Station poems bring the best collection of short and long station poetry. Poems for him and her and every poetry lover. These great station rhymes are so amazing they will touch your heart and keep you craving for more. Hope you find your own deep meanings in these station poems. They are decent, rhyming, free spirited and true. Thoughts on station are here for you.
Lights and dark shadows Leaves swirl around A couple hugging with joy A couple in tears saying goodbye Voices fading into the sounds of wheels Of a train traveling to ends unknown Into the depth time and space An inner
The train has already departed, From the country that they call yesterday, Into the territories uncharted, Leaving behind the remains of the day. Leaving behind the sobbing hills and churches, And nurseries full of sighing, And forests of ashen pines
Welcome,welcome,welcome, Welcome to Paradise Welcome to Nainital. A heaven on earth, Sun-kissed mountains. Yachting,boating on serene lakes, The charming lakes and splendid landscapes. The most beautiful romantic place, In the Lake District of India. Nainital is the Majestic Queen of
The guard gave the signal there was a flutter of good byes the train started its journey of life racing on the railroads of dynamism, halting at stations… The station master managed the station of life well and the train
Temptation- Part One Its evening and I’ve finished my class. I run through stairs, pass by corridors, And brisk walk down the lane. A dancer swaying in the peak hour trance. I reach the station, no intention to miss the
It is 11.30 at night- A night train is appearing into our sight- Porters are walking up and down the station, They are keeping watch on train’s arrival with great caution- They are frantic to the passengers- who will get
My wife gasps in pain there’s a dog running toward us down the highway median traffic is lurching the sun sits a dog’s head above the southern horizon Thanksgiving is tomorrow we have to turn time into distance the car
Waiting at the station for the train, My little brother asked “WHO ARE THEY?” Oddly dressed, Men on saree’s, Masculine voice, clapping all their way? He looked perplexed.. A spark of astonishment on his face.. Observing them for a while,
“HMS Trincomalee, a British Corvette, sixth rate warship of 28 guns, Five hundred gross tons was she. The King’s Pressman am I, handling a pressgang of five, My firm service of country and King. Her ships bell marking time; bosun
Have I been born of a curse; Rehearse The station just burst, A hole through it first; So it is like to be at the mercy, of this jury decided on perjury. A trial without annihilating the evil inside me,
We found the kid outside of McCleary walking in a daysuit like some land owner off some nineteenth-century hacienda he got in the car stinking of moss and unwashed armpits there were at least two kinds of fluff in his
The train leaves the station on a misty night On the train is a lonely soul, leaving behind a life unlived Anticipation grows with hopes of a new life full of love, laughter and hope. As the train comes to
Sound of Bell is an experience to thrill When the school Bell rings for class to begin students experience creek sound with their heart beating at random When the school Bell rings for class to end Students feel rhythmic sound
Bygone days had swifter wings That flew over the assorted lands And brought the harmonious peace To tune the music and the gong. Present borrowed mind is leaning Forward and backward Backward and forward Out and in In and out
One day a book materializes And floats off store shelves; The other side of earthly farewells, It describes and tells. Upon its arrival, It trends and goes viral; There’s no literary rival – Life’s AfterParty is the title. THE DEFINITIVE
Under the shade he spoke vehemently and coherently, He was cautious to please them and they weren’t late to applause, Thousands and thousands flocked and the weather not favourite, They weren’t under shade and drops of rain landed on them,
This is the place, a city average Where he frequents. Here lies another memory lurking on A fairy of delight, lived as a lovely lass. Now it is his place of work Where destiny brought him alike A fading odour
Your name is marked in its ledger. It will find you, catch you flatfooted. Trap you. Have you. Keep you hostage and not ask for ransom. This is snake charming – rattlesnake charms the man, lulls and rocks and poisons.
None our own devices in any scheme of things We all are but nothing than puppets on strings With advent designed for a set time on stage All expectedly ordained impossible to rearrange Often get manipulated and to probable comply
One difficulty still haunting him That time could not absolve Was the invisible sense that would come over him Deep in the night when suddenly, forced awake From exhaustion, he’d remember the war A village, a road, or maybe the
I stand here alone. Afraid. Why did you ever lie to me? Dragging me further and further down with this temporary love, You had me paralysed, mesmerised with your very essence. Why couldn’t I break free..? Weak, so weak I
Born are we unshackled Flowing we are like rivers Continuously moving ahead In motion we are forever. Cozy beds confine us not We spring up to move out To echoing meadows where Peacocks dance, coo about. Free they are, free
Once, eyes did spoke for the inner being Then, gestures spoke and the grin, Her words filled our vacant spot Then, actions did what words could not. Hoped to stay like this forever and ever With you in me, me
A futurist virginity in black rose was seeking posthumous award for immoral kisses of thorns. Unaware of lethal thighs skipping the lunar landscape at night. Were you going to leap over the mountains curling across the glaciers of white pain?
In solemn realisation of the dearly departed, A cut etched deeply into our skin, Heart hastened the bleeding while mind is cluttered, Life moves on but where do we begin? Enduring moments to moments as days passed, The bleeding subsides
Coffee// By: Fareed Ghanem **** Here I am, just a handful of water taken from the last raining season. Since the last Bedouin had poured me into his pot, which had been dyed by sand and smoke, and laid over
If dreams are strung from end to end like string, My dreams of you could wrap around the world, And all the ways your name, my mind did bring, Are way much more than how my thoughts unfurled; Though mornings
There we met, at street seventy seventh; my friend who’d bowed down with altering features, and me with my clothes getting narrower. We could not find, in this chilly present, a tale to help us recline on the pavement’s stone.