Traveling by Train

 

it's so civilized.

we stand on the platform in our traveling clothes,

suitcases and umbrellas, a sheet of rain doesn't touch us,

our gaze disappears into the distance, squinting eastward from which

the train will emerge, pushing forward a 

long whistle which will cause us to reach 

down for our suitcases and handbags.

inside, we'll settle into blue plush seats,

twist off the cap of the small bottles of wine

and watch the spectacular scenery roll by.

this is America by train.

Adhesion Conference

we all stick together, packing into the elevator,
appendages adhering to the rails, our sweat the elixir
that fosters collaboration and communication,
a few dislocated females disrupt the male crystallography,
we manage anyway in spite of spacing loss and
electrostatic repulsion, a few cross-linked polymers
enable 3-d printing, the scaffolding of community.

A view from my room

it may not be Paris, but

after all these years of crummy hotel rooms in 

crummy cities, I feel nothing but delight

at the view out on the bay, the sun setting

on the bay, we'll be dining out tonight

on the water, a soft chug-chug of the engine

churning through the water, the clink of

wine glasses and forks on china laden

with salmon and antipasto.

a late flight, missing the first talk of

no consequence, all that was missed

can be made up by offering a smile

in return,

he'll take it.

Wind

the wind cuts, dry like fresh snow, hexagonal edges
slice across the softness of the skin on my face,
the rest protected behind space-age technology fabrics
and reindeer hide, thank you, Iceland.
a yellow crocus crouches, open, behind an irrigation hose,
how can one describe bravado and cautiousness in one flower,
she does it, every February when the wind cuts across
my face and I wish for Spring.

Sher at 64

she probably never imagined being 64,
hearing those words in a new way,
"will you still feed me, will you still need me,
when I'm 64", I never imagined her being
64, or imagined her sitting across from me
on that day, exactly that day when she turned 64.
she doesn't look 64, blonde, cheekbones an
actress would die for, her tailored shirt open at
the neckline, her necklace dangling down a
tasteful distance, no need to answer those questions,
the responses are obvious, yes and yes, but
she's too busy being beautiful, smart and
64.

The Generational Difference in Approach towards Useage of Social Media

Baby boomers taught to be polite and stick to the point,
GenX, it's all about process..impressive, positively outrageously awesome if no curse words percolate
up through the posts among accusations, throw-back and
it makes me throw-up at how mean everyone sounds, the salient
topic long lost, drowning in self-righteous finger pointing,
it's all social media,
how anti-
social.

Sliding on Ice

The well-traveled trail was covered in a sheet of ice

and we were supposed to walk there, while

the surrounding forest floor was soft in rotting pine needles,

an occasional green shoot reaching out towards the sun.

I walked well off to the side, away from the ice, now bordered

with mud, the well intentioned result of hikers trying to stay

on the trail, a blemish of erosion and ugliness.

I smell the aroma of crushed pine needles  rise to my nostrils,

the earth springs back the moment my foot lifts from the 

soil, I leave no trace, I break all the rules.