7 Poems by Ryan Quinn Flanagan


Tucked away by squirrel, by paltry wet-nurse,
this alcove of woolen obfuscation;
how I never once cried so that they thought me deceased,
checking tiny balled up fists for a reaction, deformed feet,
looking past everything like some baby-fat cannonball 
on the prowl; still-life inertia replacing expected smile, 
deserters from all their posts so you can understand
a fence falling down.


Did you see the scar on Al Capone's face? 
As though windy turbine Chicago would never be  
safe for anyone ever again?  
This is less sudden, but more deep  
and jarring, this escarpment on the steep,  
a long eroded curve so that the locals believe ancient  
giants built this land even if they do not  
which is favourbale for tourism if not for truth;  
the adrenalin junkies all with ropes and backpacks  
and permanent helmet head never good for the hair, 
but they are all young and looking for something  
that is not themselves or anything they know, 
staying in lumpy bunk bed hostels with a shared  
cold water bathroom at the end of the hall,  
trying to learn guitar from the wandering curious  
fingers all around them.

Wall of Sunflowers, Corner Lot

The kiddos back to school tomorrow, 
trying to get one last day in, 
trampoline jumping behind this wall  
of sunflowers, corner lot, 
as I squeak past before the rains, 
lethargic and childless, a faded shirt of wrinkles, 
so many beds of flowers that I fear  
I may never wake again; 	
not for want of dream, but with retiring curtain stillness: 
my tractable pine cone arms draped over everything, 
this sullen parade of bereavements.


Surely no beauty added to this braggart landscape,  
that sudden splash of gold plays hell on my allergies,  
can't go near the bloody thing without cursing  
the very rainwater it survives on, all clumped together like that  
like the tube station crowd waiting to pile onto a rush hour  
train car and second as canned sardines, 
not a pretty sight, nor the sluices opening on my sinuses, 
a giant ball of tissue in each pant pocket which  
never seems to be enough; I'm like one of those greedy  
landlords collecting mucus instead of rents.


I shall not assume the newly predestined 
some shoddy ironing board neglect,
wrench Howitzer knees out of forgotten conflict,
pick the grape-raisin land of failed harvest –
one eyed-Nelson and a losing game of marbles,
crests of scurvy over wretched seas;
shaded lamp into sudden dark,
this singly isthmus, that none shall pass:
a man on the come, the go.


Not for climbing, lambent in  
late afternoon sun, the blasting cap 
lines all on depressed diagonals, 
still dolefully visible to those of a more  
external mind; giants clams of shale chipped 
away, felled upon the wizen-cracked lot 
of cars below, a soundless tumble as if gravity 
makes thoughtless acrobats of us all.

Dirt Cone

Glacial and irregular as they come, 
never mean-spirited so much as meant for  
far-flung purposes, to be respected if not understood – 
ablation surgeons lost to clumsy scalpel, 
distance, the great protector in both a procedural  
and personal sense; our debrous indelible dirt cone  
so well insulated that no one can arrive  
at the core, the Being.

Bio: Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Fevers of the Mind, Monterey Poetry Review, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review. 

Poem by Ryan Quinn Flanagan:Viaduct

By davidlonan1

David writes poetry, short stories, and writings that'll make you think or laugh, provoking you to examine images in your mind. To submit poetry, photography, art, please send to feversofthemind@gmail.com. Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof Facebook: DavidLONan1

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