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Poem: Eternal

  Eternal   By Patrick T. Reardon     Eternal, puzzle us, puzzle us clockwork apart and put us back together, create/re-create, Eternal, cycle us and puzzle us to ourselves, puzzle us revelations long withheld.   Puzzle the lost phone at McDonald’s, a sort of life without electricity touch, eye blink, incense and wet dung, coat buckle clocking wood pew in cave-tall church, taste of broken bread.   Puzzle grubs and snits, moist…

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Essay: Calvary Cemetery, 4.7.20

The lakefront parks are closed, as are all the other city parks. Walking on the sidewalks of Edgewater — normally an invigorating exercise — is weird.  I find myself scanning ahead of me to judge whether anyone’s coming near me, whether the person is or isn’t wearing a mask, whether the person is or isn’t alone. Do…

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Book review: “The King’s Beast: A Mystery of the American Revolution” by Eliot Pattison

Eliot Pattison’s The King's Beast: A Mystery of the American Revolution is a potboiler stew of brutality, detective work, derring-do, tribal gods, forest lore, London lore, an evil Earl, torture, a Greek- and Latin-spouting tribal leader, Daniel Boone, the infamous Bedlam hospital for the insane, street urchins and a Benjamin Franklin who often comes across…

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Poem: April 3, 2020

    April 3, 2020   By Patrick T. Reardon   I learned my ABCs long ago and know the dance inside darkness. Better to stumble and bang and crash in shadows than corner-sit waiting for sun. Mournful either way, yet joy in electricity of touch.   I am old, and my bruises are old, scars, deformations, elbow knots, skin tags, out of balance, out of focus, gall in stomach, failures of skill, of act,…

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Essay: Rosehill Cemetery, 3.24.20

I think I’ve always enjoyed walking in cemeteries. That may seem odd, especially during our present national crisis. But walking — well-separated from each other — is one of the few activities that are still available to us as we keep our heads down or, like turtles, keep ourselves inside our shell.  Walking and running and biking. There…

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Poem: July 10, 1981

  July 10, 1981   By Patrick T. Reardon       On this porch, on this cool summer day, when the moon is benign in afternoon sky, when birds sing from wire to wire, I have no argument. This may be the milk-and -honey time, the fulcrum, the equator. I may be on my way down or past or into. This will change, and I will change, and the wood of this…

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