Patrick T. Reardon
Patrick T. Reardon, a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee for poetry, worked for 32 years as a Chicago Tribune reporter. He has published 14 books, including six poetry collections: Requiem for David, Darkness on the Face of the Deep, The Lost Tribes, Let the Baby Sleep, Salt of the Earth: Doubts and Faith, and Puddin’: The Autobiography of a Baby, A Memoir in Prose Poems. His manuscript Every Marred Thing: A Time in America won the 2024 Faulkner-Wisdom Prize for poetry collection from the Pirate’s Alley Faulkner Society of New Orleans. Reardon’s poetry has appeared in America, Commonweal, Rhino, After Hours, Autumn Sky, Burningword Literary Journal, Poetry East, The Galway Review, Under a Warm Green Linden and other journals. His history book The Loop: The “L” Tracks That Shaped and Saved Chicago was published in 2020 by Southern Illinois University Press.
“Footprints,” “Lost faith and constant love,” and “Formless”
His footprints are still there to see
on the stone on the Mount of Olives
where he pushed off, like a power forward
rising to the rebound, to ascend.
on the stone on the Mount of Olives
where he pushed off, like a power forward
rising to the rebound, to ascend.
Poetry
Issue 87, September 2024
Issues Archive
“Black Tambourines,” “Brother Red Gold,” and “Flesh”
And I heard black tambourines, stolen
steel guitars, small-room tubas, forsaken
trumpets, green castanets, kettledrums
of gold, stained-glass window pianos
— the orchestra of the alley,
pavement joyously undefended.
steel guitars, small-room tubas, forsaken
trumpets, green castanets, kettledrums
of gold, stained-glass window pianos
— the orchestra of the alley,
pavement joyously undefended.
Poetry
Issue 78, October 2023
Issues Archive
“Baby,” “Bourbon Street, New Orleans, the night before the Chicago Bears won the 1986 Super Bowl, 46-10,” and “Ghosts”
My sister held the baby as he died.
Not hers.
She held the nose-tube baby
as his mother exercised at the Y,
exorcized, for moments, grief,
setting fragile, ebbing boy in soft arms.
Not hers.
She held the nose-tube baby
as his mother exercised at the Y,
exorcized, for moments, grief,
setting fragile, ebbing boy in soft arms.
Poetry
Issue 64, August 2022
Issues Archive
“Heron,” “Liberty” and “Odyssey”
Great blue heron, white in high green,
folds on self, forward falls toward water,
clear space, wingspan wind-catch, rise in flight.
I am semi-trailer truck in someone else’s tender canoe
— steep banks through suburbs, six crows
from one bank to the other frenzy a hawk
folds on self, forward falls toward water,
clear space, wingspan wind-catch, rise in flight.
I am semi-trailer truck in someone else’s tender canoe
— steep banks through suburbs, six crows
from one bank to the other frenzy a hawk
Poetry
Issue 46, February 2021
Issues Archive
“Pa,” “Land mark” and “Dark night”
Drive Chronicles Avenue straight out
of downtown for three miles to the
railroad bridge, empty as a Roman
ruin, turn right toward the spray-paint
chaos of the Grass Lake rocks, right
again onto Esther Road, to 135, and
there’s tight-wound Pa sitting on the
dusk porch while nervous fireflies,
trespassers, skitter, knowing nothing
else, around the maypole of his chair.
of downtown for three miles to the
railroad bridge, empty as a Roman
ruin, turn right toward the spray-paint
chaos of the Grass Lake rocks, right
again onto Esther Road, to 135, and
there’s tight-wound Pa sitting on the
dusk porch while nervous fireflies,
trespassers, skitter, knowing nothing
else, around the maypole of his chair.
Poetry
Issue 41, September 2020
Issues Archive
“I was a tourist from honey-milk land,” “Inheritance” and “Overflowing”
I was a tourist from honey-milk land,
and Sister heard my question underneath.
She had her own.
“Are you packing?”
That kind of place.
The nun hugged her wizened chest.
She was old then,
dead now, I’m sure, thirty years on.
and Sister heard my question underneath.
She had her own.
“Are you packing?”
That kind of place.
The nun hugged her wizened chest.
She was old then,
dead now, I’m sure, thirty years on.
Poetry
Issue 34, February 2020
Issues Archive
“Angels are out tonight,” “Brick wall scripture” and “City hymn”
Tonight, the typewriter keys slam rhythm
to ease coarse electricity under the skin.
The Sister of the Sacred Heart pleads alms
and sweats under her habit
as angels stride thickly east and west on her sidewalk.
Angels fly complex patterns
over the drunk anesthesiologist and the beautiful child.
to ease coarse electricity under the skin.
The Sister of the Sacred Heart pleads alms
and sweats under her habit
as angels stride thickly east and west on her sidewalk.
Angels fly complex patterns
over the drunk anesthesiologist and the beautiful child.
