THE DAY THE WHOLE WORLD CRIED

This is a poem that delves into some historical moments in my life and how they mark us.

The last time I sat on my father's shoulders,
10 years old, regaling this uncommon event,
Was to look down on Shannon's spacious tarmac,
Catch a glimpse of a youngish president on
That warm July morning: Mellifluous sounds
Lull a waiting crowd, a darling to Irish eyes
Remains transfixed, and I intrigued by his long,
Broad-voweled, Massachusetts goodbye.
Four months or so pass...
Dad returns home despondent and morose,
A face, long and dark as Irish winter nights
Hesitates, unknowing what to say or do,
Turns away, to listen to a nearly new
Green and cream transistor radio,
Balanced on the window ledge and
Catch the subdued and somber cant.
Measured shock and frightful tone send
Trails of tears streaming down my face.
Surreal, rasping sounds of anguish that
Are my father's -- haunt my innocence.
And I alone, deep in denial, wait for the
Clarion blast heralding the world's end;
An apocalypse -- in this
Quiet, Limerick suburb of Corbally,
On a cold, November evening in 1963.

January 2015