sometimes train whistles hold hands,
warming palms.
preheating cast iron to cook eggs,
when bodies dream of pancakes.
sit forward.
watch each rattling car sing of gods
promising strawberries in glass bowls.
hot coffee.
fresh cream.
burrs stuck to shoelaces.
sit back.
sometimes trains get closer.
dark blue coffee cups crack.
babies breath hangs by strings.
full stomachs mask empty hands.
sit still.
hear caboose sing heavy lullabies.
dirty blankets trapping heat.
sort burrs into piles.
sip water from cupped hands.
reach out.
stand up.
*33/100: For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day.
**All photos are mine, taken with an Olympus E-M1 MarkII and edited with Lightroom Classic.
Bridgette Tales 
What a hauntingly beautiful and deeply evocative poem. The train becomes so much more than a train here—it feels like a moving metaphor for life, carrying warmth, hunger, hope, loneliness, and human resilience in every rattling carriage. 🚂✨
I was especially moved by the progression of “sit forward,” “sit back,” “sit still,” and finally “reach out. / stand up.” Those simple commands create a powerful emotional journey—from observing life to feeling its weight, and finally finding the courage to respond.
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close eyes
clickity clack
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Down the track 🚂
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Love this Bridgette.
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I’m so glad you like this one. Thank you!
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Bridgette, I love how the train moves from warmth and plenty to hunger and struggle, and how your short commands ask us not just to watch, but to help.
Much love,
David
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Thanks, David. This one sort of took on a life of its own and I’m not sure my initial idea stayed with me through until the end. About a third of the way through this project and I’m in awe by those of you who regularly post daily poems. It’s a lot!
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💪🏻 💪🏻 💪🏻 ~ you got this
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A third of the way through! Woot!
Nicely done. Atmospheric.
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Thanks. I know 100 poems in a row is standard for you, but I’m finding it a challenge. Not only to carve out time each day, but to not overuse my go-to themes and images. We all have them, but I’m hoping this next third I can stretch myself a bit further and find new ways to look at things. I might play around with more storytelling poetry than using it only to process emotions. Will see! Also, thanks for the support. Means the world.
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I’m a weirdo.
Looking forward to what comes out of the experiment and the push. 💙
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It is a beautiful poem. I suspect that only those who have travelled on trains pulled by steam locomotives can fully appreciate its power. They were slow, and so there was always the waiting; then the whistle announcing the beginning, or the resumption, of a journey towards hope, disappointment, or distress. The poem captures this beautifully through its sequence of gestures: sitting forward, sitting back, sitting still, and finally reaching one’s destination and standing up.
Some of the imagery remain private.
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Thank you for this thoughtful comment. I’m working through some feelings about what I thought life would be like versus what it’s like now, the call of the train feels louder sometimes.
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