Hawk Revisited
Told of the hawk on the rail
friends wink.
'A hawk? In the Barrio'?
Not knowing what to think
they glance at each other, first, then at their knees,
stare at the vacant rail, then back at me
as if I'd claimed to see
an elf in Bermudas sipping a Sea-Breeze;
hasten to agree
concluding my mistake, if any, harmless-
the sort of thing that happens every day,
'Goodbye', say, and quickly slip away.
Till I conclude the raptor on the rail
the ruins of a burst balloon
snatched by the wind from some child's bouquet
caught, now, on the rail's disjointed finger;
or, drifting in place
an expirant shred of sooty plastic;
some out-the-window flung
sheer article of lingerie;
a wretched mistake-
an hallucination
a figment of imagination,
indigestion-
anything but the hawk it was.
poem by Morgan Michaels
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Hawk IIII
So I sat up and stared at the place the hawk had been-
rose, shuffled to the window, in fact
the Barrio was still the Barrio, in every respect:
the Projects not going anywhere fast,
the cars still parked along the curb
yellow, black, red and green
the little tree empty of wrens.
'Well', I thought,
present or absent
a hawk makes nothing different.
Difference, the mis-en-scene, the meaning
being the human part, and up to me. The hawk
was just a hawk sitting in a place where you don't normally
expect to see a hawk, that's all.
But I couldn't help thinking of the way
the halk made the neighborhood quite wonderful-
here: a flyway, and gone,
just a desolate, hawkless tract.
poem by Morgan Michaels
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Hawk I
There was a hawk on the porch rail this morning
the span of your arm.
suddenly, out of nowhere it was there:
not unknown in Central Park, maybe,
but here in East Harlem-rare,
sitting asquat the gleaming, sun-licked bar.
You could see the projects over its wing-shoulder
the Babel-like water-tower.
You could see the cars parked down the block
like never because of mister or miss hawk.
Never have I seen a hawk so up-close.
I could feel the slight tilt of its reddish head,
its feral, yellow eye, led
it seemed, by genuine interest
to range along the neighborhood
sampling each scene as from a smorgasboard of views-
a bite of this, of this. An eye feast.
poem by Morgan Michaels
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Song Of The Rail
Oh, an ugly thing is an iron rail,
Black, with its face to the dust.
But it carries a message where winged things fail;
It crosses the mountains, and catches the trail,
While the winds and the sea make sport of a sail;
Oh, a rail is a friend to trust.
The iron rail, with its face to the sod,
Is only a bar of ore;
Yet it speeds where never a foot has trod;
And the narrow path where it leads, grows broad;
And it speaks to the world in the voice of God;
That echoes from shore to shore.
Though the iron rail, on the earth down flung,
Seems kin to the loam and the soil,
Wherever its high shrill note is sung,
Out of the jungle fair homes have sprung,
And the voices of babel find one tongue,
In the common language of toil.
Of priest, and warrior, and conquering king,
Of Knights of the Holy Grail,
Of wonders of winter, and glories of spring,
Always and ever the poets sing;
But the great God-Force, in a lowly thing,
I sing, in my song of the rail.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The Rail
Long hard days, long cold nights
I work on the rail driving rail road spikes
I work all day from dusk til dawn
We don't take a break til the beans are done
The boss man says, Pick up those spikes
Lay out those rails make them fit just right
Pick up the hammer and drive it in
What I'm paying you boys, I ain't your friend
They pay me boys to tell you what to do
There's another thousand rails to lay, we ain't through
I work all day and I bust my back
I make my money on a rail road track
I work long days and long cold nights
Lay out that rail and lay it right
Pick up a hammer and I drive it in
Then reach for another and do it all again
I'm working on a rail road
Taking care of my own
Carrying my own load
I'm working on a rail road.
poem by Bill Simmons
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Beyond highways and roads, we need more money for mass transit, intercity passenger rail and freight rail. We have a long way to go to bridge the funding gaps.
quote by Bill Lipinski
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Old Brass Rail
Foot on the rail in the olden days,
For all the world to see,
A jolly old lot, they took their pot
All unashamed and free,
Passing their jest from lip to lip,
Puffing away the foam,
Till a small voice cried from the path outside:
'Ma says, you're to come on home.'
Foot on the rail they faced the world
And cared not who should know;
And many they went, thro' a life mis-spent
As man a man must go
Straight to the dogs from the old brass rail,
Lost and ruined and wrecked:
But he went to his fate with the game played straight:
And he went with his head erect.
Then came the camel, with his lip adroop,
Calling an end to fun.
Tho' his cause was strong, his way was wrong,
And his task was most ill done.
Turning a man to a furtive sneak,
Stealing by ways obscure,
Bad if you will was the old, old ill;
But worse by far was the cure.
