Twenty Hours

I’m on a train to Yorkshire
in bright sunshine for the day
Left when dawn was breaking
as it’s many miles away
Just shy of twenty hours
this working day for me
From the South Coast and then back again
by midnight hopefully

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About a journey

I wrote about a journey
I started way back when
the words that found their way
to the pages from my pen
were from an adolescent
who hadn’t yet found life
yet wrote as though he knew it all
through torment, angst and strife

The Trip

The early start
the silent hour
the wind outside a-moan
The ticking clock
the coffee hot
the time to leave from home

HAIKU: LIFE IS A PATHWAY

By Charles Robert Lindholm

Life Is A Pathway

Sojourn

I’m picking scabs

pieces,

leftovers,

little-little tiny pieces

stuck here and there

slipped and

stuck between the cracks

trying hard to get to them

using my bony fingers, knuckles and

what not,

Homeward Bound

As stations go, the Lime Street one
here in Liverpool
is rather nice and will I’m sure
make some people drool
Architects and engineers and
railway history buffs
Will, weak of knee, pontificate
about minutiae stuff

THERE ARE SECRETS I CAN’T TELL

By Charles Robert Lindholm 

There are secrets
I can’t ever tell, 

well,
at least not
until
I reach my
final destination
in hell 

Snapshot

Once more I am waiting
on a station, it’s dark
It’s been a long day
and I was up with the lark

Rhythm of the rails

Rhythm of the rails
strikes a resonant chord
Music for the morning
and the commuter hoard
Newspapers folded
Tablets fired up
with caffeine boosters
from paper cup
Gathering momentum
into the Weald
Heading for London
through Sussex field

A Blessing: Yol Bolsun

May there be a road
May your path always be clear
May your journey never fail
May your trail not disappear

May there be a road
May your burdens all be light

Back to Newcastle

On my way back to Newcastle
today on the train
I’m prepared for the cold
but it looks more like rain

Big blue double-decker bus

Heading into Worthing on
a big blue double-decker bus
My transport for this morning
as there are no trains because
the buggers are on strike again
No Christmas spirit there
No sparkle and no smiles as
Southern Rail just do not care

Finding your sublime

Yes, I know it’s winter out there
and it’s miserable and wet
But with your imagination
A little summer I can get
It’s really not that difficult
your mind’s eye is what you need
and a willingness to just let go
and listen as agreed

Fourteen hours

Five thirty in the morning
and I’m out and on my way
It is cold and pretty brittle
at this early time of day
On a train that’s bound for London
warm and cosy here inside
Though my journey takes me northward
to West Yorkshire there I ride

Running Leaf Above the Moor

She says I am the leaf sent out to sail the air across the moor.

Quietude and Rolling are my calling, to be tossed and savaged
like the sea.

Respite is a foreigner, who gallops as a steed
far from my body, as if it were the conduit of its destruction.

Heading Home

I take the square window and fold it up,
Tuck it inside the small cupboard upon my left lung
And under my heart. The road is a leviathan’s tail
Serpentine across the North American continent,

Departures

We’re sitting in Departures
waiting for our flight
We’re feeling quite excited
just like we were last night

Sans ubiquity

That’s a highbrow way of saying
I’ll not be here awhile
But it won’t be for long and
I’ll return soon with a smile

Where the Wind goes, so I shall go.

Where the wind goes
So I will go.

If Harmatten calls,
So I depart. The Sahara a cradle so I shall lay.

Should the Westerly
Steal me outright, and collide me with
A forest, a field, a turbine blade

The Green and Blue

There is the smell
Of moss and green. A color
Like a thief. Stealing land, smothering
Hillsides and the trees. This
Essence, the Qi, of the
Leaf and blade, settles here
(On my breast) and cracks me open
To lift my heart.

Train a-trundles

Train a-trundles daily
inland from the sea
cross a river, through the fields
familiar to me
A journey I know all too well
although it differs every day
as the scenery  changes
when the weather has its say

Walls and Doors

Every layer of brick
not a wall

Every opening
not a door

The first step

 

No hesitation here
No holding back
A firm foot forward
There’s nothing I lack
No niggling doubts
No worries or lows
No fear of unknown
No concerns and no woes

Those Little Men

You make the moon
As you should
And I make the stars
As I should

In doing so
We behold the same night
With our backs on the same grass

The rollercoaster ride

In the razor sharp clarity
of a crisp autumn morn
An erudite moment
of instinct was born
A momentary feeling
captured and held
Crystallised into form
to fashion and meld

Senior Moments III

 

Just had a senior moment
Whilst writing poems in my book
Noticed I’d just missed my stop
Glancing up to take a look

Thank goodness for i-Pods

 

I have six hours of travelling
to the North East again
As I’m bound for Newcastle
on a Virgin fast train

I’ll pass the time writing
a poem or two
Or watch the world passing
outside, like you do

Wobble

I am a nut
Wound into several grooves
Barring a few

Wobbling the wheel I hold
Called life