Wes Corona
10-31-2015, 12:13 PM
This thread contains my creations about toy trains and my life-long love of them. If you proceed, you probably have a memory or a desire for these great miniature recreations of life on the railroad. I hope you enjoy.
Beginnings
I was just a kid.
When all this began.
My first tunnel,
Was a coffee can.
They were bigger those days.
Cut lengthwise in two,
They would rattle and shake,
When the train passed through.
My first train was used,
But to me is was new,
My Dad never said,
And I never knew.
The train was a steamer,
With a broken E unit switch.
I liked it just the same,
And “fixed” the switch with a match.
The train had no whistle,
It had no bell.
But it smoked with pellets,
And it smoked like he**.
For Christmas that year,
Under the tree,
A whistle house was found.
Happy I was, for now I had sound.
Track on the floor.
The damp basement floor.
No wonder the shocks,
Went through my socks,
And into my core.
Bridges and trestles,
All built from scrap stuff.
Whatever I found,
Was always enough.
The trains were quite strong,
They pulled big loads along.
And if by chance they crashed a bit,
I’d set them right, they’d never quit.
My trains carried soldiers,
Many kinds and types,
Off to wars and battles.
Without any gripes.
The trains ran and ran,
Until the summers, when I got tan.
Outdoors I ventured,
From morning till night.
All in my life, was just kid right.
Sometime later on,
I discovered something new.
Girls.
The trains and soldiers were packed away,
To be re-discovered,
Yet another day.
CIRCLES OF TRACKS
Bought an old Lionel,
And took it home.
Put it on some track.
In a wink, it took me back.
Suddenly, it was 1954,
I was 8 years old,
And a kid once more.
The tracks of my life,
Have oft lead to strife.
Now the tracks just go ‘round,
And the trains do too,
Life for me, has begun anew.
My frame may be old,
With a loose wheel or two.
My trains keep me sharp,
And my mind, on cue.
My toy trains,
Are without destination,
They run in loops,
With no hesitation.
They start and end,
In the very same place,
They run the circle,
In an endless race.
COULD THERE BE
Could there be,
A place for you,
A place for me?
One or two,
Or maybe three?
What would we do,
If we had a place?
Set our trains,
And have a race?
Share some time,
And ideas too,
Trade some things,
Old for new?
Let’s have a meet.
It’ll be a treat.
From near or far,
Come by train,
Or come by car.
To York, to York!
The cry sounds out.
Bring some cash,
It’ll give you clout.
Spend time with friends,
And hoist a few.
Tell a tale,
Make sure it’s new.
When all is said,
And all is done,
Have a safe trip home,
With new toys, and fun.
Small Treasures
Things are swell,
With my new Lionel.
It has a bell,
And a whistle too,
And even has,
A two man crew.
It can smoke, if I choose.
It runs on and on,
With built-in cruise.
With a clickety-clack,
It runs quite well,
On three-rail track.
This little train,
Though not to scale,
Does lots of things,
But most of all,
Is the pleasure it brings.
THE CATALOGUE
With the advent of each new catalog,
The dreamers dream,
And the bloggers blog.
Perusing each page,
Checking the gauge.
Counting the rivets,
And every nail.
Is it correct?
Is it really to scale?
Are the wheels right,
To handle my curve?
Should I spend the money,
Do I have the nerve?
We read each page,
From front to back.
We search and scheme,
Is there any new track?
The pictures are great,
The renderings delicious.
We must have all these things,
To fulfill our wishes.
These books excite,
Both old and young.
They make hearts beat fast,
With toys that last.
Twice each year,
Or sometimes three.
These catalogs,
Bring us much glee.
TRACK NUMBER SEVEN
I hope this verse,
Receives a quorum,
From friends and members,
Of the Model Train Forum.
The hobby we share,
Oft times with great flare,
Gives ease to our mind,
And smiles to mankind.
Skill levels diverse.
In our universe.
From building a table,
For those who are able,
To laying of track,
We have the knack.