Oh, man will sin as his fathers sinned
Since ever this world was made;
But, if he must sin, then let him sin
In the open, unafraid;
Foot on the old brass rail again
For all the world to see.
A jolly old lot who takes his tot
All unashamed and free.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Last Train To The Coast
Why don't we jump the rail
ride the last train to the coast
watch the sea rise and fall
escape if only for a little while
to feel that fresh sea air again
maybe we could stay for a bit
make up a weekend perhaps
lets not make any plans
aside from boarding the last train
steel wheels powering along
to another place, away from here
it sounds so simple, maybe it is
why don't we jump the rail
rise the last train to the coast
make love on the beach
or just sit and talk about love
lets drink by a fire and toast
our future rolling out ahead of us
were on track you and me
why don't we just jump the rail
catch the last train to the coast
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Steel Rail Blues
Well I got my mail late last night
A letter from a girl who found the time to write
To her lonesome boy somewhere in the night
She sent me a railroad ticket too
To take me to her loving arms
And the big steel rail
Gonna carry me home to the one I love
Well I been out here many a long days
I haven't found a place that I could call my own
Not a two bit bed to lay my body on
I been stood up I been shook down
I bin dragged into the sand
And the big steel rail gonna carry me home to the one I love
Well I been up tight most every night
Walking along the streets of this old town
Not a friend to tell my troubles to
My good old car she done broke down
'Cause I drove it into the ground
And the big steel rail gonna carry me home to the one I love
Well look over yonder across the plain
The big drive wheels a-pounding along the ground
Gonna get on board and I'll be homeward bound
Now I ain't had a home cooked meal
And Lord I need one now
And the big steel rail gonna carry me home to the one I love
Now here I am with my head in the sand
Standing on the broad highway will you give a ride
To a lonesome boy who missed the train last night
I went in town for one last round
And I gambled my ticket away
And the big steel rail won't carry me home to the one I love
song performed by by Jim Croce
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Steel Rail Blues
Well I got my mail late last night
A letter from a girl who found the time
To write
To her lonesome boy somewheres in the
Night
She sent me a railroad ticket too
To take me to her lovin arms
And the big steel rail gonna carry me
Home to the one I love
Well I bin out here many long days
I havent found a place that I could call
My own
Not a two bit bed to lay my body on
I bin stood up I bin shook down
I bin dragged into the sand
And the big steel rail gonna carry me
Home to the one I love
Ooooh oooo oo whu hu hoo
Ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo oo
Well I bin up tight most every night
Walkin along the streets of this old town
Not a friend around to tell my troubles to
My good old car she done broke down
cause I drove it into the ground
And the big steel rail gonna carry me
Home to the one I love
Well I look over yonder across the plain
The big drive wheels are poundin along
The ground
Gonna get on board and Ill be homeward
Bound
Now I aint had a home cooked meal
And lord I need one now
And the big steel rail gonna carry me
Home to the one I love
Now here I am with my hat in hand
Standin on the broad highway will you
Give a ride
To a lonesome boy who missed the train
Last night
I went in town for one last round
And I gambled my ticket away
And the big steel rail wont carry me
Home to the one I love
song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hawk Revisited III
with any but imagination's eye.
Yet nothing but a hawk it was
the hawk I saw just then-
and will probably see again
that loves its element and breaks no law
and, capable to start a dream or two
offers for itself its best excuse.
How should I conclude?
In the welter of opinion
your own is good and just as probable:
everything in time-
and loving truth, detesting lies,
even useful ones
know that what you saw you saw
and where and when and why.
What you see you see-
the next time people disagree
don't be so polite.
poem by Morgan Michaels
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Rollin' And Ramblin' (The Death Of Hank Williams)
Folks in Nashville slammed the door
Said we don't want you anymore
Find your own way down the road
Pack your fiddle and your guitar
Take a train or take a car
Find someone else to keep you from the cold
Rollin' and ramblin'
Women loved him half to death
He sang with whiskey on his breath
His heart broke like a child's
Rollin' and ramblin'
The sun has set out on the trail
The hobo's drifted up the rail
He's taken his last ride
Oh, he always sang the blues
Like it was all he ever knew
He didn't sing at all that night
He was pale and as he dozed
He didn't know his time had closed
Slumped in the back seat to the right
Rollin' and ramblin'
Women loved him half to death
He sang with whiskey on his breath
His heart broke like a child's
Rollin' and ramblin'
The sun has set out on the trail
The hobo's drifted up the rail
He's taken his last ride
So they send him on night train South
Through the cities and the rural routes
Just one more place to go
Ah, the whistle sang the bluest note
Like it came from his own throat
Moanin' sad and cryin' low
Rollin' and ramblin'
Women loved him half to death
He sang with whiskey on his breath
His heart broke like a child's
Rollin' and ramblin'
The sun has set out on the trail
The hobo's drifted up the rail
He's taken his last ride
Rollin' and ramblin'
The sun has set out on the trail
The hobo's drifted up the rail
He's taken his last ride
song performed by by Emmylou Harris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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No Foe Shall Gather Our Harvest
Sons of the mountains of Scotland,
Welshmen of coomb and defile,
Breed of the moors of England,
Children of Erin's green isle,
We stand four square to the tempest,
Whatever the battering hail-
No foe shall gather our harvest,
Or sit on our stockyard rail.
