Blog | Mid-Atlantic Review | published by Day Eight

Three Poems by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

-

April 8, 2020

Run into the Canyon and the Canyon Says Ouch!

Darting eyes of the patchy coyote,
no bodies in the brush because this is not
some simpleton dumping ground;
this is exploding firework skies,
tracheostomies running a line back to
umbilical zero, those tiny pink cries that
seem to wrap themselves around everything,
the children and the streets with the same names
so that one could hardly be blamed for driving
over both with the stereo cranked;
a bump in the road, is that not what the more
philosophical among us always say?

Campsite arsonists collecting kindle.
Run into the canyon and the canyon says ouch!
Barefoot over thorns drawing blood.
Our coiled white scorpion is the zodiac with intent:

Ouch!
Ouch!
Ouch!
Ouch!

This lame way I limp into everything,
surrendering conversations that never
belonged to me.

Snakeskin boots hugging the foot
of someone full of a personal venom.
Read the person and there is no need
for the diary.

Black Trench Coat

He whooshes by over darkened cobbles.
His black trench coat undone so that it waves
like a hurried cape in the windless night.
My companion is startled, gives a sudden jump
he hopes I don’t notice.
The only people that demand bravery
are those that lack it.
My companion can be as scared as he is sweaty.
I am not without fault.
Half a dozen women have told me so.
I can only hope to hide mine a little better
or at least for a little longer than my
mouth breathing red-faced companion.
That simple warm buzz of electricity all around us.
Bags of garbage piled by the curb.
A few overturned and torn down the side.
The scavengers have been out early.
I let out a cough and my friend jumps again.
That queer jerky way the shoulders threaten to leave
the body and never return.

Crowd Noise

I open the closet door
to a sea of applause.

The crowd noise drowns
everything out.

Searching for a shirt
of man eating tigers.

Rolled up to the elbow,
so freckled gooseflesh can
make the rounds.

This collar pulled down with poise.
As 70,000 strong break into song.

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, Bourgeon, The Song Is.., Cultural Weekly, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.

Imgae by Michael Gäbler / CC BY (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0)

Two Poems by Lynda DeWitt

Gregory Luce

-

March 30, 2020

0

Billy G

The snake circled the island, up the Hudson, down the Harlem,
into the East, and around the point past Billy G’s
rent-controlled building on the Lower West Side.

It compressed the bedrock as Billy G worked hard,
then harder, for space to cook and eat, sit and sleep, and when
he moved his small couch and two chairs against the walls, to dance.

The snake, fat and brazen, crawled onto piers and promenades
and into plumbing, squeezing Billy G into smaller and smaller
stripped down spaces, unfit for dancing, or cooking, or sitting — or living.

And so it was in a moldy apartment he could no longer afford,
Billy G drained his body of blood, while the snake,
coiled on the rim of the tub, devoured all trace of foul play.

You and I

I see a bridge too narrow and old.
You see a river of jade below.

Afraid to miss the bus, I run.
You walk and take a later one.

Clenched, I sit in the crowded café,
while you savor the light this time of day

But, I say, the world will end.
Ah yes, you say, but it will start again.

A children’s book author, Lynda DeWitt also wrote and edited for the National Geographic Society, Discovery Communications, the National Academies of Sciences, and other nonprofit and for-profit organizations. She lives and works in the Washington, DC area. Her poems have been published in The American Journal of Poetry (Vol Five), Blue Lake Review (Sept, 2018), and 50 Haikus (Vol 1, Issue 14).

Image by Darren Wyn Rees – Aberdare Blog http://www.aberdareblog.co.uk/, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2576955

Three Poems by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Gregory Luce

-

February 22, 2020

0

From Monet to a Miner’s Ass

We are just back from the old world.
A six hour time difference with serious jet lag.
Too tired to make the two hour drive home
in the snow so that we stay over in Sudbury for the night.
At the new Microtel that just opened a while back.
Near this Mastermind store that promises to make
all your idiot kids geniuses if you buy their toys
for top dollar.

And the room has two beds.
We are so tired that my wife falls into one
and I fall into the other without a word.

After about ten minutes,
I point out the interesting choice of picture
for the hotel wall.
A mining scene with a miner’s ass bent over
right at the viewer.

Less than ten hours ago we were in Paris
with the greatest paintings and artists in the world,
my wife says without turning over.

Now we are in Sudbury and it is minus 30 with wind chill.
I say.
From Monet to a miner’s ass.

She laughs because it is true.
Sheets of ice against the window outside.
Listening to her fall into a deep sleep
just moments before
I join her.

Throwing Her Head Back like Going Retro

I can’t believe what we just did!
she says
throwing her head back
like going retro.

I tell her I can’t remember.
That somehow I have been exsanguinated
after reading Machiavelli’s The Prince.

She doesn’t know what that is.
There is a first time for everything.
You will never forget that!
She seems extremely sure of herself.
Of her gifts in the presence
of others.

