whistled and shouted, hanging out the elderly caboose
Letting hair blow off my face and staring down my grey-bearded muse
Smiling grimly, my body shivering from the mood, not the cold
At this point I returned, feeling assured that she'd be where she'd told
Back in the bar of the middle car I encountered the two younger men
Wearing tight faces they took my arm, piercing me with sharp eyes
Turning the corners of their mouths slowly and motioning about
Pretending I understood, I finally had, and it was clear
He'd simply asked if I'd sit down and I could give him my ear
Much obliged I took his offer - my heart was much too full
Like the sidewalks on a Bucharest Friday - my eyes the streetlamps' glow
I took another shake from my acquaintance's rough hands
And asked him carefully and slowly if he'd been anytime to Indiana
The blank look on his face told me an unsurprising no
Or maybe it was indifferent? Hell if I could decipher what it said
But nonetheless, I'd assumed the right answer
And promised if he'd come, he would certainly have a place to stay
I took his subsequent silence to mean (not that he was rude)
But that he would someday take me up on that offer
So instead of saying more, I hopped off
Leaving a +1 number on a white note between the seat and door
