My Wanderlust Cure

 

I’ve traveled to faraway places,

Via trains on iron rails,

And Cruise ships run on fossil fuels,

Others powered by wind blown sails.

 

I’ve flown three generations of planes,

Propellers, jet-props and jets,

Exploring untouched wonders

That the tourist industry forgets.

 

I crisscrossed the South Dakota plains

Even the Polynesian Isles…

While some collected postage stamps,

I collected my unexplored miles.

 

The transportation in the end,

That provided my wanderlust cure…

Were my own footsteps on mossy trails

Under the tall Redwoods of Big Sur.

 

 

Why Train Stations Are Called Terminals

 

Every person on this planet

Was born in a railway station…

The tickets passed out were random…

No boarding pass offered a vacation.

 

A few are dropped at the first stop

Others ride for hundreds of miles…

Some are dropped at luggage pickups

For Cancer, hunger and personal trials.

 

Everyone was issued a ticket,

Valid for random miles and destinations.

Each rider’s final stop is a mystery,

No ticket names their final stations.

 

Sometimes a newborn baby,

Or even elderly old hags,

May disappear in seconds,

As if hooked away like mail bags.

 

Some passengers are exuberant,

As their journeys just begin,

Yet depressed many eons later,

Realizing their travels have no end.