Tweetspeak Poetry

Photo Play: Trains and Tracks Prompt

By 26 Comments

Trains embody excitement, freedom, and even a bit of mystery. They invite us to embark on an excursion of sight and sound. Of course like all good adventures, the destination is less important than the journey.

Thanks to everyone who participated in last week’s poetry prompt. Here is a poem from Chad we enjoyed:

iron thunder
billowing clouds
connecting coastlines
through the wilds

over rivers
through valleys deep
in a land
that few had seen

men laid rails
among the buffalo
over winding mountains
through drifting snow

with sweat and muscle
and blood and tears
men would challenge
and defeat their fears

this iron thunder
this monstrous creation
connecting the land
and forming a nation

—by Chad Wilson

PHOTO PLAY PROMPT: Take a photograph of a train, tracks, or anything railway inspired. Capture a sense of movement in your snapshot.

***

NOTE TO POETS: Looking for your Monday poetry prompt? On Photo Play weeks, it’s right here. Find inspiration from the photo in the post and respond with a poem. Leave your poem in the comment box. We’ll be reading. :)

Photo by Cedric Lange. Creative Commons license via Flickr. Post by Heather Eure.

________________________

Sometimes we feature your poems in Every Day Poems, with your permission of course. Thanks for writing with us!

Browse more Trains and Tracks
Browse Photography Prompts
Browse more Poetry Teaching Resources

Heather Eure
Latest posts by Heather Eure (see all)

Try Every Day Poems...

Comments

  3. Robbie Pruitt says

    Midmorning Train in Lisboa

    Overlooking the Atlantic
    From the train car window
    Stationary on the rails
    As time freezes
    Memories prevail
    Lisboa feels too far away
    To break the ties
    There are hundreds of miles
    Of rail before the memory dies
    Portugal never felt so lonely
    Than when than when I boarded this train
    And still the memories—still the pain.

    © October 13, 2014, Robbie Pruitt

    Reply

  5. Richard Maxson says

    https://www.flickr.com/photos/125528196@N08/15542419601/in/set-72157648377244400/lightbox/

    201

    At night the windows say the moon
    and its consequences are not lost.

    I slow to watch 1906 float below stone cliffs
    where wine bottle finishes emerge over the sills.
    There are no hats, but casual clothing and obvious conversation.

    201 is a coal-burner, now converted, down for the day,
    her slide rods reflect the silver evening as she brakes
    the cars coming into town off Highway 23 with just her looks.

    Once she helped build the Canal the story goes. Now
    its all dreams and nostalgia. Now she teaches the children
    about the great machines when they were still holy.

    I stop across the street and stare at her name, sure and soft
    in reflected light, the tracks thumping in my ears
    as the Ozarks roll past from Seligman to Eureka Springs—

    of course, it is my heart, but there is something else;
    there is the sound of voices, unhurried, like the pulse
    of wine leaving a bottle throat—voices passing by.

    My eyes close and I listen, I twist in my seat and hear
    the tired thrusting of a shovel as the tender opens in me.

    Reply

    • Heather Eure says

      That’s great, Richard! A photo and a poem! A wonderful pic of the train. I’m sure that grand old lady appreciated the attention. Also, hope you don’t mind if I snagged the Eureka Springs water tower photo for our Pinterest board, too. Love the rust and the lettering! If not, just let me know and I’ll refrain from posting it…Pinteresting it. That. Yes. 🙂

      Reply

  6. Jody Lee Collins says

    May I add mine?

    If Words were Pictures

    If words were pictures, I’d see them there,
    A string of suspended steps
    sunk into the sky.
    Mine, a stairway—
    I said goodbye and went on…
    climbing upward, upward.
    Yours—a thousand steps, but ground-level, flat;
    stretching forward in a solitary line.
    You said, “I almost died,”
    then put one foot in front of the other
    and continued to live
    one painful step at a time,
    transporting you away,
    slowly moving forward like a train.
    The rolling rumble carrying you along
    as you survive, just barely.

    Your words trail off in the distance
    with the sorry, sad sound of worn out wheels,
    and I’m left standing by the tracks
    tasting smoke, listening to the faint, fading whistle
    while you die.

    ©Jody Lee Collins October 17, 2014

    Reply

  8. Richard Maxson says

    Alone, I am this house through which I move.
    The moan of a long distance train sounds
    down the hallway—a wail for the heart-strong.

    Reply

Trackbacks

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *