All in a dream, all in a dream the loading had begun
Flying Mother Nature’s silver seed to a new home in the sun
—Lyrics by Neil Young
Moon beam, moon dream. Man-in-the-moon,
The Moon-Man, Crazy Bob Goddard, Worcester’s own,
inventor of the liquid-fueled rocket.
1899, up a cherry tree, the watcher of bird flight, teenage
keeper of TNT in the attic, reader of H. G. Wells,
imagines a rocket blasting off in fields back of the barn.
Body knows first, thrust and drag in a wind-swayed tree,
sparking mind to screen a device that will travel
to Earth’s satellite. Did he hold up a globed cherry to size
a day moon, pop it in his mouth, spit the pit earthward
falling like Newton’s apple? Wonder how to escape the gravity
of his persistent illnesses? A childhood experiment:
to jump higher while scuffing a gravel walk like carpet
for a charge, battery in hand. It failed. Other attempts
quelled by Mother saying he might sail away.
Two decades after his vision, on Aunt Effie’s farm, now a golf course, the first of many launches ascends 41 feet off the ground.
1969, and Goddard’s widow, enthralled at the lift-off
of Apollo 11: “I don’t know if I’m dreaming now,
or he was dreaming then.”
Do the stars and stripes still wave on the moon?
Photos show only the flagpole’s shadow. Moonstruck,
may our neighbor remain mythic partner, not merely
plundered source of rare minerals, water. Escape
of the rich. Way station to Mars. May we dream well.
Moon shot, moon race. Moon rock, moon face.