Throwback Thursday: The boys we were

We sat and watched the trains
Listened to their wheels screech on the line
Our faces dusty and muddy from play
But we always fell to silence to watch the trains
Going this-a-way and that-a-way
And we mimicked the sounds in our games
“WOOoWOoooo”

We’d run too close to the tracks
And our mothers screamed, “Get back!”
And oh how we laughed
And our faces looked on with anticipation
As the rumble of a train could be heard
In the distance

And the paper mill would sound an alarm
And we’d burrow down under a bench
Because under there we’d come to no harm
Our grandfathers told us of the wars
And in our imaginations, a fight was ahead
And we were evacuee’s waiting for a train

And our little dusty faces
Peered under hats
And our grandparents would clean us
By spitting onto a handkerchief
And we’d squirm
And wash our faces again behind their backs

Now the boys we used to be
Sit frozen in sepia photographs

Written in 2014-2015 (c)

Don’t forget to like, follow and share.

You can also follow me on Twitter

Waiting room.

I’m not the best of men
 There is no hero 
 Behind my eye sockets
 Unblinking to the aftermath
 Of human anguish 
 Ready to take on the world 
 Even if it hurts
 
 No. 
 My body is just a derelict waiting room
 where a boy awaits
 Dressed in postman pat pj’s 
 

© 2016 April

*notice: Any ads and/or supposed ‘related’ ‘similar’ posts are not necessarily endorsed by Silverbackgorillapoetry

The boys we were

We sat and watched the trains
Listened to their wheels screech on the line
Our faces dusty and muddy from play
But we always fell to silence to watch the trains
Going this a-way and that a-way
And we mimicked the sounds in our games
“WOOoWOoooo”

We’d run too close to the tracks
And our mothers screamed “Get back!”
And oh how we laughed
And our faces looked on with anticipation
As the rumble of a train could be heard
In the distance

And the paper mill would sound an alarm
And we’d burrow down under a bench
Because under there we’d come to no harm
Our grandfathers told us of the wars
And in our imaginations a fight was ahead
And we were evacuee’s waiting for a train

And our little dusty faces
Peered under hats
And our grandparents would clean us
By spitting onto a handkerchief
And we’d squirm
And wash our faces again behind their backs

Now the boys we used to be
Sit frozen in sepia photographs

Written in 2014-2015 (c)