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Just something i wrote last month that i thought i'd share with you

The Glory Days of steam

They were once mighty beasts of steel and fire,
Their breath darkened the sky.
They fought the hills and crossed the plains
As along the rails they’d fly.

They kept the nation moving,
Both in peace and war.
A flash of thrashing side rods whirring by,
The same as years before.

For one hundred years they ruled the rails,
They ruled the lines supreme,
Till mainline diesels stole their thrones,
The beginning of the end for steam.

Today some of these machines still stand proud,
Despite the rust and flaking paint,
Upon their boiler shrouds.

Their once busy fireboxes and mighty boilers now lie cold and empty,
Their motion gear still and seized with age.
These Locomotives have been confined to years gone by.
Consigned to history’s page.

The Hiss of escaping steam can no longer be heard,
no gleaming brasswork seen.
They lie in parks and old railyards,
reminders of what has been.

Their beauty slowly vanishing as the years roll on
Now the sound of steam has been replaced
With a snarling diesel’s roar.
Against such things, steam is worth as much
As dust upon the floor.

Giant Wheels stand deep in dust,
Slowly being covered by the rust,
Their cylinders empty and still.
I long to hear the chuffing beat,
And the whistle’s lonesome shrill.

They still stand in the world that overtook them,
The Diesel Engines that thunder by reign supreme,
Some of them have returned to the rails,
Hauling excursion trains instead of the Express mail.

But many more still languish,
In parks and railyards.
Awaiting Restoration that may never come.
For some it has been fifty years,
Since they made their last runs.

But while some may consider their condition as an ‘eyesore’
Many people, young and old,
Hope they run once more.

Even in this sorry state, the reaction’s still the same.
The youngsters dream and grandparents recall
When they were young and Steam was all,
There was to move a train.

Their silent forms stand resilient,
Against the world that left them behind.
Living through the good times and times forgot,
Longing for one last head of steam and firebox hot,
To make them live again.

But now they lie here silent,
Basking in the sun’s warm glow.
Year by year they just sit here,
And I wonder how long they have to go.

Their Number boards and build plates gone,
By some relic hunter stole.
The Cobwebs completely covering,
A darkened firebox hole.

They stand in silent tribute,
To those that came before,
And spent their lives upon the rails,
In them they live once more.

These Slumbering giants of the rails,
From Cattle trains to the express mail.
They conjure up in images in the minds of all,
Those who saw the final curtain fall...

...ON THE GLORY DAYS OF STEAM.

I still like it :)

Still trying to work out what to do with it

It's not too shabby, though I wouldn't capitalize the last line. It should pop on its own. That and I don't understand why certain words are capitalized when they're not proper nouns. If there's a reason, I'm lost to it.

Here's a similar poem from a while ago on the same subject that might be able to help you. I didn't write it. Some fancy-shmancy published person did, :P

The Railway Engineer
By Clara Augusta

The warrior's fame is often sung,
And his brave deeds reckoned high;
But the man who stands in the engine-box,
And sweeps with his watchful eye
The iron track, as it stretches out
Over hill and foaming stream,
Has a lion heart and powerful hand,
For he is the king of steam;
And it needs a master will to drive
And guide his flying team.

Steam, the demon which rules the world,
And crushes under its tread
The beetling cliffs, the deep ravines,
The mountain's hoary head--
Steam, which wakes, with fiendish shrieks,
The dreamer out of his sleep,
And tosses back to the echoing sky
Its mutterings, hoarse and deep--
But the engineer this mad wild force
Obedient shall keep.

Through the busy day and silent night,
He stands the lever beside;
His eye ne'er tires, his limbs ne'er fail,
In all the breathless ride;
His pride is his engine: he loves it well,
And it yields to his command,
And bears the train to its destined port,
With a speed which is simply grand;
And the engineer holds all our lives
In the hollow of his hand.

One error of his-- we shudder to think
Of what might happen to-day,
If he slept at his post, or his watchful eye
For a moment were turned away.
Does he think of this? Does his heart beat quick,
As he sees the "danger" light?
Does he calmly choose to die with his charge,
Because he deems it right?
Down with his engine, crashing through space,
Crashing down through the night.