Five Poems by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

 

Walter Sickert Art

Walter Sickert's Reluctant Light

 

Ash from the forest fires falls from the sky.

It is dark in the mornings, a reddish haze in the afternoons

as thick smoke blocks out the sun.  Still, things get through,

like Walter Sickert's reluctant light.  The painter's models almost

rendered in silhouette.  That single stark window on the far wall

seems to have served the artist just fine.  There has always been little time

or patience for art, it has to scrimp and fight and find a way.

Sickert's models just local girls from the area, prostitutes mostly.

Positioned for hours in that suffocating gloom while the painter

once falsely accused of being Jack the Ripper tried to get it right.

It is that crippling darkness that almost becomes the subject matter,

domineering and forlorn. But scraps of light, like the artist, find a way. 

It is an art and life of persistence.  For that Camden Town conjurer,

as much as for you and I.  At great distance and nearest circumstance. 

Coming to settle into our thrilling destitutions

like that blackened ash 

that seems to get everywhere.

 

Removing the Fountain

 

The fountain

first appeared on that 

busy city block

almost two years

previous.

 

In head-to-toe

silver body glitter,

striking gallant

poses.

 

A large jug of water,

so he could spout all

over the sidewalk.

 

Spraying shocked

pedestrians as they leapt

out of the way.

 

So that

the boys in blue

were called

to remove the

fountain.

 

"You can't be here,"

they said.

"Stop spitting like that,

it's a serious health violation."

 

"You can't arrest a fountain!"

our silver friend yelled

as he was cuffed

and lead away.

 

A few weeks absence,

then he'd be right back

at it.

 

Statuesque, a vision,

before the badge showed up

again to ruin everything.

 

Puck Bunnies

 

The city's hockey team was called the Barrie Colts.

Everything revolved around them and their chances of winning.

When I was in high school, the Ontario Hockey League loosened the rules

so that the best players could be brought in from all over the world.

There were a lot of Russians, many who did not speak English.

Set up in billet homes that gave them food and shelter

and enrolled at our school and in our classes.

A giant new stadium had been built for the team on the outskirts of town.

They needed asses in the seats to pay for it and bringing international

ringers in was the solution.  A whole system was created for their success.

Teachers gave them top grades to keep the players draft eligible,

our teacher was both a city councillor and part owner of the team.

He had helped negotiate the building of the new arena

and raised municipal taxes to help cover the cost.

Some of the girls in the class were enlisted to do all the homework

of the hockey players.  Everyone called them puck bunnies.

They were awarded with top grades themselves for taking part.

The school got more funding for bringing in the international players

and began building a whole new wing of the school.

There was that much money involved.  Money from the city council,

voted on by my corrupt councilman teacher and his friends. 

There was a whole system in place of kickbacks and grade fixing

to ensure on-ice success for the team and city.

I was never part of the system and even pointed it out.

That made me an easy target for bad grades.  With all the hockey

players and puck bunnies getting straight As, someone else had to have

poor grades to make things even out for the paper trail.

The less popular kids and any troublemakers such as myself 

became unwilling cogs that aided the system as scholastic fodder.

Kids that could have had a chance at university or college

no longer had the marks.  Someone had to lose so that the winners

could win.  It felt dirty, and it was.  Like drowning in a huge mud puddle

that never dried up.  Pockets were lined and careers were made.

Futures ensured and destroyed to achieve on-ice success.

It was a nasty crooked system within a nasty crooked system.

The mayor was always a shoo-in for re-election.

Vending Machine

 

We met at the vending machine,

arrived at the same time 

with a dull hunger.

 

She fed the coins

into the slot 

and pushed L6

on the black number

letter pad.

 

Suddenly,

the grey metal swirls turned

their slow corkscrew

and a cranberry muffin

fell down into the dispensing chamber 

with a hollow thud.

 

She reached in and grabbed it,

said her mother was dying 

of some terrible disease.

Had all these lesions

and leaking

wounds.

 

"But she had a good run,"

she assured me.

"A full life," she whispered

almost thoughtlessly. 

 

I told her I wasn't there for anything

nearly as serious as that.

 

A man called her back into the room

and I wished her well.

 

She rushed off

with her cranberry

muffin.

 

While I lingered

by the vending machine

with my bag of potato chips

because I'm Irish, and for the Irish,

potatoes in all their forms

are god.

 

Usher

 

Themistocles guarded the waterways through guile and maneuver,

while on driest land, it is the usher that patrols the plunder 

 

demanding to see tickets, his flashlight shone through impeccable darkness,

and to others before the eyes adjust, he is a guide to numbered seats,

 

to plushest subservience, both friendly and stern in single gesture,

down dimly lit aisles, knowing as any map –

 

and if the berths may falter, elbows come to gentle jostle

seem to divine that such limitations are never theirs,

 

but rather a simplest deception of false night,

a desirable snare for sweaty sots,

 

the feeling and unfeeling crowds brought indoors

and only one brought to rapturous applause,

 

though all stand in strange union, gathering coats

and wits and whatever else may be left behind.

