Essence of the Village and new dawn!
Soot over the chimney
And hoot wakes up the moody.
A Man wears an overall
With a spade he puts charcoal.
Moves slowly the steam engine
Early in the morning!
Train goes passing meadows
Cows eat the grass
Ferry crosses and the church bell rings
Village awakes!
The baker rolls the dough
A man with a plough,
The van brings the newspapers from the town
And the middle aged skinny driver's strange behaviour
With the widowed milkmaid turned into a new folklore
And sooner or later that definitely goes to the paper?
to my faraway poet friend robyn selters in gratitude!
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Related quotes
Janice and You at Waterloo Station
At Waterloo Station
the steam engines
puffed powerful steam
reaching up
to the rooftop
and you stood there
hands in your pockets
your nose sniffing in
the white and grey smell
you can taste it
on your tongue
and Janice beside you
her eyes looked up
at the rooftop
as the steam
reached high
her hands clutching
the small bag
I want to be a train driver
when I'm older
you said
I want to smell
that smell
and breathe in
that steam and shovel
coal in the engine
maybe you will
Janice said
maybe you'll be
on a train like that
big and black
and powerful
she put her hand
under your arm
and squeezed
Gran said we can be
what we want
if we want it
bad enough
Janice added
you felt her hand
under your arm
sensed her squeeze it
we went to the seaside
on a big black train
like this last year
you said
and I put my head
out the train window
and my mum said
keep your head in
or a train
will knock it off
that'd be horrible
Janice said
she clutched
closer to you
as the steam train
puffed out more steam
and the sound was loud
and powerful
and she said
maybe
when you're an engine driver
you can take me
to the seaside
with Gran
yes
you said
and if you come
to the engine
before you take off
I can show you
the engine
and how powerful it is
and she smiled
and put her head
on your shoulder
yes
you said softly
when I grow up
and when I am older.
poem by Terry Collett
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Cooking Recalls The Past
The steam is hissing from the spout
As the pressure cooker pushes it out
Takes my back to my childhood past
As great steam engines go flying past
Huffing and puffing plumes of smoke
You cough and splutter it makes you choke
The ground it shakes under foot
As you hear that high pitched toot
Traveling along its metal road
Its boiler bubbling to near explode
As it carries its heavy load
Driver on his footplate stood
Face covered in oil and with soot
Proud was he as was his dad
For an engine driver he was glad
Timer rings cooking done
Brings me back form times of childhood fun
25 10 10
Chellaston
poem by Jim O'Donnell
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Ough''A Phonetic Fantasy
The baker-man was kneading dough
And whistling softly, sweet and lough.
Yet ever and anon he'd cough
As though his head were coming ough!
"My word!" said he," but this is rough:
This flour is simply awful stough!"
He punched and thumped it through and through,
As all good bakers dough!
" I'd sooner drive," said he " a plough
Than be a baker anyhough!"
Thus spake the baker kneading dough;
But don't let on I told you sough!
poem by William Thomas Goodge
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The Church Bell Rings Too Early
the church bell rings too early
the town's electrician
bald and ugly
poor and lonely
he was looking for his wife
who left with another man
taking with her
his only son
he could not eat breakfast
skipped his supper
and would not care for any lunch
and then the church bell tolled
for him
though not as early as he once did it
we shall always remember
grief, lament, the sound of the bell
too sonorous
to remember
lost affections, betrayal, death
and lack of
prayer.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Organic Soul at Naughty Sixty!
I eat lettuces like a goat
Carrot & Beet
As same as Wine and Cheese
Wife hides the brown sugar bottle
And I sleep on the floor as per the doctor's advise for sciatica.
With all these restrictions
I have to participate the World Diabetic Marathon!
Darling it's harder to bring the cup this time home
At least a certificate for finishing the race too doubtful
Because the former champions
Alzhimer and HIV run in the race?
(for my poet friend robyn selters in gratitude!)
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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D6
every early hour of the
morning
before the church bell rings
for the first mass
the wife folds everything
from blankets to towels
to underwear
and paper bags and
scarfs
and one by one she
would put them
well arranged inside
the cabinets
the husband has noticed these
for days but he pretends that
this activity is just normal for
wives and
that it will also be normal
for husbands not to mind
perhaps she just wants
to show
that everything must be
well kept
and perhaps he wants to
make the impression
that indeed everything
must be well-kept
but until when? oh, she keeps
it to herself
and oh, same thing with him,
he also keeps it to
himself
that will always be
the beginning of their story
the middle
and perhaps also the end
but everybody knows.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Funeral
The village lay in silence
As I lounged there, on the hill,
The grass so soft and evergreen,
The flowers, petalled still,
The morning sun shone brightly
As I lay, without a care,
And watched the village come awake,
I watched the village stir.
The baker with his basket
Dropping off each loaf of bread,
The milkman chinking bottles
As the wives stirred from their bed,
The countrymen at breakfast
Peering out to greet the day,
The cock had crowed just once that morn,
The fox had had its way.
Then later on that morning
I could hear the church bell toll,
And the mourners, dressed in black
Filed out, the widow in her shawl,
Her walk seemed so familiar,
I guessed it was a friend,
And pondered on this life of ours,
How soon it seemed to end.