Our women shall walk in honour,
Our children shall know no chain,
This land, that is ours forever,
The invader shall strike at in vain.
Anzac!...Tobruk!...and Kokoda!...
Could ever the old blood fail?
No foe shall gather our harvest,
Or sit on our stockyard rail.
So hail-fellow-met we muster,
And hail-fellow-met fall in,
Wherever the guns may thunder,
Or the rocketing air-mail spin!
Born of the soil and the whirlwind,
Though death itself be the gale-
No foe shall gather our harvest
Or sit on our stockyard rail.
We are the sons of Australia,
of the men who fashioned the land;
We are the sons of the women
Who walked with them hand in hand;
And we swear by the dead who bore us,
By the heroes who blazed the trail,
No foe shall gather our harvest,
Or sit on our stockyard rail.
poem by Dame Mary Gilmore
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A Railroad Eclogue
Father: What brought thee back, lad?
Son: Father! the same feet
As took me brought me back, I warrant ye.
Father: Couldst thou not find the rail?
Son: The deuce himself
Who can find most things, could not find the rail.
Father: Plain as a pike-staff miles and miles it lies.
Son: So they all told me. Pike-staffs in your day
Must have been hugely plainer than just now.
Father: What didst thou ask for?
Son: Ask for? Tewkesbury,
Thro Defford opposite to Breedon-hill.
Father: Right: and they set ye wrong?
Son: Me wrong? not they;
The best among 'em should not set me wrong,
Nor right, nor anything; I'd tell 'em that.
Father: Herefordshire's short horns and shorter wits
Are known in every quarter of the land,
Those blunt, these blunter. Well! no help for it!
Each might do harm if each had more of each . .
Yet even in Herefordshire there are some
Not downright dolts . . before the cider's broacht,
When all are much alike . . yet most could tell
A railroad from a parish or a pike.
How thou couldst miss that railroad puzzles me,
Seeing there lies none other round about.
Son: I found the rails along the whole brook-side
Left of that old stone bridge across yon Avon.
Father: That is the place.
Son: There was a house hard-by,
And past it ran a furnace upon wheels,
Like a mad bull, tail up in air, and horns
So low ye might not see 'em. On it bumpt,
Roaring, as strait as any arrow flits,
As strait, as fast too, ay, and faster went it,
Arid, could it keep its wind up and not crack,
Then woe betide the eggs at Tewkesbury
This market-day, and lambs, and sheep! a score
Of pigs might be made flitches in a trice,
Before they well could knuckle.
Father! Father!
If they were ourn, thou wouldst not chuckle so,
And shake thy sides, and wipe thy eyes, and rub
Thy breeches-knees, like Sunday shoes, at that rate.
Hows'ever. . . .
Father: 'Twas the train, lad, 'twas the train.
Son: May-be: I had no business with a train.
'Go thee by rail,' you told me; 'by the rail
At Defford' . . and didst make a fool of me.
Father: Ay, lad, I did indeed: it was methinks
Some twenty years agone last Martinmas.
poem by Walter Savage Landor
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Gone Into The Wind
Gone into the wind, broken back and an overflowing cup.
Creatures filling up there cars, and monsters under my bed
A lost imagination gripping to life on the rail.
Cold wind blows, and leaves me here.
No where to go, but to the bottle
Soaking in a vast amount of liquor
Which ever way is the quicker,
How far to the river, can I go on foot.
Or will the wind blow me back in a narcotic dream
Filled with women and beer,
I just wanna be alone for awhile.
Until the wind comes back to bother me.
Gone into the wind. I came back from it again.
poem by Blaine McCanless
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Steamer
Steamer
By: john scott sherrill
1981
For the band
I remember that steamer
Time you set sail
The crowd was steamin
Streamin and leanin on the rail
Then the big whistle blew
And I lost my place
Next thing I knew
I could not find your face
I can see myself dreamin
The time you came home
Your face was beamin
Seemin to stand out alone
Dinner bell chimed
And I found my seat
And your eyes met mine
Your smile was so sweet
I remember that river
First time we made love
Oh I still kinda shiver a little
At what Im thinkin of
How your dress it just floated
All down around your knees
And I held my breath, my God my girl
cause I could not believe
(instrumental)
Most of all its that steamer
Time you set sail
Ah the crowds always steamin
Streamin and leanin on the rail
Then the big whistle blows
And I always lose my place
Next thing I know
I cannot find your face
- notes:
Vocals: jimmy buffett, deborah mccoll
Acoustic lead guitar: barry chance
song performed by by Jimmy Buffett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hawk And Buckle
Where is the landlord of old Hawk and Buckle,
And what of Master Straddler this hot summer weather?
