tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4934082776237806721.post614075027296533600..comments2023-06-27T03:43:35.956-04:00Comments on LowellIrish: Remembering JackLowellIrishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17581828365206969935noreply@blogger.comBlogger3125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4934082776237806721.post-46454874206754676512013-09-04T21:46:16.490-04:002013-09-04T21:46:16.490-04:00Thank you for sharing, Dan.
Thank you for sharing, Dan.<br />LowellIrishhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/17581828365206969935noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4934082776237806721.post-8472508676402247672013-09-02T13:53:12.482-04:002013-09-02T13:53:12.482-04:00Jack is part of centuries of storytelling in which...Jack is part of centuries of storytelling in which 'reality' is seen at getting in the way of 'truth' and the marvelous fabrication that is imaginative and, because it enhances the telling of a good story for the sake of connecting with others, it serves the purpose of 'shortening' the burdened road. His gift of imagination is celebratory.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />My Back Yard<br /><br />How blind and cold I’ve been<br />to think my father would not burn<br />through the leaves of autumn.<br />He tilted his gray soft hat,<br />slid the rim between his bent<br />index knuckle and thumb,<br />and smiled with his marvelous eyes:<br />Stick around the yard Danny. I’ll be back later.<br />His square, cocky shoulders<br />turned the corner as I raked the leaves.<br /><br />Goldy the ragman snorted down Lyon Street<br />with his horse and wagon.<br />Arr ranks, arr ranks, arr ranks,<br />he shouted as he shuffled along,<br />sniffing the temperature for the coal man<br />and the Italian man who shook the window<br />with sounds of vegetables in his cart,<br />Cu cukes, tomarts, summer squash, potarts,<br /><br />and the knife sharpener whose sparks<br />warred with the air as he pumped his feet<br />to make the grinding wheel spin<br />with the tzzzzz tzzzzz and the glowing<br />sparks scattering in air, and vanishing<br />like my father. I shivered as I raked the leaves.<br /><br />Gallagher the ice-man slashed and struck<br />a block of ice with a shiny pick.<br />He handed me a saber-toothed chunk,<br />cold and jagged with silver crystals.<br /><br />My eyes glazed when they all melted away<br />and disappeared around the corner.<br />The chill left when there was nothing<br />between my father and me, only sticks<br />of wooden matches, a pile of dry leaves.<br /><br />I bow low, close down to the ground,<br />kneel, and strike a match. The back yard<br />is fabulous with the aroma of burning leaves. <br /><br />--Daniel Patrick Murphy<br />Daniel Patrick Murphyhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/02778211641175352857noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4934082776237806721.post-77988877277619255302013-08-28T20:02:47.493-04:002013-08-28T20:02:47.493-04:00Well Told!!!
Well Told!!!<br /><br />Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com