The bearers soon appeared, heads bowed,
The coffin seemed so slight,
To carry all those hopes and dreams
Toward that final night,
They led the whole procession
At a stately, regal pace,
Toward the path up on the hill
Where God would lend him grace.
They weaved and turned along the track
Where lay the cemetery,
I stood as they approached, I saw
They'd have to pass by me,
But then the vicar halted as
He came into my view,
I asked: ‘Who is the fallen one? '
He said: ‘We come for you! '
12 August,2012
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Morning Sunshine
This poet is so seductive
This poet is now strange to me
This poet is so bold
This little girl doesn't want to see
The little girl has known this poet
ever since
But the little girl is already
tired of this poet
She just wants to play.
Not any passing minute
She hasn't have
any word of
allegory
metonymy and
simile
Take me away from this poet yet
the little girl must empty first
the words of this poet
Before she is free to play
in the morning sunshine
and go away from this busy poet
Do you think I'm too young to see?
Do you agree?
This poet won't let me
play out in the middle of the rain
This poet won't let me
see the afternoon sway
This poet won't let me
see the morning gay
Let me see the Morning Sunshine
Let me see!
But this poet
Won't let me
I'll just watch t.v
and sing
her poetry
poem by Mary Jesusa Villegas
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Steam Engine
Lead vocal: micky dolenz
Produced by: chip douglas
Mr. engineer, slow the engine down some more.
Youre movin just a little too fast,
Ive got my foot down clear to the floor.
Steam engine, engine 99
Steam drivers, rollin right on by.
Mr. engineer, you see Ive got a little problem here.
My baby, shes aboard your train,
She says shes never comin back again.
Steam engine, engine 99
Steam drivers, rollin right on by.
She told me good bye, she said Im leavin you behind.
I think Im gonna die, if I hear that whistle whine.
Mr. engineer, slow the engine down some more.
Youre movin movin just a little too fast,
Ive got my foot down clear to the floor.
Steam engine, engine 99
Steam drivers, rollin right on by.
(steam engines)gotta keep on keep on rollin.
(steam engines)shes gonna leave me behind.
(steam engines)i might as well go home.
(steam engines)shes gonna leave me behind.
(steam engines)i might as well go home.
song performed by by Monkees
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Babysitting
carnival been here
before steam engine
middle of town or hood
where sugar candy
balloons, refreshment
are concession assets
watching ferry's wheel
from doughnut stand
kids are having fun
screaming raising hands
as it loops round and round
getting ready for pit stop
poem by Manonton Dalan
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A ramshackle piano in a junk yard!
I cannot play any instrument
But I can hoot aloud against the unjust!
I just pressed a reed and in a low pitch
I heard this; ' Frederic Francois Chopin,
Do you remember a Polish pianist?
I suffered from poor health
And I died in Paris in 1849
At the age of 39.'
I want to say him that I have been to Gdynia
And I saw apple cheek beautiful girls in the dance of Mazurkas.
But I was dumbfound and I felt like a dummy run in the life theater
Or behind the stage as an unkempt underprivileged!
To my friend robyn selters in gra
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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A Merry Christmas
Thick snow covered the mountain tops and the dangerous calendar is going to be finished very soon,
But a new shinning one comes with the same old nagging worries.
I hear the hymns from a faraway church
And I think of my old thatched village church and the skinny bearded father who wanders in my blood-soaked native land.
Oh! My Lord Jesus of Nazareth,
If we could have the Christmas at all to our miserable lives?
* Dedication to Sandra, Jerry, Alison, Denis, Dave, Max, George and the rest of my fellow poet friends in the site.
Merry Christmas and a prosperous new year to all.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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They'll Debate!
small town, vacant store fronts,
set ablaze, and burning,
early morning February sun!
people stand and gawk,
by the old tracks, train forgotten...
childhood memories, up in smoke.
they call it America,
the land of opportunity;
freedom weeps, no one hears!
cars built overseas
powered by Middle East oil,
race by, headed for Walmart...
and tonight they'll debate
over family values and taxes.
somewhere, a church bell ringing,
and someone goes to bed hungry!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Village Green
Out in the country,
Far from all the soot and noise of the city,
Theres a village green.
Its been a long time
Since I last set eyes on the church with the steeple
Down by the village green.
twas there I met a girl called daisy
And kissed her by the old oak tree.
Although I loved my daisy, I saw fame,
And so I left the village green.
I miss the village green,
And all the simple people.
I miss the village green,
The church, the clock, the steeple.
I miss the morning dew, fresh air and sunday school.
And now all the houses
Are rare antiquities.
American tourists flock to see the village green.
They snap their photographs and say gawd darn it,
Isnt it a pretty scene?
And daisys married tom the grocer boy,
And now he owns a grocery.
I miss the village green,
And all the simple people.
I miss the village green,
The church, the clock, the steeple.
I miss the morning dew, fresh air and sunday school.
And I will return there,
And Ill and daisy,
And well sip tea, laugh,
And talk about the village green.
We will laugh and talk about the village green.
