Poetry, notes, and marginalia by William Michaelian
Well William, those gears are still well greased...a locomotive than cannot be stopped!
Not a train, but a brain, a well worn, well used, well oiled brain that leaps those chasms noiselessly.Thanks, William.
Metal on mettle, oil and trouble — thanks, Annie; thanks, Elisabeth.
anche questo lascia libero alle interpretazioni... for example imagine a wise old man, who is no longer a train, but with the age is like the crunch of gears, but he "’neath an old gray hat,across a chasm, grinding"I know maybe I'm crazy..
opsanche questo lascia libero alle interpretazioni =This leaves us free to interpretation:-)
Yes, I already made sense of that....Crazy in a good way, crazy in a way that’s familiar and makes me feel at home....Laura, your interpretation is wonderful. And right now, at this very moment, here where I live, I can hear a train. The sound is drifting in from the east....
My imagination is whirring along right now with this drawing in my mind as I read your words above...I see a grizzled old man in his faded overalls, his gray, dirty, frayed, engineer's cap at the helm of an old railroad push cart. His days as an engineer ended long ago but he needs to hear the sounds of the trains he grew to love. On an old, abandoned, piece of railroad track over a deep and narrow a ravine, he listens to the clickity, clack of rusty, iron wheels as he pumps the old push cart's lever and sails along in his memories of long ago...
Janice, I love it. I’ve always liked those handcars. They’re like human wells on wheels, the driver slowly pumping his way across the landscape.....
Thank you William...I couldn't remember what they were called (my age is showing again) but I could see them in my head :)
Still a well oiled wordsmith William.~robert
Slowingor speeding up?We've a train across our street. It is a clock to us. It is our pulse, our veins. Wouldn't feel like living without it.xoerin
Still well oiled, Robert, and yet strangely sober at this writing.Trains make good clocks, Erin, but they’re hard to hang on the wall. A clock on a trestle comes to a halt just before it falls. The engineer winds it up, pushes the hat from his brow.
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