The trains that are run,
In circular fashion,
Provide us great fun,
And reflect our passion.
Though the rooms fill with smoke,
And far too much noise,
When the trains are running,
All men become boys.
From the mountain down,
Into a hand built town,
Under the trestle, over the bridge,
And once again, up the ridge,
Our trains travel many miles,
And cause many smiles.
When the end does arrive,
And we cease to survive,
Somewhere in heaven,
Runs an O Gauge train,
On track number seven.
What Will Remain
In this hobby,
There is genius about.
Creative hands and creative minds.
To fashion these pictures,
It takes all kinds.
Sculptures of life,
Depicting happy and strife.
Beautiful mountains and quaint little towns,
Miniature worlds with no scary clowns.
Limits are few,
To try something new.
If it’s not for sale,
Try hammer and nail.
A modeler’s dream,
Built by yourself,
Proudly displayed,
Up there on the shelf.
We find ourselves,
Among these creations,
Offering them up,
To friends and relations.
When we have gone,
What will remain?
A table, a mountain,
Perhaps a train?
Will there be takers,
New builders and makers?
Or will all our dreams,
Become piles and reams?
When all is said,
And all is done,
They will recall,
He did have fun.
Questions
The wheels go ‘round,
And trains follow the track.
They start right here,
And then they come right back.
LED light and doing it right.
How to install,
Keeps me awake at night.
Could it be the rain, or the mist?
To help me weather,
The new consist?
To use smoke or not.
More questions I’ve got.
Just what in the heck, is frog snot?
Would I be a dork, if I went to York?
Should I attend the convention?
Or just run conventionally?
I ponder and wonder,
About these things.
MTH or Lionel?
Lionel Blue Comet, and Red Comet too,
Lastly appears, the Comet in Green.
Just what the heck,
Does all this mean?
What ever happened,
To Haley’s Comet?
Did Lionel miss that one?
Is ore car too small,
Or perhaps just too long?
Too short or too tall,
Does it matter at all?
If you turned a cab-forward around,
And then ran it in reverse,
With the consist behind the front,
What would have?
Beginnings
I was just a kid.
When all this began.
My first tunnel,
Was a coffee can.
They were bigger those days.
Cut lengthwise in two,
They would rattle and shake,
When the train passed through.
My first train was used,
But to me is was new,
My Dad never said,
And I never knew.
The train was a steamer,
With a broken E unit switch.
I liked it just the same,
And “fixed” the switch with a match.
The train had no whistle,
It had no bell.
But it smoked with pellets,
And it smoked like he**.
For Christmas that year,
Under the tree,
A whistle house was found.
Happy I was, for now I had sound.
Track on the floor.
The damp basement floor.
No wonder the shocks,
Went through my socks,
And into my core.
Bridges and trestles,
All built from scrap stuff.
Whatever I found,
Was always enough.
The trains were quite strong,
They pulled big loads along.
And if by chance they crashed a bit,
I’d set them right, they’d never quit.
My trains carried soldiers,
Many kinds and types,
Off to wars and battles.
Without any gripes.
The trains ran and ran,
Until the summers, when I got tan.
Outdoors I ventured,
From morning till night.
All in my life, was just kid right.
Sometime later on,
I discovered something new.
Girls.
The trains and soldiers were packed away,
To be re-discovered,
Yet another day.
CIRCLES OF TRACKS
Bought an old Lionel,
And took it home.
Put it on some track.
In a wink, it took me back.
Suddenly, it was 1954,
I was 8 years old,
And a kid once more.
The tracks of my life,
Have oft lead to strife.
Now the tracks just go ‘round,
And the trains do too,
Life for me, has begun anew.
My frame may be old,
With a loose wheel or two.
My trains keep me sharp,
And my mind, on cue.
My toy trains,
Are without destination,
They run in loops,
With no hesitation.
They start and end,
In the very same place,
They run the circle,
In an endless race.
COULD THERE BE
Could there be,
A place for you,
A place for me?
