Hobo Jungle
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Jackie Blue
Jackie, now that is an offer. Let's open the taps and let the sap run wild. Here in the far east (down east) the maple buds are just getting wooly, the forsythia is just beginning to strain at the shoots, the grass has patches of honest green, the honey suckle is sending out lime green postage stamps, etc.
Shorty, . . . and you compose a fine model shot. I'd love to see one more.
Shorty, . . . and you compose a fine model shot. I'd love to see one more.
That a life will be spent gaining inches,
When this distance is read in miles.
When this distance is read in miles.
Thanks, Shorty. I needed that one. What a wonderful signal bridge. I like your track rail color too. Did you read my comments on the coloring of the center rail over on the regular forum side? Curious what you might think. How large is this fabulous layout of yours? Why no feature article in the press? I've seen very few high-rail layouts that rival yours.
That a life will be spent gaining inches,
When this distance is read in miles.
When this distance is read in miles.
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Jackie Blue
Seems I'm surrounded by the truly gifted in this camp. And it makes me feel fortunate. Shorty (I'm thinking that appellation is the antithesis of of reality), thanks for the photo! Your lighting technique is superb! It does look a lot like an Edward Hopper painting.
I thought I'd share my favorite poem by Tramp, a poet and gifted artist we are lucky to have in our humble midst:
Drive
And the summer night wind
(green and lush and living)
Through the window reaches in,
And here I drive again alone
(the night middled, road empty)
Through that which I have known.
Past faint and lost hometowns,
Past fragile first loves
(the corn is whispering, the kisses
softer than even memory can make),
Past the faded triumphs of resurgent hope,
Past all the efforts of brave youth,
Past the bitter crumble of first beliefs,
Past the drowning cry of only truth.
And the map has worn illegible,
And the springs no longer hold,
And I beg the road lines lighted
For blindness has begun.
I've navigated out to sea somehow
The road long left behind,
The wheels on water still not sinking
Forestalling the fact of time.
But I have reached an odd place
Where even I can't drink,
And all has become empty thirst,
Pray I need these last miles
More than I did the first.
I thought I'd share my favorite poem by Tramp, a poet and gifted artist we are lucky to have in our humble midst:
Drive
And the summer night wind
(green and lush and living)
Through the window reaches in,
And here I drive again alone
(the night middled, road empty)
Through that which I have known.
Past faint and lost hometowns,
Past fragile first loves
(the corn is whispering, the kisses
softer than even memory can make),
Past the faded triumphs of resurgent hope,
Past all the efforts of brave youth,
Past the bitter crumble of first beliefs,
Past the drowning cry of only truth.
And the map has worn illegible,
And the springs no longer hold,
And I beg the road lines lighted
For blindness has begun.
I've navigated out to sea somehow
The road long left behind,
The wheels on water still not sinking
Forestalling the fact of time.
But I have reached an odd place
Where even I can't drink,
And all has become empty thirst,
Pray I need these last miles
More than I did the first.
In my experience, a soft gray green, or a warm gray tone will make a room appear much larger than white. Just put a piece of white paper next to a middle value unsaturated hue and see which comes forward to your eyes. White walls do brighten, but I believe they shrink spaces. (I've spent thirty years on this.)
That a life will be spent gaining inches,
When this distance is read in miles.
When this distance is read in miles.
Shorty, I have lots of train poems. but I've posted most of them on the other Jungles over at OGR. (The first Jungle ran over 800 posts before Melvin deleted it, then there was the Circus Train that ran about 400 with Jim Barrett and his lisping snake, the new Jungle after that ran about 700 when we were asked to move, and then the last one: Hobo Jungle Continues ran 1,200 or something.) So you can see there was plenty of time to post my few train poems. I hate to bore everyone with them again. How about a non-train poem? I've got plenty of those. Also, the last thread in the lounge "Way Freight" has an excerpt from my new novel, which is actually a novel within a novel, written by my protagonist, Jimmy Hakken. In normal mss. format there would be an apparent font difference between the two books. It doesn't show up here though.
That a life will be spent gaining inches,
When this distance is read in miles.
When this distance is read in miles.
SEXTANT
I let the ancient liquid pass between my lips
And begin the gentle ascent towards hope:
As each ring of thin cloud descends,
As the damp rings collect in the rubbed wood,
My eyes moist at the long pull,
The barmaid more sumptuous
at each twice outstretched hand.
The hot, dry dust of noon
laying itself through the bent screen,
The overhead fan drumming low joy
to my temples,
The raging midnight tempest
flooding the panes
As the colored lines of neon
dance on the macadam,
The icy snap of the old door swinging open.
At each fresh cool pint
Like an ancient mariner
I hold my glass to the stars,
Yet each in our own way
Drinks from the hourglass,
And inexorably, it will empty.
Out into the bright heat,
Out into the black rain,
Out into the cutting cold,
My face turns to the sky.
And if with my pen
I could cut into this page,
Like a carved adage
In the darkest corner
Of an aged wood bar,
Among the palimpsest of markings
Read:
I went from hope to despair
Downing many pints of ale,
Now it's worse—I'm just here.
I let the ancient liquid pass between my lips
And begin the gentle ascent towards hope:
As each ring of thin cloud descends,
As the damp rings collect in the rubbed wood,
My eyes moist at the long pull,
The barmaid more sumptuous
at each twice outstretched hand.
The hot, dry dust of noon
laying itself through the bent screen,
The overhead fan drumming low joy
to my temples,
The raging midnight tempest
flooding the panes
As the colored lines of neon
dance on the macadam,
The icy snap of the old door swinging open.
At each fresh cool pint
Like an ancient mariner
I hold my glass to the stars,
Yet each in our own way
Drinks from the hourglass,
And inexorably, it will empty.
Out into the bright heat,
Out into the black rain,
Out into the cutting cold,
My face turns to the sky.
And if with my pen
I could cut into this page,
Like a carved adage
In the darkest corner
Of an aged wood bar,
Among the palimpsest of markings
Read:
I went from hope to despair
Downing many pints of ale,
Now it's worse—I'm just here.
That a life will be spent gaining inches,
When this distance is read in miles.
When this distance is read in miles.
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