Arrival From Departure

 

in the footless halls of air

all became clear

though mist and fog

muddled the slog

a streaking star at once illuminated

the half light and albeit brief

gave towards sight

of everlasting relief

 
with cupped hands and strained neck

each stroke furthered distance from the wreck

darkness given way to grey

such must be the way

 
onward upward onward

tumbling over thin crisp air

departure from all despair

vertigo lost in the sanctity of time

punching through into

the brilliance of the Divine

 

 
Sent from 🚂 📞 . . .

 

© All rights reserved 2018

Rushed

       It was crowded, it always is.  It was rushed, hectic and splintered.  Folks going each and every way in their memorized anxious steps.  It was cold as well, unseasonably so for this early May afternoon.    

      More than the usual waited for their trains inside the old stone station, an ambient warmth given only by exhale and body heat.   The waiting stand and shift mostly stationary, staring aloft at the vast arrival & departure board, much like they might to the sky or a distant shore bank while clinging in shiver to a fallen tree in a fast moving river.    

     I have leaned to the station’s wall, in the gentle eddy of its soft current, in wait as well.    At the benches to the center, a business man stands and busily works an iPhone in his right hand while checking his Blackberry in his left.   On the bench, some two feet from him, lies another iPhone.   This one however is white, screen down and occupying an open and unnoticed space.   

       I pause.    

    Only when the busy man has hurriedly moved on with his two cell phones, do I turn right and approach the police stand.  

    “You mean that one over there?”   

     The officer sits in a high wooden perch, like a judge surveying a large courtroom and holding a heavy gavel.  He seems to welcome the distraction and shrugs while adding, 

    “It does happen.”

      As I move away towards my train, I look back and he is approaching the lone phone with caution while speaking on his radio.   Another officer, then another, this one with a working lab all approach it together.    

     After a purposeful sniff and a routine wag of the tail, the first officer then calmly picks up the white phone while concealing his slightly embarrassed smile.   To his apparent surprise, the phone is not locked and he starts to scroll immediately through it, before finding a number and dialing.    

     At my last glance, he is far to the distant and doing most of the talking with whomever it is on the other end.   Maybe, I imagine as I board my train, he is trying to convince some skeptical mom or dad, that he is in fact a Boston city police officer. . . 

    “It does happen.”

      

 

                                                                                 Sent from 📞 🚂. . .

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THE MEETING

Rapid

The invitation was to a targeted audience only and said the doors would open at 10am and would start promptly at 10:30 ending at 11am. The Town Hall meeting, hosted by our CEO, was to take place in the grand Warf room in the glamorous seaside Boston hotel.   I RSVP’d immediately and got there at 10:05.   I was nervous, big wigs had flown in from NYC and London to speak to me!

I walked in and in a large room to the left, sat four distinguished older men at a reception table.

‘I am here for the meeting’ I pronounced, showing my ID and signing my name on the sheet in front of them.   I then turned to find everyone else (it was 10:10) but the hallway was empty.   I quickly turned back to the table realizing that I had a pair of gloves clutched in my hand.

‘I apologize, I must have picked up someones mittens when I signed in – do you happen to know. . ’

“Young man, those are sailing gloves.   You appear a bit nervous rushing about, pacing and all – why don’t you tell us a bit about yourself ?”

‘Well I work over at Beacon, where I am a conversion
manager for the largest onboarding endeavor in decades’.
Before me, there are only stares of bewilderment.

“Down on the docks, is that so?” the eldest inquires . . .”tough work that is.”
Now my expression is blank.

“Very well, never mind, tell us about your (looking down at the sign in sheet) sllng experience. . . John is it?

‘Yes it is.   Well I am quite good at selling myself.’  

No humor reaches the table of four.  

‘Further, I have repeatedly sold an array of strategic ideas across all lines of business and among multiple tiers of senior management!’   

On each word, my inflection rises with pride.

“Son, stop please (holding his hand up) SAILING not Selling.   Do you have any SAILING experience?”

‘Sailing?   Why that appears a fairly random question.’

“No son, it would be a perfectly appropriate question for the role to be discussed here…”

‘No offense, I just thought it odd coming from a large financial
institution.’

“We are sufficiently well endowed,yes that is correct.”   He says with a pause and an expectant raise of his waiting, bushy white eyebrow.

‘Right, sailing then, like those boats out there with the tall poles sticking up.”(pointing out the vast window overlooking the bay).

“MASTS those are called Masts!”   Growls the man, leaning up from his chair as the other three chuckle.

‘I know perfectly well what they are called!’    I respond with a curtness that surprised even me but I was rapidly slipping off this deck and needed to find my footing fast.    ‘I grew up sailing from a wee little boy, (leveling my hand below the table)  ‘heck I’ve sailed everything: Sunfish, Bluejays, Explorers, WH15’s, 420, 480’s and 510’s. . . you name it!’.
I rattled a little fast and without total accuracy but I was rushed and more than a bit flushed by this odd maritime inquisition.  ‘Now please,’ looking at my watch(10:26!!)  ‘where is the Town Hall meeting?’

Oh that!”   he leans back, finally chuckling as the others follow him “why son, that is over in the Grand room, across the courtyard.   This is a yachting meeting”

I went running out the door and just caught the opening speaker . . . with the sailing gloves still in my hands!

 

                                                                                      Sent from 📞 🚂. . .

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THE SOU’WESTER

A cold spitting rain blew in from the East, spraying frozen spindrift left by Winters’ stubborn departure.  It is early April and under a numb grey overcast, the saturated stand with neither zippers nor scarfs dry, exhausted in wait. Four relentless Nor’Easters had just possessed four long weeks of their March and yet still, a frozen rain spewed down upon them.  

