RYAN QUINN FLANAGAN

RYAN QUINN FLANAGAN

GIRL WITH PINWHEEL

BECOMES THE SUN

The sky is high on itself.

The clouds are milk egotistical.

The sun is rising by wrote.

Making presumptions.

I am irritated with the sky.

It is always there like traffic.

Its smell becomes everyone’s so that

Voltaire is a hidden fire escape.

I open the window and hold my breath.

Girl with pinwheel becomes the sun.

All those marvelous colours.

Like starting out again.

 

AUTUMN POEM

dripdrip

after the

rains

such a shame

the autumn leaves

find their colour

just to die

a man is just a man

until he imagines himself

more

that is the secret

and the frenzy

one last belligerence

of love.

 

HELICOPTERS

There were three of us in the backyard.

Standing under a large sycamore tree.

Tossing the sycamore seeds up in the air

and watching them spin back down to the earth.

We called them Helicopters, and tried to keep ours

in the air the longest.

Then Shawn saw this thing on Vietnam

with his father and we all started calling

them Hueys instead.

All those afternoons under the sycamore tree.

Piloting helicopters to victory before a whole different war

grabbed hold of us.

RYAN QUINN FLANAGAN

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, Setu, Literary Yard, Our Poetry Archive, and The Oklahoma Review.