Ryan Quinn Flanagan
Two Ravens
Two ravens – thought and memory, did travel
through all the day. Sometimes in pairs,
and others, on the lone. No doubt ever uttered
over longship's bow.
The cull of the Hampshire moors,
churn of the cistern sea.
through all the day. Sometimes in pairs,
and others, on the lone. No doubt ever uttered
over longship's bow.
churn of the cistern sea.
Apple Picker
There is little deviation from apple picker
to apple seller;
the worm escaping the one, only to be discovered by the other,
reviled as a matter of tradition. And with its mere worm-presence,
seller begins to turn on picker, though the two have never met.
Consecutive towns between them sometimes, but doubt
of one passes to the other, that breakdown of trust
you find around faulty bridges. And my days are with
the bushel weaver, his fine work out everywhere.
Fleets of trucks drawn past the inspection station.
So that the sameness of the road, becomes a marriage
of men. Of apple picker ways to apple seller whens.
the worm escaping the one, only to be discovered by the other,
reviled as a matter of tradition. And with its mere worm-presence,
seller begins to turn on picker, though the two have never met.
Consecutive towns between them sometimes, but doubt
of one passes to the other, that breakdown of trust
you find around faulty bridges. And my days are with
the bushel weaver, his fine work out everywhere.
Fleets of trucks drawn past the inspection station.
So that the sameness of the road, becomes a marriage
of men. Of apple picker ways to apple seller whens.
Record Player
And still by escape, do I find such prisons
waiting.
What should that say of the warder of charms?
How should I dance with such trick hip limitations?
It is rude to keep the record player waiting.
Ruder still, to accost a man in the street.
To muddy his shoes with baseless conflagrations.
Take wife of the land in milling scythe hallows.
That is how I imagine the thing goes down.
Twenty toes to count forty thieves,
it is just that sort of irritation.
Do parade for the pollsters the next time
you are in town, spotty doorbells almost demand it.
Be a doll and put your hand in mine.
It is rude to keep the record player waiting.
What should that say of the warder of charms?
How should I dance with such trick hip limitations?
It is rude to keep the record player waiting.
To muddy his shoes with baseless conflagrations.
Take wife of the land in milling scythe hallows.
That is how I imagine the thing goes down.
it is just that sort of irritation.
you are in town, spotty doorbells almost demand it.
Be a doll and put your hand in mine.
It is rude to keep the record player waiting.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author who lives in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage. His work has been published both in print and online in such places as: The New York Quarterly, Red Fez, Evergreen Review, Himalaya Diary, Setu, GloMag, and The Oklahoma Review. He enjoys listening to the blues and cruising down the TransCanada in his big blacked out truck.
