Tasted smoke
Patrick T. Reardon
Saw, saw, saw the stone.
One-Cent saw the stone.
And he heard the cruel shouts.
The embezzlement of affections,
the murmur of corner talk, fierce sandstorm.
Saw the mountain cut in half.
Saw the water cut in half.
Saw the lion and the lamb.
Saw the rolling truth.
One-Cent preached the stone.
The village of pretty maids, all in a row,
the city of Mars, the blood of reprisal,
a scourging ceremonial.
And he saw the nail hammer sing,
blood rivers, wood grain, wine and vinegar.
Prayed the stone
in the den of lions, den of bears.
Pronounced the stone
at the altar of wine and water.
One-Cent bricked the wall with stone.
Bread despoiled,
honey and milk in a drink of dust.
Blossomed cement and steel with stone.
Believed in mud and dead-leaf grit.
Believed in taking the road.
Believed in the stone psalm.
Held, held, held the stone.
One-Cent held the fiery stone.
And, on the wind, he tasted smoke.
Patrick T. Reardon
5.1.26
This poem originally appeared at Book of Matches, Issue 17, on 5.1.26
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/.