The Train: New Poetry


Though the train rocks
my unsteady

hand in its
stormy grasp

I will not
be flung

overboard. Deep
within its

wavy chambers I
will sleep

unseen unquestioned
scribbling my prayers

patiently awaiting
the gaping tunnel the


Though the King

The King is in the field

And I
Who have been so long wandering lost

Amongst its
Tall grasses sweet wet soft scents

To be found as I slip amidst the trees

As day
After day I think I feel against my

Legs His
Royal robes His warm palm brushing mine

My breath
Quickens and though He is so close

I find myself suddenly in on this train.
My wild

Gaze following His damp footprints
My dry throat silenced mid-prayer,