One or two,
Or maybe three?
What would we do,
If we had a place?
Set our trains,
And have a race?
Share some time,
And ideas too,
Trade some things,
Old for new?
Let’s have a meet.
It’ll be a treat.
From near or far,
Come by train,
Or come by car.
To York, to York!
The cry sounds out.
Bring some cash,
It’ll give you clout.
Spend time with friends,
And hoist a few.
Tell a tale,
Make sure it’s new.
When all is said,
And all is done,
Have a safe trip home,
With new toys, and fun.
Small Treasures
Things are swell,
With my new Lionel.
It has a bell,
And a whistle too,
And even has,
A two man crew.
It can smoke, if I choose.
It runs on and on,
With built-in cruise.
With a clickety-clack,
It runs quite well,
On three-rail track.
This little train,
Though not to scale,
Does lots of things,
But most of all,
Is the pleasure it brings.
THE CATALOGUE
With the advent of each new catalog,
The dreamers dream,
And the bloggers blog.
Perusing each page,
Checking the gauge.
Counting the rivets,
And every nail.
Is it correct?
Is it really to scale?
Are the wheels right,
To handle my curve?
Should I spend the money,
Do I have the nerve?
We read each page,
From front to back.
We search and scheme,
Is there any new track?
The pictures are great,
The renderings delicious.
We must have all these things,
To fulfill our wishes.
These books excite,
Both old and young.
They make hearts beat fast,
With toys that last.
Twice each year,
Or sometimes three.
These catalogs,
Bring us much glee.
TRACK NUMBER SEVEN
I hope this verse,
Receives a quorum,
From friends and members,
Of the Model Train Forum.
The hobby we share,
Oft times with great flare,
Gives ease to our mind,
And smiles to mankind.
Skill levels diverse.
In our universe.
From building a table,
For those who are able,
To laying of track,
We have the knack.
The trains that are run,
In circular fashion,
Provide us great fun,
And reflect our passion.
Though the rooms fill with smoke,
And far too much noise,
When the trains are running,
All men become boys.
From the mountain down,
Into a hand built town,
Under the trestle, over the bridge,
And once again, up the ridge,
Our trains travel many miles,
And cause many smiles.
When the end does arrive,
And we cease to survive,
Somewhere in heaven,
Runs an O Gauge train,
On track number seven.
What Will Remain
In this hobby,
There is genius about.
Creative hands and creative minds.
To fashion these pictures,
It takes all kinds.
Sculptures of life,
Depicting happy and strife.
Beautiful mountains and quaint little towns,
Miniature worlds with no scary clowns.
Limits are few,
To try something new.
If it’s not for sale,
Try hammer and nail.
A modeler’s dream,
Built by yourself,
Proudly displayed,
Up there on the shelf.
We find ourselves,
Among these creations,
Offering them up,
To friends and relations.
When we have gone,
What will remain?
A table, a mountain,
Perhaps a train?
Will there be takers,
New builders and makers?
Or will all our dreams,
Become piles and reams?
When all is said,
And all is done,
They will recall,
He did have fun.
Questions
The wheels go ‘round,
And trains follow the track.
They start right here,
And then they come right back.
LED light and doing it right.
How to install,
Keeps me awake at night.
Could it be the rain, or the mist?
To help me weather,
The new consist?
To use smoke or not.
More questions I’ve got.
Just what in the heck, is frog snot?
Would I be a dork, if I went to York?
Should I attend the convention?
Or just run conventionally?
I ponder and wonder,
About these things.
MTH or Lionel?
Lionel Blue Comet, and Red Comet too,
Lastly appears, the Comet in Green.
Just what the heck,
Does all this mean?
What ever happened,
To Haley’s Comet?
Did Lionel miss that one?
Is ore car too small,
Or perhaps just too long?
Too short or too tall,
Does it matter at all?
If you turned a cab-forward around,
And then ran it in reverse,
With the consist behind the front,
What would have?