Poems by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Tonight I'd like to post some poems by Ryan Quinn Flanagan.    Enjoy!  I certainly am.

Poem for a Man Who Thinks of the Children 

The crossing guard is there so  

children can cross the river Styx 

like the rest of us.

One side to the other.

Pennies over the eyes like government spending.

This man who cannot quite bring himself 

to be retired.

Two wives departed.

One through her lawyers, the second by death.

A long white beard with food in it.

And it is just a passing moment, but I see it 

sure as quarried rock. 

Any man who hates himself 

will never find the love of another.

He will curse the moon and replace the sun 

with a sky that paints ancient deserts

over electric flip phone hearts.

Belief is Better than 

Butterfat

The monk 

in orange robes

went down 

to the river.

Getting drunk

on wine

and throwing 

his poems 

upon the rocks.

If they are meant 

to find meaning 

they will find it 

without me,

the monk 

in orange robes

declared.

Before passing out 

under a banyan tree 

that offered little shelter 

from the 

rain.

One Giant Leap

There was a rooftop party 

the same day 

the jumper showed up 

prepared to take 

the plunge.

            

And he felt obliged 

to stay 

and have a few 

drinks.

Before excusing himself 

politely 

to go find 

another building.

Man Walking Three Ferrets 

I guess they’re not quite clogs, but his gait is struggling

right out of the block.

That unnatural limp of back pain 

and hidden opioid addiction.

Do not foist your various machinations upon the day, 

I must remember this, like scouting out the

hands of a clock for time.

What are intrigues if not an eye to confetti?

Certainly not this man walking three ferrets.

Three separate leads entwined into a single mess.

Blood pressure cuffs converted into black Velcro

shirts that fasten at the bottoms.

Three of them.

And many tiny wool booties of animal hosiery 

so feet forget the cold.

The rain is for wet and introspection.

With all these views, I have only seen myself.

It Could Be Worse

How the hell are we supposed to make ends meet?

she screamed from the kitchen

what about food?

what about rent?

what about...

It could be worse,

I said.

And it could be better,

she countered.

Yeah,

it could be better,

I said.

But we both knew it would 

be worse.

Soaker Tub

Out west 

we had a soaker tub

and nothing else.

No furniture

except a single rod iron chair 

in the kitchen.

Then we got a used bed 

and a dresser from the St. Vincent de Paul

and a table from the transvestite 

next door.

And we took turns with the soaker tub.

It was all we had and we enjoyed it.

Living like kings with warm cloths over our heads.

And each day 

we were back down at the employment office

looking for work.

We had our resumes out everywhere.

No one would give us anything.

In the evenings we would sit on the floor

with our bowls of rice and butter.

Beside the phone in case of call backs.

Then soak our tired feet in the tub

and go to bed.

Her with her favourite book about a time traveller

who finds love in ancient Scotland.

Myself with a biography of Claus von Stauffenberg.

And it was strange to do everything three hours

before you had always done it.

And it rained incessantly  

so that you came back home wet

but somehow smelled like fire.

No one to talk to but each other.

It was odd and cold

and ours.

De Niro

Bobby Milk

along Hester Street,

Little Italy;

all pale 

and silent 

before the driving

of taxis

and taking a dive

to get his shot

and Tribeca 

and Stella Adler

and the hours of Marmont 

with cubby hole smiles   

and Belushi 

while the Best Man in a Leading Role

fails to show,

the mean streets 

break into laughter,  

and little Marty

behind the camera

never stops

rolling.

Let's finish up with a little music.  The other day my husband and I went to hear Ultrafaux open for Anat Cohen.  Here is Ultrafaux's "North Avenue Stomp":  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YHAGWq2mEcs&list=PL7rSkAMVTDVcyhZlX2mIlpj3TLxtBpu23

Their "Bartender Blues" sounds like an appropriate choice as Ryan has been published in The Rye Whiskey Review:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W5-8mVjKbmk&list=PL7rSkAMVTDVcyhZlX2mIlpj3TLxtBpu23&index=7

The Comet is Coming's "Summon the Fire" makes for a good change of pace: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G55GspnNkBo

I'll finish with their "Start Running": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g7Px2wK10jg