Poetry
Issue 29, September 2019
Issues Archive
Patrick T. Reardon
Patrick T. Reardon, a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee for poetry, worked for 32 years as a Chicago Tribune reporter. He has published 14 books, including six poetry collections: Requiem for David, Darkness on the Face of the Deep, The Lost Tribes, Let the Baby Sleep, Salt of the Earth: Doubts and Faith, and Puddin’: The Autobiography of a Baby, A Memoir in Prose Poems. His manuscript Every Marred Thing: A Time in America won the 2024 Faulkner-Wisdom Prize for poetry collection from the Pirate’s Alley Faulkner Society of New Orleans. Reardon’s poetry has appeared in America, Commonweal, Rhino, After Hours, Autumn Sky, Burningword Literary Journal, Poetry East, The Galway Review, Under a Warm Green Linden and other journals. His history book The Loop: The “L” Tracks That Shaped and Saved Chicago was published in 2020 by Southern Illinois University Press.
“Footprints,” “Lost faith and constant love,” and “Formless”
His footprints are still there to see
on the stone on the Mount of Olives
where he pushed off, like a power forward
rising to the rebound, to ascend.
on the stone on the Mount of Olives
where he pushed off, like a power forward
rising to the rebound, to ascend.
Poetry
Issue 87, September 2024
Issues Archive
“Black Tambourines,” “Brother Red Gold,” and “Flesh”
And I heard black tambourines, stolen
steel guitars, small-room tubas, forsaken
trumpets, green castanets, kettledrums
of gold, stained-glass window pianos
— the orchestra of the alley,
pavement joyously undefended.
steel guitars, small-room tubas, forsaken
trumpets, green castanets, kettledrums
of gold, stained-glass window pianos
— the orchestra of the alley,
pavement joyously undefended.
Poetry
Issue 78, October 2023
Issues Archive
“Baby,” “Bourbon Street, New Orleans, the night before the Chicago Bears won the 1986 Super Bowl, 46-10,” and “Ghosts”
My sister held the baby as he died.
Not hers.
She held the nose-tube baby
as his mother exercised at the Y,
exorcized, for moments, grief,
setting fragile, ebbing boy in soft arms.
Not hers.
She held the nose-tube baby
as his mother exercised at the Y,
exorcized, for moments, grief,
setting fragile, ebbing boy in soft arms.
Poetry
Issue 64, August 2022
Issues Archive
“Heron,” “Liberty” and “Odyssey”
Great blue heron, white in high green,
folds on self, forward falls toward water,
clear space, wingspan wind-catch, rise in flight.
I am semi-trailer truck in someone else’s tender canoe
— steep banks through suburbs, six crows
from one bank to the other frenzy a hawk
folds on self, forward falls toward water,
clear space, wingspan wind-catch, rise in flight.
I am semi-trailer truck in someone else’s tender canoe
— steep banks through suburbs, six crows
from one bank to the other frenzy a hawk
Poetry
Issue 46, February 2021
Issues Archive
“Pa,” “Land mark” and “Dark night”
Drive Chronicles Avenue straight out
of downtown for three miles to the
railroad bridge, empty as a Roman
ruin, turn right toward the spray-paint
chaos of the Grass Lake rocks, right
again onto Esther Road, to 135, and
there’s tight-wound Pa sitting on the
dusk porch while nervous fireflies,
trespassers, skitter, knowing nothing
else, around the maypole of his chair.
of downtown for three miles to the
railroad bridge, empty as a Roman
ruin, turn right toward the spray-paint
chaos of the Grass Lake rocks, right
again onto Esther Road, to 135, and
there’s tight-wound Pa sitting on the
dusk porch while nervous fireflies,
trespassers, skitter, knowing nothing
else, around the maypole of his chair.
Poetry
Issue 41, September 2020
Issues Archive
“I was a tourist from honey-milk land,” “Inheritance” and “Overflowing”
I was a tourist from honey-milk land,
and Sister heard my question underneath.
She had her own.
“Are you packing?”
That kind of place.
The nun hugged her wizened chest.
She was old then,
dead now, I’m sure, thirty years on.
and Sister heard my question underneath.
She had her own.
“Are you packing?”
That kind of place.
The nun hugged her wizened chest.
She was old then,
dead now, I’m sure, thirty years on.
Poetry
Issue 34, February 2020
Issues Archive
“Angels are out tonight,” “Brick wall scripture” and “City hymn”
Tonight, the typewriter keys slam rhythm
to ease coarse electricity under the skin.
The Sister of the Sacred Heart pleads alms
and sweats under her habit
as angels stride thickly east and west on her sidewalk.
Angels fly complex patterns
over the drunk anesthesiologist and the beautiful child.
to ease coarse electricity under the skin.
The Sister of the Sacred Heart pleads alms
and sweats under her habit
as angels stride thickly east and west on her sidewalk.
Angels fly complex patterns
over the drunk anesthesiologist and the beautiful child.
Poetry
Issue 29, September 2019
Issues Archive