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, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Red Fez, MasticadoresUSA, Fixator Press and The Oklahoma Review.

Five Poems by Maria Downs

 

A LIFE ALONE AMIDST THE SENSES SHRILL

 

Reverie at the dawn,

to always stay, amidst this dream,

where lies, where rests, the silent, lonely soul –

 

in awe of this peace, embracing each instance, of this

only, listening now to no – one,

but hoping to hear, the songbird’s refrain.

 

To bring alive, this acute, audible sense

to those still, hushed depths,

those quiet waters, that endless flow.

 

Heeding not, to folk’s trivial talk,

but only, by what is owned or possessed,

once again, little one, aware, of this mundaneness,

this secular greed, this bull doze of folk, for gold to attain.

 

For now, the tired eyes will close,

immersed amidst this lavish, wonder

of this ancient world,

emerging, to flaunt,  its hues and brilliant colours, soon

perceiving this miracle, of all changing seasons,

that sweep, with such glory,

tempting to inspire, all artists, to portray

such wild, beauty adorned, so intricate

yet simply, unfolding,

like the unfurling rose, of legendary name,

 

while all, to the sounds of soaring, birds

brushes, with what all, will lose,

as those gales and winds, that carry away

each seed, fruit, perhaps, at death, the spirit imagined

pictured, in fables and myths, so daily, fashioned.

 

Realizing, amidst this awareness, to sustain

the life of one, alone

embracing, this mellifluous overspill,  of descriptive

words,

thus, fulfilling the heart, with but

a rich, inner solace, that no earthly voice, could contain.

 

Love of this loneliness rests, enough, that endures,

as winter’s wrath will return, once more

the cold, icy winds will rape, as raw -

huddling, cosey one, alone,

as wilting, leaves in falling, foretell

each pain, each sorrow, that be -

aspiring to envision,  a little hope,  

with this return to spring,

to embrace alone, this wide – eyed, vision,

as a lonely, wild dreamer, of the sea.

A LOST CRY

A quiet evening draws to the close of night,

when midnight chimes announce the time of peace

under the moon, shining bright

 

when glistening beams sweep

upon the glassy expanse of the seas,

extending long in golden threads, 

like a loom in gleaming shafts of light

seductive, to the gaze.

 

Calm, as serene upon the still of the deep

when all floats lost, in a dreamy sleep,

while the sound is heard beyond afar

lapping edges of silver waves, in the black

beneath the shimmering stars.

 

Little boats bob, upon the sheen of water

of darkest green

tied to garish buoys that dip,

to warn each seaman of rocks that rip

through helm or prow to beware

 

of the peril to portend, that will arouse those waves

to hurl their heights, frothing crests,  

like leaping phantoms of the night.

 

Yet upon this night, no noise did dwell

upon the waters cast in moonlight

that set the heart in an eerie spell.

 

Transfixed by the glow of the round orb above

sifting with wisps of cloud

that swept its shadows upon the coves.

 

Lending a valour to believe

the calling voice of the gusty breeze –

 

sending the spirit to answer, thereby

the faint cry upon the winds, as a distant gull in the sky.

 

Coaxing in its allure, as a mystic impulse of the mind

straining faint into the dim,  

like a weeping sailor left, to die.

 

All upon the midnight light

where ghosts plague the will this night,

alone soaring upon the seas,

like the lull from an Elysium to be free –

 

nebulous, as lost by the wisps of those clouds

the hush of evening that haunt

while the lonely echo upon the shores did resound.

A TENDER BRUSH OF THE GREAT WING

So subtle does each season turn its face,

to wonder yet at the purest of skies, free from taint.

To dream amazed at the span of years

shading, each contour groove,  

colouring the brimming fields.

 

Transpose thus in hearty glee

the sun–lit, idyll the jackdaw: - throaty notes, 

its song of glee.

 

All to dream, as if a paradise swiftly descends,

upon the aching heart to fill the soul love, as a friend,

strange that though the beauty spreads,  

through all places great to learn –

 

the buds of spring, the birth of each fledgling’s wean,

the shining heat of the summer star brazen – clothed,  

beckons travellers, to wander near or far.

 

The brilliance of vivid hues, shades of amber russet  

had to view

wavering, within the vision to gaze,

the cast of bright fair, at the wane.

 

All to remember, as if to blind

the child–like, love of snow, with winter coming wild.

The feeling sense to huddle snug,

through the freeze warm lit, by the little lamp,   

home of love.

 

Somewhere, amidst the realm of all these miracles,

rests the fire of spirit that glows, 

as the twilight will dwindle.

 

Longing still for the sun

as a new day is born,

to hear again the melody, of a river song.

A THRILL AMIDST THE GLOOM

When the winds gather to portend

the gloom of another day,

no sun is espied blazing, from the skies

to uplift the mood bestow, as grace the spirit,

as zealous, alive

 

when the seas drift, with thick mist

the boats are loathed to sail away

 

the spring seems distant to bring

the fresh buds lambs birds, that sing

and the swirl of the oceans, the hiss of sea spray

the dip bend of each wave hurling, to crash upon the bay

 

does not subdue the heart, that in its fancy will roam,

but excites the mind to venture far

travelling wild from your home.

