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After the bombing, I struggled with the darkness of that moment like everyone else. That explosion killed three beautiful people, maimed others and wounded us all. Our collective soul reeled-tumbling in the penumbra of the blast. And the news that gushed from every media orifice afterwards was like shrapnel to the heart.

So, I wrote a poem. I did it mostly for myself- a way to work out and work through my fear, sadness, outrage and nameless other feelings-a way to push back against an unfathomable wrong. It came out a little rhymey-dimey but it made me feel better. Friends and family who've read it said they felt "comforted" or "inspired" by it.I hope it's good for you,too.

God Bless You


O, What noble Town you are,
Between the Charles and sea
Once claimed a feif of Royalty
And governed by a foreign tsar.

And noble was the yoke you bore,
Subjects gladly of a king,
Yes to Britannia did once we sing
Til George became a taxing sore.

Yet even then by honor bound
We sought to pay our tax for tea,
If only represented fair-i-ly.
But sadly, George heard not a sound.

And yet our leaders tried some more,
To have King George attend our call
That we be represented , one and all.
But he’d not budge, the taxing bore.

So soon the matter of the tax and tea
To a worthy end did come
And taxes, not a single sum.
T'was Indians, dumped it in the sea!

What George was thinking is not clear,
But sure he deemed us not so clever,
Bunch of farmers, weak as feathers,
My Throne will teach you how to fear.

So forth from boats his men did pour
Redcoated came they cross the sea
Muskets high they swaggered free
On Boston's cobbles and in our doors.

Causing not our fear to be,
Stead, we stood, these men from farms
In a minute, men of arms
for courage, home and liberty.

George left us not another choice!
You'll stay my Brits or risk it all
Hung from oak or shot by ball.
In my world, you have no voice.

Now Paul Revere, a silversmith and fine
did spy the light from Old North Steeple
a blinking sign for all our people
that redcoats march to tow the line.

Thence he and Dawes did fast alight
with knowledge from that Old North Church
they rode all night in anxious search
of minutemen to join the fight.

Reining up at farm and shop
They told that Brits were on a run
to take our men and every gun
to make our very freedom stop.

Men and boys and kids and wives
Courage forward fear unseen
Dads and sons to Lexington Green
Guts and guns for future lives.

We know well that confrontation,
The Green a line of coats of red,
Some farm boys and their Dads were dead.
But yet their blood throbs through this nation.

And of an April Monday once a year,
we pause and feel that pulsing beat
Of blood and drum and Patriot feet
Of courage marching over fear.

For day to day and year to year
We live and thrive and do our things
The melody that freedom sings
When once we learn to march toward fear.

And on this Holiday of fun and run,
We swell with recall of these thoughts
And celebrate all patriots
With our Boston Marathon.

How many years it's been unmarred,
by bad things, ne'er mind evil,
a day for fun, and all that's good and civil,
that now from 13 on will be forever scarred.

Yes we’ve taken ghastly fire,
Been wounded, maimed and shocked and killed,
Lu and Krystle, little Martin, now forever stilled.
A holiday of fun and run replaced by righteous ire!

A tyrant’s act can knock us down,
Can seem to sap and take our power,
But we will rise and choose the hour,
Cause we are all from Boston Town.

Yes, we are Boston, One and all
We who call to God as friend,
No terrorist can make that end,
For Love is all , and all, and all.

One Nation under God are we,
One Boston Town from sea to sea.

God Bless America--the Beautiful!!

William F. Maloney
April 20, 2013

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