Boarding time arrives for train #177, The Sou’wester. 

It was unusually crowded in the dimly lit rail cars punctuated by musty odors and those finding seats, find them frustratingly damp.  I am mid car to the left, sitting on a found newspaper.  The seat beside me is empty as are the four across the aisle.  

Out the window, the sky has lightened allowing the sun to momentarily release a shaft of golden soft yellow across the tracks.   Down the aisle come a family of five led by the mother, then two young girls, a tall boy and a broad shouldered father.  The glowing shaft of sunlight follows them as the train slowly moves forward.  Both boy and father have removed their hats while the mother directs the girls into the empty seats across from me in a cheerfully efficient way.   They all wear traditional plain Amish clothes, head to toe.  Additionally, they all wear smiles of the most genuine nature.   

The boy has sat next to me, after politely asking if he could.  He has a pale complexion and beaming blue eyes.  A teenager, no more than sixteen or seventeen.  In thanking me for the seat, he extends his hand formally to shake.  I am instantly caught off guard by the vise grip that envelops my knuckles.   His hands are stone dry and his forearms are thicker than most calves.  His boyish voice and radiant smile however, disarm any recoil.   

A woman walks down the aisle and he leaps to his feet in offer of his seat.   She looks about, smiles and moves on.   The father is older, I guess late sixties but he too is built like an ox.   He sits quietly reading.  The young girls sit reading as well.   There are no smart phones, no tablets, no soda and cookies.  The boy looks about in marvel, I offer my window seat and he smiles, declining in an appreciative accented English.  Between pages,his father will speak and they converse in another language.  The boys inflection is high pitched and punctuated with laughter leaving the others smiling in the passing scenery.   

At the third stop, a major city, the boy has four times offered his seat to others.  As the train carves through the granite and steel canyons of the city, he stares intently towards another world.   

Conversely, at that very same moment, I am imagining life in the fields of Lancaster Pennsylvania – driving the horses in the noon day sun to plow some sixty acres, walking to school, no TV and one phone, on the kitchen wall.   The simple, contented life.   

It is now my stop.   With preparation, I extend my hand and do my best to conceal a grimace as he stands and receives it.  I ask what language he was speaking and he informs a mix of Dutch and German.   As I return his smile, I turn down to the father and mother looking up in admiration and tell them what they already know: ‘you have a  very polite and a fine young man here – well done indeed sir, ma’am.’

                                                  Sent from 📞 🚂. . .

                                                                       

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TALE OF THE TIDE . . .

Tide

I had just closed the cabin door with a chosen deference to those already asleep, though I wanted to slam it.

The crew – my life blood, tether and pulse, had given all out and beyond in effort . . and sadly, it was not enough.

The squalls came first and the sky appeared to look down upon us in disdain before the storm was unleashed.

Eight long hours of horrific anguish, one soul overboard and now in the calm, drifting with only one mast – a despondent, sullen crew.

We were by the stars, some 200 miles off course . . .being pulled by an insidious ocean TIDE not found on any chart.

 

                                                               Sent from 📞 🚂. . .

 

 

 

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Around The Bend

 

     British bloke sitting across from me, good sense of humor (my initial impressions at sit down – accent and all) has been on his laptop with his headphones the entire one and three quarters of an hour we have been crawling along here.   His two brown empty Dogfish IPA bottles, finished with intent in the first eight minutes, sit now on our shared table like apathetic trash or worse. . . ignored kids.

He has just looked up, as from a dream: ‘where was I and where are we ? New Haven ?’

I smile: “no … not even close”

‘Running a bit slow are we?’

I smile and nod.

‘Oh right, damn,’ (he says looking left out the window as we sit stationary near a wooded marsh by a distant field – clearly exasperated) ‘it’s that stupid one track thing where we’re made to wait for the train coming the other way – just bloody stupid if you ask me’

“…the other way at 121 mph…”  I remind.  

It is now I who am looking to the right out the window, the days happenings having just found me along these barren tracks . . .

“combined speed of close to  242 mph . . . each approaching the other with a screaming speed around the bend . . .just ahead.”

. . . it is quiet now and one can almost hear the birds chirp in the branches, just beyond our windows . . .

“Bloody hell (I exclaim) I bet we can make it !!”

Before me, a wide eyed and a slowly nervous . . .’ugh?’ . . .….is suddenly propelled into contagious laughter…and a momentary kinship has been found.

 

                                 

                                                                              Sent from 🚂 📞 …

 

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THE JUMP

    We stand abreast in a cramped tiny steel three by eight foot box at 11,000 feet carving through dark cumulonimbus clouds high above the vast enemy territory below.   We are separated in suspension by two 90 foot rail cars, each populated with seventy-two empty seats . . .
 

The noise is deafening.  Our boots vibrate atop the corrugated metal and the wind is both ferocious in its pitch as it is all immediately cold encompassing.

     I scream through my mouth guard, while instinctively securing the shovel strapped to my chest, at the three before me . . . huddled; nervous but acutely focused on their task.

“‘ALL RIGHT HERE WE GO… T- MINUS 30, LIGHT IS AMBER, WE JUMP ON GREEN…FREE FALL 180 SECONDS . .WIND: 095 AT 33. .. NO ONE OPENS UNTILL 400’AGL ……GOT IT . . . GOT IT ?!?”
 

The sound is so loud as the Northeast regional hurdles through the country side at well north of 132 mph, that I briefly suspect the engineer may have dozed off and they before me . . . . have heard nothing.
 

Now they momentarily stare to one another, looking up from their smart phones . . . and the slight pimple faced high school kid nods towards my direction, as the doors open and the train slides into the station.

 

                                                                                               Sent from 📞 🚂. . .

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