He's along in the tap-room with broad cheeks a-chuckle,
And ten bold companions all drinking together.
Where is the daughter of old Hawk and Buckle,
And what of Mistress Jenny this hot summer weather?
She sits in the parlour with smell of honeysuckle,
Trimming her bonnet with red ostrich feather.
Where is the ostler of old Hawk and Buckle,
And what of Willy Jakeman this hot summer weather?
He is rubbing his eyes with a slow and lazy knuckle
As he wakes from his nap on a bank of fresh heather.
Where is the page boy of old Hawk and Buckle,
And what of our young Charlie this hot summer weather?
He is bobbing for tiddlers in a little trickle-truckle,
With his line and his hook and his breeches of leather.
Where is the grey goat of old Hawk and Buckle,
And what of pretty Nanny this hot summer weather?
She stays not contented with little or with muckle,
Straining for daisies at the end of her tether.
For this is our motto at old Hawk and Buckle,
We cling to it close and we sing all together,
'Every man for himself at our old Hawk and Buckle,
And devil take the hindmost this hot summer weather.'
poem by Robert Graves
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Way Out West Of Wagga
The train winds west from wagga
Me - sitting sweating from the sun
My swag up on the swaying rack
Now beholden to no-one.
It's a morning on the sky line
The sun slides slanting rays
The countryside is counting
In years and not in days.
Way out west of wagga
Is why the journey ends
I’m off to find my people
And cast off city friends.
My mob came from out that country
That the white folks made their own
They sent us off to rail yards
And Redfern was our home.
It’s hard there housed in Redfern
Caught between two worlds
The white man's world don't see us
Us cut off from our birth.
The line sings out its rhythm
The sound of wheel on rail
The wheels made in those workshops
Those workshops were our gaol.
Way out west of wagga
I’m sure that I’ll find my mob
I’m told they’re drinking swearing
With more flies than there are jobs.
Yeah, I drank drinks with the piper
Lost control and do not know
Why what is west of wagga
Is now where i must go.
poem by David Keig
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The Train Winds West From Wagga
The train winds west from wagga
Me - sitting sweating from the sun
My swag up on the swaying rack
Me - beholden to no-one.
It's a morning on the sky line
The sun slides slanting rays
The countryside is counting
In years and not in days.
Way out west of wagga
Is where the journey ends
I’m off to find my people
And cast off city friends.
My mob came from out that country
That the white folks made their own
They sent us off to rail yards
And Redfern was our home.
It’s hard there housed in Redfern
Caught between two worlds
The white man's world don't see us
Us cut off from our birth.
The line sings out its rhythm
The sound of wheel on rail
The wheels made in those workshops
Those workshops were our gaol.
Way out west of wagga
I’m sure that I’ll find my mob
I’m told they’re drinking swearing
With more flies than there are jobs.
Yeah, I drank drinks with the piper
Lost control and do not know
Why what is west of wagga
Is now where i must go.
poem by David Keig
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Kosko Cat
1,3,2,4,1,3,2,4,1...
3....2......4.....
stop, sit, scratch, slip
under the rail and disappear.
poem by Morgan Michaels
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Auntie and Mutt.
Auntie cut the rind
off the bacon
and offered it
to the dog
but before the dog
could put his lips to it
you made off with it
down the cast iron stairs
beside the barrack block
and the dog followed you
barking as it did so
and once you reached the ground
you went off
onto the grass
and the dog
chased you
and jumped up at you
trying to reach
the bacon rind
you held between fingers
and Auntie called over
the metal rail
let the mutt have it
don't tease him
and so you bit
the rind in half
and gave the mutt one half
and ate the other yourself
but sometimes after Auntie
put the bacon rind
in the dog's bowl
you picked it up
and tossed it
over the balcony rail
onto the ground below
and the dog raced down
the stairs after it
but now and then
you pretended
to toss it over
and after the dog
raced off
you would hold it
over the side of the rail
and called to the mutt
and said
I still got it mutt
and the dog raced back
up the stairs
and you sat there
on the metal landing
and the dog came
and licked and nuzzled you
and you gave the dog
the bacon rind
and he licked you
and wagged its tail
and Auntie called out
what are you up to?
what are you doing now?
poem by Terry Collett
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