Eastward Departure

 

 

The tunnel dug by the pick and the shovel,

excavated before the days of Bertha and OSHA.

We roll right under the Jet City

only to emerge on the waterfront of Seattle.

The Edgewater, where Ringo fished from his window,

the carpet was sold in tiny pieces to screaming girls.

 

There is the water and fog and the smell of saltwater,

the smell of ships and the cargo holds,

and the smell of bunker fuel.

Pier 86, the grain terminal,

where I worked storing the M.S. Bonniway

all those years ago.

The stories the British sailors told us of sailing

around the world.

The factory trawlers tied up at pier 91 remind me of

trips to Alaska and all the ports I’ve seen in my travels.

Reminds me of storiesmen and women have told me

of fishing the waters of the Bering Sea

 

Over the locks and onward through Ballard,

past golden Garden Gardens we amble.

At the edge of the shore we are

racing a giant cruise ship, full of tourists,

their pockets full of credit card and trinkets.

The train is hugging the shore so close to

the chilly waters of Puget Sound.

The Olympics, a shadow against the horizon

their peaks craggy like an old hobo’s teeth.

Beachcombers collect driftwood and build a fire

warming their hearts, showing affection for  family and friends.

They sit in their little camps

watching waves wash salty against the shore.

The warm early spring sun brings hope to the happy

beach bums.

The smooth hum of the big locomotive,

gliding gently across the majestic  tracks

brings hope to the traveler on the long

excursion across the continent.

At Richmond Beach and Edmonds

The huge train leisurely rolls by

the storage tanks of Atlantic Richfield

and the tanks of the Strategic Petroleum Reserve.

At Edmonds the revelers party in the sun.

The sun we waited all winter to come back

and brighten our smiles and lives and make our souls go ” pop “.

The lady pushes a stroller; her kids eat Popsicles in the sun.

Everyone seems happier than they did in November

This is what I see looking out the window

from room four on the Empire Builder as we roll out of Seattle

Bound for Chicago

Spokane Night

The horizon is flat
The stars, in the billions

Light the sky
Like the tips of little sparklers
Held by the gods on the Fourth of July

Winona Minnesota

So relaxed so mesmerized by the gentle

Sway of the train

gliding over the rails

It’s hard to be neurotic

I’m trying to over think this

But I can’t
#kenstrainadventure

Spokane

Spokane I have neglected you
Though you shine like a star
On the edge of our great state

I passed through once

On my way to the camp out in 78

And spent one day once

A quick flight in and out

And watched the last Apple Cup

Played at Joe Albi Stadium

Just a few days before that disastrous day

At the Dakota

Geology

The narrow river cuts a canyon through the valley 

The layers of rock are cut away 

Revealing centuries of erosion 

It widens, easy, I could swim laps 

It narrows again and goes back 

To cutting through the rock 

You need a Geology professor to keep up 

Dad

  

 

The brush cutter whirling, a blade destroying sticker bushes
Two cycle engines and little gas cans and pulling those chords
Piles of two by fours and giant sheets of plastic and cans
Of juniper tams.
Pulling weeds for two cents a can
A Big Hunk, a Butterfinger, bazooka bubble gum, a bottle Nesbitts
From that funky little store in 1965 Sultan, Washington
The wood floors and the screen door and the old grocery smell
Fishing tackle and bait and two six packs of Oly in cans
Pulling out of 1900 Occidental in the Ford flatbed truck
My dad smoothly going through the gears as we bump across
The tracks of the Great Northern and the Milwaukee Road
It seemed like a thousand miles to Sultan
Across the old bridge and out through old Redmond
The Marquis on the Cinemond Theater advertising The Unsinkable Molly Brown
Heading out Avondale past the Sanitarium and Brookside Golf
On through Duvall and Monroe to the bakery for twenty five cent maple bars
Then the agonizing nine miles to Sultan
The panorama of the valley and Mt Index and the fire look out
My dad explained the snow line and the snow level
He told me about the height of Stevens Pass and Snoqualmie Pass
How you tell what the snow level was by looking at the mountains
Later I used this to explain to kids how our snow was going to be
As we passed Mt Si in the old bottle nosed school buses we rode to Ski Acres
He told me you couldn’t farm the land above the valley floor
Because of the rocks the glaciers left behind ten thousand years ago
And then he pulled the chord on the McCoullough chain saw
A bead of sweat running down his forehead he slapped it with his hand
And swiped it away and huffed on his glasses and cleaned them with a Kleenex
And adjusted his head band and went to town on a felled alder
A can of Oly by his side

No But In An Apology

from the Compulsive Over Explainers Anonymous handbook page 26: The word but should never appear or be uttered in an apology. Unless you are saying ” I’m sorry I said you had a big butt”. In which case you’ve committed an Apollo 13 and your only hope is to circle the Moon a few times and pray you can return to Earth safely.