 

To believe in the phantoms, whirling at your door

to know the thrill of each hunt, as prey is seized

from the forest tips to the earthy floor.

 

To sense the tingle of rain upon the skin

feel the heat of breath, as quests to echo

with each voice from the city’s din.

 

Thinking, as if in a dream ravaged, upon the air,

like a carefree gypsy striding winds

whistling, through her hair.

 

So though dull, floats a day, 

yet still resounds each sound

angered by Gods that howl –

the gales blur into the dim, the gropers that taunt and

prowl.

 

So immersed with this, but alone still, to enjoy, as

solace,

like the lull that descends, upon each hour brimming,

full

with gusts, the shrouded mist

each shower of rain, that sweeping blows.

 

Finding here, as rapture amidst the still of all, to be,

as quiet, as the draw of eve,

the slow emergence of leaves upon the tree.

 

Waiting tentative to commend,  

the harp of each call flung, in silence,

like the roaming ghosts upon a breeze.

ADORNMENT OF LIBERTY AMIDST NATURE’S REALMS

 

Hark! arise, awakening, to the day,

hearing each melody, resonant

drone its beat, upon each roadway,

though seeming to daunt, the workload that haunts,

the very sense, that through each smile, 

attempts, to endear

finding ease, at last, with this grace, this flow,

though hurried, folk pace,

in their hunger for bread, racing, to and fro.

 

Yet the heart endures, to embrace,

this earthly toll, of each season, so colourful

that strikes in such myriad guise,

upon the eye, to amaze.

 

Reminded, that all within the natural, realms

irks not, upon the instance,

but grows, turns and evolves,

with each dawn of sun, each lull of eve,

steeped, in innocence.

Boasting the rural green,

the purple and aquamarine, of the sea,

yet still, remaining unspoiled,

in its attire, its beauty.

 

Revealing all that dies,

like those songbirds, at autumn’s wane,

that are heard no more,

upon the cold, windswept rain,

 

as if calling the soul, to fret no more,

aware, in the end, that all will perish,

leaving this world, but only, as dust

joining with this fabric light,  

carried upon the winds,

no more to toil, nor spin, desire, or lust.

 

Released upon the ethers,

with all sense, as dead

where the spirit roams wild,

no more to lead, command, or be led,

 

while those wintry snows will fall, still

dressing, the huge, wide lands,

the sun will beam its light, again

at another birth, another dawn,

with each lonely, bird’s refrain.

Maria Downs - Has been playing the piano for fifty years. She a has painted over 150 artworks, of garden scenes, moorlands and seascapes for fourteen years and has been writing poetry, concerning Nature’s realms, the universe and the soul,  for forty years, writing over 2200, verses.

Maria has lived in Lyon, France, studying French and in Florence, Italy, studying the history of art, musical drama, history of Greek theatre, aesthetics, Italian language  and classical music with emphasis on the composers, Robert Schumann and Debussy.

She reads excessively and now, mainly loves writing her verses, reading biographies about interesting gifted people, playing upbeat pop music, easy listening, and Motown, Rhythm and blues and Soul music on her piano. She loves to read, a genuine “good book”. 

Three Poems by Nicholas Rogers

 

The Gilded Lure

 

The benighted chamber,

adorned with jewels

Spectacular, mocking

Restless slither as old as time

This witchcraft, seductive but cold,

Weighs heavy

Caring not,

strength lies redundant

In this dark majesty

A machiavellian opus, thriving, inveigles

Courting opaque quarters

of festering souls

And oh -

How it takes!

This gilded lure

And so it shall be,

as long polished knives claw and tear

And though this night sinks into unspeakable mud

It remains -

Eternal

The Unjust

There's a chasm,

though more oubliette than cell

Escape not but cruel fantasy

Ah, but -

Such sweet dreams,

torture more than absence of life

Beautiful, true,

but stained with facile hope

Once playful and light,

before time

And sentence

Lost to this void,

beasts scatter sound like stones

Unseen, though -

Flaunting dagger teeth,

Small,

but stained with memories

Skin sags

Wax sheets,

rippled with waste

As time squeezes and coils

Minutes bleed and bloat

falling prey to disease

And rotting vile contagion

This sentence seems wicked

Cruel

Innocence condemned

And you realise

This sentence is not,

but your life

Your sentence -

Is you

The Savage Dawn

Watch now

fair blood boil

and hasten to screeching cries

as lush hills shade red

and valleys darken

The horizon -

draws its veil

Murmurs echo

through growling clouds

Diamonds fill the sky

The beast comes now,

uttering thunderous steps

each cannon's howl

designed in malice

to melt sinews once filled

with rage and dangerous pride

Behold monstrosity!

Dark, glorious justice

And man?

our time is now

Nicholas Rogers is a writer/poet based in Tammisaari, Finland. His work explores dark, psychological, and gothic themes and these poems are his first would-be steps into the world of poetry.