Even though
it appears that I have forgotten
less than a minute and ten seconds
after the fact.

Against the back of a faux wood headboard.
Cradling her head in my arms
on the soft side of
the elbow.

Seems my short term memory
may lie in shambles,
though she seems strangely assured
about my long term prospects.

Rendering, with Black Beans

I remember the painting,
but never the painter,
isn’t that always the way;
find the work and lose the worker,
I believe the heavy industrialists with clean shaves
call that the bottom line,
and this painting was of many dinner guests
leaving the table, pairing off with the dates
they came with which made me wonder why
they even came to dinner in the first place
if they were just happier together,
I remember looking at the canvas
and thinking that,
realizing that everyone was centuries dead now,
but that this single evening remained
and how sad they all looked smiling
in their finest dress
as the men pulled out the chairs
and the women tried not to fart
until they could be alone
after all those black beans
with caramelized onions.

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, Bourgeon, TheSongIs.., Cultural Weekly, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.

Image: https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/a/a2/Black_beans_%281126084559%29.jpg

Three Poems by Nick Leininger

Gregory Luce

-

December 17, 2019

0

Breathe

I can’t breathe, said the fish who soon would die
I am a lie, sung the bird who could not fly
I am the truth, said the man who always lied
I can’t breathe, said the black man to the officer who gave no reply

Broken

I dropped my glasses by mistake
I was certain that they shattered

The right lens was intact
The left lens, had become detached
Separate, but unbroken

With little to no effort
I was able to put it back in its proper place

What if every time we thought we were broken
We were really just taking a break
From being entirely whole

Enough

If it’s hard to hold on
Don’t be ashamed to loosen grip
The truth is, there’s a reason you exist

Whether looking down or looking up
I hope the person reading this
Knows they are enough

Nick Leininger is a local DC poet originally from West Chester, Pennsylvania. Nick graduated from American University in 2017 with a Bachelor’s degree in Public Relations and Strategic Communications. During his days as a student, Nick had his first poem published in the 2017 edition of Bleakhouse Publishing’s Tacenda magazine. Today Nick works for a tech company as a customer success specialist. Nick hopes to grow as a writer and to continue his support of the arts. In his spare time, he enjoys exploring the various museums and art galleries of DC, engaging in physical activity, and continuing his quest for the perfect cold brew coffee. Poetry is Nick’s preferred medium of self-expression. He believes that poetry is where he can accurately express his true self in the most elegant way possible.

Image by Piercetheorganist at English Wikipedia – Transferred from en.wikipedia to Commons by Liftarn using CommonsHelper., Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=11372735

Three Poems by Brandon C. Spalletta

Poetry

Gregory Luce

-

December 2, 2019

0

What’s Left of My Grandmother’s Signature

In her room at Poet’s Walk
her first name begins with
a cursive J elegantly
completing itself on the wall,

resting in suspended animation
southwest of an equally impressive
o that I’d be proud of except
that it decides to exit
stage left instead,

which loops down
into the second mistake;
a loosely connected capital A
followed by the third
in a four letter name,
an l instead of the n.

Beginning Anderson
she abandons script,
another capital A
shuffling its feet nervously
just before the chasm
breaking her concentration
yet again,

the n shrinking,
and the d passed over
entirely for the e, tilted
and staring into oblivion,
and whatever else I remember.

My Grandparents’ House

Grandma and Grandpa’s house is immortal,
or at least the love of two who knew
we could do no wrong—

you were perfect in their eyes,
and so was I.

Now the familiar house belongs to others.
I fantasize that they too have grandchildren
visiting from down south, that the room
next to the kitchen is still cold on summer mornings
where an eager grandson is watching deer
while his grandmother watches him.

She asks him what he wants for dinner
and the response of chicken nuggets
jars me back to a nightmare of now—

I see their antipasto missing,
and no course after dinner.
No Sunday gravy is cooked
with the masterful touch
of just right.
Children are playing
on tablets instead of listening
to stories about their ancestors.

I’d still like to go back.
We could teach them
what home used to feel like.

Parallel

Alone with my poetry
in a busy food court,

several passing parents
judging my Bob Marley shirt
like it’s still 1970,
smugly unaware
their thoughtless disturbances
weren’t unnoticed.

The intermittent sunroofs
are a nice touch,
but a bit too human
in their judgmental equidistance
to resemble nature’s beauty.

Brandon C. Spalletta is a poet from Northern Virginia. He finds great joy in experiencing the poetry all around him, before it makes itself known on paper. His poetry has appeared in Pyrokinection, Jellyfish Whispers, and the anthologies Storm Cycle 2014: The Best of Kind of a Hurricane Press, These Human Shores Volume 1, These Human Shores Volume 2: (The Four Corners of the Moon), and Alphabet Soup Poetry Anthology.

Image by Jehjoyce at en.wikipedia [Public domain]