The pounding crush of the falling
Rhine waters has no end unlike
these tiny foreground
figures who reach and
stretch to accomplish their
small tasks, muscles straining,
reaching, stretching,
yearning.
A few feet from this Turner is one of Manet’s
oils of the shooting squad execution of
fake Mexican Emperor Maximilian, a
fool if there ever was one, but
aren’t we all
fools who
end in the
vague smoke
awaiting the
coup de grace?
What, though, is the alternative?
The urgency, as Brooks says, is in
the blooming
amid the noise
and power
of the flood.
We are all, victims and butchers, crushed
by the same cataract,
slain by the same
bullet. You and me and
David.
Patrick T. Reardon
1.25.18
This poem was originally published in Requiem for David from Silver Birch Press in February, 2017.
Written by : Patrick T. Reardon
For more than three decades Patrick T. Reardon was an urban affairs writer, a feature writer, a columnist, and an editor for the Chicago Tribune. In 2000 he was one of a team of 50 staff members who won a Pulitzer Prize for explanatory reporting. Now a freelance writer and poet, he has contributed chapters to several books and is the author of Faith Stripped to Its Essence. His website is https://patricktreardon.com/.