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Heat of Hunger
'Jesus took the Loaves,
Gave thanks,
And distributed them.'
In a bakery the poor baker rolls the dough with water and his sweat.
Bakery owner is a registered miser among the poor folks
Who never throws a bread crumb to a crow.
The stray smoke rises from chimney to the helpless sky in its usual rhythm
And I see a man who sits on the pavement just opposite the bakery.
He must be a homeless and he thinks if he's the baker
Then he could have swallow a cookie easily.
Saliva comes out from his toothless mouth
Like in a leaked urban tap.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Auctioneer
She didn't want to get pinned down by her prior town
Get me to the train on time, here take this nickel make a dime
Take this penny and make it into a necklace when I leave
What is at the other end, I don't know another friend
Another wife, another morning spent
Listen, listen to the auctioneer
Another engine, another engine
We never wrote the reasons that I need explained
Some things are givens, and others get away
This time its for myself you call it what you may
Okay, we won't say goodbye so long, so much more
Listen to the auctioneer
Another engine, another engine
Listen to the bargain holler
Listen to the barter holler
Listen to the auctioneer
Get me to the train on time here take this nickel make a dime
Take this penny and make it into a necklace when I leave
What is at the other end, an I don't know another friend
Another wife, another morning spent
Listen to the auctioneer
Another engine, another engine
Do I stand the bargain holler?
Listen to the barter holler
Listen to the auctioneer
song performed by by REM
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Church in evening May
The evening comes down lately in May,
the church bell from the tower rings,
the train rattles through the lanes
of Dublin housing hedgerows.
The grounds are tidy, flagpoles white,
the fuschia flowers again,
the priestly Sunday job is done
the eremitical seal.
Then the staircase,
duvet dream,
and visit from remembering
and wish.
the morning bell like lauds again,
awake the slumbering souls.
And yawn for like a triduum comes
the routine rush and stale staccato.
of novena repetition.
The graveside down the road is full,
the coffins bakers dozen,
the wedding bells are ringing out,
the child his chrism head
is done,
the money bagged and
village shrived.
Many the parson, manse and bell
is quiet in this age.
The football brats from College school
kick up against the wall the ball,
and deep within,
in silent meditation,
beads the soulful wanting heir.
And onwards towards another dawn,
centenary bell rings out.
The shriven shrived,
the canon fired,
and day is done,
amid the purple fuschia bells.
poem by Bernard Kennedy
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Charcoal Night
On a charcoal night the owl calls.
On a charcoal night wolves sharpen their claws.
On a charcoal night children shake with fear.
The charcoal night is growing near.
On a charcoal night the demon dogs sing.
On a charcoal night the little stars gleam.
On a charcoal night the air goes cold.
The nightmares and stories are always told.
On a charcoal night wolves wet their fangs.
On a charcoal night the owls call rang.
On a charcoal night the beasts are out.
On a charcoal night this is their town.
On a charcoal night lock up the doors.
On a charcoal night don't sleep on the floors.
On a charcaol night say good bye to those dear.
Because the charcaol night is finally hear.
poem by Okami Kamikaze
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Train Man
And over in the teacher's home she waited by the phone
For calls which never rang, and people who never sang
Train man rambled dusty into town and made his daily round
Train man and he comes in the night
brings her no love but he's right
Yes he's right
Through fog and misty morning dew, she'd seen his oily face
and he had touched her heart, taken it apart
Though he never stopped to speak a word his voice was all she heard
Train man and he comes in the night
brings her no love but he's right
Yes he's right
Little girl you're a pretty little girl
Won't you come with me a while
Little girl in your frilly little world
Won't you give me your sweet smile
(first solo)
If you come tonight bring someone
If you come tonight bring someone
Don't come alone
If you come alone don't come
Don't come
Don't come
(solo)
Yes i know he's right
Yes i know he's right
oh I know he's right
fade...
She held his hand and whispered soft
I love you train man
He just grumbled like engine as it rumbles
And said someday
Train man and he knows something's wrong and he's right
Oh yes he's right
song performed by by Bob Seger
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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An isolated shack beside the Railroad
Only after the last night's train passed
They get a proper sleep on the cracked floor?
And children get up early in the morning
to the train's annoyed hooting!
But none of them go to school
As the infectious rats were eaten
Their tattered certificates of birth?
Unlettered father and sympathetic mother
pacify them that they have planned
One day to go on a train journey
Somewhere around hill side
Where the diamond mountains touch
The sky & Heaven!
In their sugary dreams near by dawn
Children see the train goes faster
Passing the skyscrapers in the city.
And one pulled the chain merrily.
Train stopped and they woke up.
O they observed the barren sky
Through their holey thatched roof!
Rich trains go in the right time as usual
with the rowdy hoot!
And the shearing skinny children never grumble on picnics
Poor parents too won't discuss the planned trip often
Ultimately all in the shack got used to the life's boring excursion?
[Remember the Econ-teacher once asked me about the restricted word 'Exploitation' in a college seminar.Then I replied; 'Who's stolen the poor man's wealth and deposited in Swiss Banks? ]
nimal dunuhinga
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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