SPACE: THE FINAL FRONTIER IS BETWEEN YOUR EARS

RE-ENTRY

WE ARE STILL TEST PILOTS

COLUMBIA: Feb. 1st, 2003:Mission #113
Our suddenly aerosoled astronauts
their pay load
and their rocket ship
are circling the globe
in a doppler deep purple toxic cloud.
Much fell from the skies over Texas,
some before, some after.
But much remains in the stratosphere.
This will simply drift,
a floating crematorium:
later to fall like confetti;
a ticker tape parade of assorted plasma particles:
bone, metal, ceramic, hope, and forgotten fear.
Now we send our sadness aloft
to be one with your cloud of un-knowing.
Together we and your debris
are cast adrift in a sea of questions.
Peace to you, our magnificant seven.
Drift in Peace;
until your fiery stardust
returns you to us
who stand and wait.

The Call of the 17 Astronauts

Song Began: February 2004

Columbia's 1st anniversary

Come fly with us, come fly with us
They call us from our sky.
Don't let the twist of fire and fate
Make you afraid to die.
Take a long sweet breath,
Grab the hand of death
And fly with us.

We fly forever now; we will be your guide.
Come on, come on, over to our side
See eternity with us from outer space
When you return you will be forever changed
Nothing, nothing ever remains the same,
Why should you?

Little boy and little girl: With eyes that watch the sky,
Little boy and little girl: Did you always want to fly?
With heroes, hunters, spacemen, pioneers,
Cowboy drifters with a mustang between their thighs.

Don't let the powers that be build fences on our moon.
Don't make a toll road of some wormhole to that star,
Keep the universe free of barbed wire, carpetbaggers,
Hawkers and hagglers: soldiers of fortune, malice, greed, and gain.
Don't let our lives dies in vain.
Keep it free of boundaries and fences,
Keep it free for paupers, kings and princes,
For heroes, hunters, spacemen, pioneers,
Cowboy drifters with a mustang between their thighs.

Little boy and little girl: With eyes that watch the sky.
Little boy and little girl: Did you always want to fly,
With Heroes, hunters, spacemen, pioneers,
Cowboy drifters with a mustang between their thighs.

I did not write a poem or a song for Challenger.
My mouth, my heart agap could not find the link to words
for adequate expression of what my eyes did see: LIVE on TV.
I did not write a poem to Apollo 1 and her three
who breathed fire instead of air
while still attached to earth.
My lungs hurt too badly.
I had their photo, signed and hanging.
One day, slowly, I took it down.
I wear my Star Trek pin and look up to the sky.
I know that once we have stretched
beyond the reach of our strength,
we cannot but move forward
toward that what we do not know.

THE SCOTT EXPEDITION ANTARCTIC GRAVE MARKER

It is given to man to strive,
to seek, to find and not to yield.

Perhaps Franz Kafka said it best:
Beyond a certain point there is no return.
This point has to be reached.

Poems from the 60’s

Moon Poem #1

Stars & Stripes Forever

Bright orange ball
floating in a sea of paynes gray blue;
so dark it hides all life but you.

Pumpkin moon
reflecting light to a warm black earth
speaking harvest, Halloween, and pie.

There you hang,
covered with pock marks
of adolescent astronauts
who shitted science on your smile
and bandaged you with flags.

Moon Poem #2

Ode to the Vandalized Moon (the morning after)

Well, there you are still up there,
not looking any the worse for wear
since Eagle landed
and laid a flag out on your face.

Travel on, Moon.
Maintain your steady course through our nighttime sky.
Be here when we are long laid cold.
Keep on wooing lovers and moving ocean tides,
proving to earth you are the wisest of all.

Moon Poem #3

It’s A Man Thing

The moon was just another female to be impregnated.
The object of man’s insatiable desire to conquer virgin territory.
Once used, he moves
on to Saturn or Jupiter’s more sultry moons.

SAVE THE ASTEROID FROM THE NUKE-NUTS

Richard Milhaus Nixon’s Second Inauguration Day: 1973

When our flag has slowly strangely grown red;
and it is no longer possible to count our martyred dead;
when we have lost the years we counted for gain;
and no longer remember why the Yippie sang;
When radio stations turn clandestine
with fleeting frequencies ever harder to find;
then in the darkness and behind closed doors,
we will salute America.