Tuesday, March 9, 2010

After Lift Off

I still hold hope for lift off. I know how it is though. The hope is all tangled with the fantasy of desire. The reality will perhaps have in it enough to sustain the dream. I still practice music, still write poetry. I wrote my first serious poetry in 1967. I was invested in serious music earlier than that, singing in challenging choirs, musicals, barbershop quartet and madrigal in 1962. I had to quit singing two years ago because my bronchials and allergic nasal drip are not letting me control my voice any more, especially in the winter, which is the heart of the performance season. That broke my heart. At least I still have my keyboard. I fear the approach of arthritis.

After Lift Off

More than glass between
my shadow and yours, gleaning
as we do, distant
worlds with the cold void
that beckons the last breath out,
no inhaling left,
not after lift off,
not after giving notice
of our departure.

April 18, 2009 5:24 PM


  1. I love this poem...no inhaling left, not after lift off. Melancholy. Suits me...damn it! Wonder if I will ever find a new adjective to describe myself. I was part of Chamber Singers for many years. Miss it. The tight harmonies, performing, acapella, church acoustics.

  2. It's what I notice here in blogland. So many of us are in the arts and reach into this medium to express an artistic persona. I guess there's a bunch of crap here too, but I am most impressed that there are so many who could have real audiences, paying audiences if only life had gone differently.

    I know two local musicians, at least local now. One performs in a nationally known band and one struggles along in the local market. If anything, the local girl is the better performer, though at that level of mastery the distinction begins to be meaningless. I also know a couple people who are better musicians than they are and have no public at all.

    Now I am running into high caliber writers on the internet. Man.

    The talent and the skill both are no longer rare in this day and age. Now the internet lets us have our say.


The chicken crossed the road. That's poultry in motion.

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