“A train is a poem that will take you anywhere you want to go.”

— Dale Maharidge

We’ll see when we get there.

I’ve summoned the spirit of Mr. Mark Twain

and asked him kindly to speak through me.

He obliged despite pain in boarding this train,

such that you’ll hear enough to plainly see.

Using satire powerful men dismissed as rubbish,

I commented on politics and the inner steeple.

Requiring a centennial before my biography’s publish,

for I spoke boldly about country and people.

The increments of money and stocks may have changed,

The alibis may have gotten somewhat more sophisticated,

But people nowadays and back in the day can be equally deranged,

And onlookers, not in the arena, are basically  just as jaded.

The stories we used to print in the papers

could’ve been set in present hours, dropped in one of three individually labeled jars:

Stretchers , Lifters, and Powder Burners.

Same as contemporary drama and capers,

innocent folks suffering behind, unable to see the stars, and free folks in power who should be behind bars,

though they’re no longer page turners.

They’re keep swiping and doom scrolling now, deep griping and trolling vows, 

which at one point we thought of as sacred.

How did we get here?

How will we make it?

We will make it by remembering what was left behind, how we got here in the first place, by helping to walk each other home, engaging in the art form of neighborliness and closing our eyes to better hear the music.

We will make it by visiting the reserved table, off to the side, after the performance to tell the artist what they meant on that particular evening, in that beautiful neck of the nostalgic woods. A surprise opener who changed the entire trajectory of a weary traveler’s life for the ever loving better on a chilly night in Carson.

We will make it by seeing how small the world can really be with an ever expanding sense of wonder, allowing perfect timing to wash over us when it happens. 

By spending less time in comments sections and more time in handshakes and hugs.

We will make it by singing along, holding our children close, laughing as often as possible and taking trips back in time to when we thought times were simpler in order to gain proper perspective. 

By supporting our friends, chosen family and the wild dreams they have to change the world for the better. 

By hearing each other, seeing each other, praying for each other and at least trying to fully understand. 

By more often noticing the morning sun piercing the veil of fog lifting over our mystic lakes and that tableau of quilted color, gently pulling us with a cosmic creativity, beckoning us to still believe.

By remaining awestruck beneath the night sky as it has a magical way of weighing our worries and leaving us with a lavishly legendary and liberating lightness of being. 

My name is Samuel Langhorne Clemens.

I was born November 30, 1835 and raised in the Show Me state. Known by the pen name Mark Twain, and before I went on to the next plane of existence on April 21, 1910, I traveled far and wide and wrote a fair amount about the people, places and things which were able to show me a thing or two. 

And I came back, at this uniquely special and inspiringly irreplaceable moment in time to tell you we’re all aboard this train together. Bound forever by time and space, headed for an unknown future, able to reminisce and enjoy a comfortable silence now and again. To enjoy each other more often than not, and to be grateful always in all ways. I’m still writing these days about everything I’ve encountered since you last knew me here. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, but you can read about all of it someday when the time is right and you get the pleasure of seeing it for yourselves. 

Whether ‘tis in the papers or across the screens, remember to listen to the good news. Remember the dreams you once had and become the person who would’ve saved you as a child. Remember everything you truly and deeply need in order to forget the rest, but don’t forget to rest.

All aboard. All present and accounted for. All heading down the tracks thinking about what was before, what is now and what’s in store.

Hold on to your dessert forks. Better is on the way. Let’s help one another get home safely as best we can and save each other’s day, daring the impossible to believe in us. Show me what you’re made of. Equal parts childish wonder, star dust, spinning yarns and good news I reckon.

We will make it.

We’ve got to.

I’ll see you when you get there.