My very last GOAT post for the forseeable future

My daughter started talking about moving out shortly after she graduated from college. Actually, she started talking about it in her senior year: her dream school was NYU, but since nobody could afford that, she settled for Millersville, the local college where my ex was once a full-time professor and…

I recently read a blog post* that attempted to put a wall around classical music by defining what it “should” be. …

Yes. Duh!!! The day before the 2021 Wimbledon final, I read an article in which a number of tennis experts answered the same question, based on the idea of Djokovic pulling even with Federer and Nadal’s Slams record (20 each). Most said the jury was still out, or pointed to…

I am the organist for a predominantly white church. My congregation has treated me and my children like family since the beginning, about twenty years ago, offering assistance and genuine love as I dealt with my son’s diagnosis (autism spectrum), the decline and failure of my marriage, and my subsequent…

During a recent ZOOM chat with friends, I mentioned how much I’d enjoyed Lover’s Rock, episode two of Small Axe, Steve McQueen’s examination of ex-pat West Indian life in England. I was both surprised and confused to discover that the film had been met with some backlash. …

I wrote the poem on which the song at the end of this post is based when Notre Dame was actually burning. The song was written in May, 2020. I changed the words in spots. The first line became “my heart” paused because I realize there were people in places…

I often question my career path; lately, I’m wondering what other training I can get to have more options if I’m not able to sustain my patchwork of income streams. …

My heart is awake, roused by the exhilarating melody my brain seeks to ignore in its quest for sleep’s sweet stasis. My heart’s sparks are frequently foolish and futile. My brain, cold water in hand, basks a moment in the warm embers’ glow and smiles. Copyright 2017 by Maria Thompson Corley (Originally published in Fledgling Rag)

Though closed and latched, your case opened easily. You lay inside it, burnished and brown, perfectly seasoned with age. My fingers danced gently, firmly along your neck. Your body vibrated, resonated, amplifying your melodious moans as I stroked your strings in my imagination. Precious treasure, you are not mine, but your exquisite voice still sings a jazz lullaby in my dreams. Copyright 2017 by Maria Thompson Corley