Boston Literary Magazine  March 2020 

A Boy Who Jumped Out of a Night Sky 

 So much depends

 on fast wheels

 of a red fire truck 

arriving your lifeless form 

lying in the street

face expressive 

as Donatella’s David

you should have grown

to an elderly future 

with children

and grandchildren 

of your own

expiring some

idol summers eve 

in your solitary garden

not this dreadful loss

of the secret chord

you might have played 

for your beloved

your bright white-shining sneakers 

and tailored denim jeans 

suggest abundant care

given to one so young

Your towhead hair

falls across an angelic

now sunken adolescent face

encircled by a bright red halo

this little island

gone so silent

I do not hear

the steady traffic

flowing all around me

as we await the coroner

knowing his status update

will not shield

your parent’s pain

my breath catches imagining

with cradled helmet

under one arm

open to a taciturn heaven

wondering what Goliath

rules this day I rue

A Widow of Dublin

for Marie Heaney

Their known Sagittarius Moon shone full-bright.

This couple cast stones at a sprig of

mistletoe till it fell to her left hand.

Their walk was a bit slower this new year

through a forest of yew, oak, and beech.

Traditions of their tribes have all but fallen

away; magick of keeping families

safe, with a Norse, Irish primeval myth.

Now children pick the white berries on

Christmas Eve for a secretive kiss.

Fierce lightning, seeds-of-fire poetry 

that burnt so bright in him kindly turned 

to that fall Golden Bough. Strolling on this

Midsummer’s Night, she’s unable to

bring herself to toss a stone alone.

The Verve of Latin 

With the passing of twenty-seven hundred years, 

the structure eternally holds to the letter of the law.

The old language is

Age-old language; here

A shift took hold. Then

The barbarian

Appears at the gate.

Rome fell to the sword 

With its spear & grief.

Broken shields, hammered 

Vowels, nouns, stairway

Ascending, climbed the

Old helix into

God’s mirror. Now words

Sink as careful dew

On the soft green hills.

Warrior children

Of old Erin lay

Down their blades. Take up

Quills; spill ink with it. 

Scarred letters set in 

Mortar & stonewalls.  

Still, the dark held wealth. 

Words hold on until

Last it gives way to

Syllables anew, 

Harmony in tongues. 

A world saved once more,

On a new formed shore.