MAX RITVO'S PASSING

Not only here at the door
in Boston's bean town
will we miss your reflected
poetry but the scope
you gave us,
secure in your young hope
of twenty five years
in fearful courtyards
of a seasoned poetry
studying under your nearby
red blackbird companions
feeding on croissants
near the Fenway river beds
you watch their weaving
over amber skies
turning a gorgeous red
and yellowish in a colorful
Autumnal kaleidoscope
you still nod
on the Charles River
to back up clouds
giving birth to new words
and deliver powerful phrases
from your earthy shroud
by your wait and see hearing
to clear clairvoyant voices
of bodily fused sounds
near reading crowds
of your fans and friends
on the Common underground
who marvel to remember
your wondrous epiphanies
and a more than few
forbidden ecstasies
for we realize
no poet dies alone
but offer us a surprise
even if the Fall rain
grieves us
yet we believe
you were more
than your  chorus
of notes and bones
hidden from view,
we now ask you, Max
as we take a lesson
from your quatrains
knowing your memory
will not wane
in your context
but as a matter of fact
the lyrical controversies
waxes more precious
in your musical
syntax's refrain
for as we leave a stone
on your grave
a new succeeding generation
will offer
a needy veneration
news worthy
to rest in a gracious elegy
amid forests of restless leaves
scattered everywhere
on this Autumn of days
by vermilion
and full copper sun
still we cannot pull away
near your memorial
over a spacious lawn
in shadows and shade
covering this dawn
under the Evergreen trees
you are teaching us
in your own clever language
like we're reading of Jesus
on a religious editorial page
to refresh
and fulfill us to be brave.