Boston, April 15, 2013



BOSTON, APRIL 15, 2013



A Spring afternoon racing marathon miles -
a crowd thick with families, runners and smiles,
shocked and bloodied by the burst of bomb’s twin blast
decimating the thrill of the finish line to be passed,
forever marking the moment when we collectively cried
as innocents were bloodied, were damaged, and died.

When roar of crowds and victories cheers
turn to blistered rage and painful tears -
when a moment where valiant struggles end
is broken by flesh as it burns and rends -
then the flash of a coward’s malicious act
highlights a city’s strength as fact.

And in the drifting smoke’s noxious gloom -
instead of the terror the heinous act assumes,
the fire that burns in every patriot’s breast
ignites heroism in the strongest and the best,
driving moments of humanity and heart
that refuse to allow us to be torn apart.

A tradition that’s lived more than a hundred years
will outlive a moment of a madman’s fears.
A city that has known two centuries of time,
its citizens stronger than any single act of crime,
will never bow down to the jackboot of fear –
the race will see a lot more runners next year.



-----
Shared for OLN over at DVerse.

©2014 Christopher Reilley



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Comments

  1. I love the fighting spirit of this poem - and great to hear you read it!

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  2. We moved to Boston in 1997. Every year after that, until 2013, I sat at home watching the marathon, watching the elites run across the finish line. Then I walked over to Boylston Street, near the finish line, and watched and cheered for the every day runners who neared the finish line. In 2013, I was in Seattle, helping take care of our three very young grandchildren as our daughter-in-law had recently been diagnosed with triple negative breast cancer - worse kind you can have. At that time, only 20% survived it. We wer in my son's van, driving home from the aquarium with the kids. We'd have a fun time and they were all tired: 20 month old, 3 year old, and 5 year old. All of a sudden my phone started pinging with messages and then ringing. People in Boston, who knew my habitual perch, were calling to see if I was alright. All were relieved to know that for the first time since coming to Boston, I was not in my usual spot on Boylston Street. I've never gone back. I always watch the race in its entirety on tv. We live basically across from Mass General Hospital and people in our building later told us about the incessant sound of ambulance sirens. Boston Strong -- yes! But oh those persons whose lives were changed that day. Your poem brought it all back.

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  3. I remember this... and now it's ten years ago. It seems that soon every day will be a memory of some meaningless terror.

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