April 15-21, 2024: Poetry from Nigel Woodhead and Ryan Quinn Flanagan
Send us your poetry.Click herefor submission guidelines.
Nigel Woodhead
Nigel Woodhead is a British-born poet living in northern France. After studying in Oxford and London, he has worked in a variety of commercial and technical writing roles. He writes poetry in English and French. Some more of his recent poetry is available on All Poetry.
The following work is Copyright © 2024, and owned by Nigel Woodhead and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Five Haiku
Parasol beneath the apple tree
Sunray shower rustling the leaves.
Damp cherry blossom
Newly woven crepe silk, Zen
Swollen with raindrops.
Your fingers dancing
Two wooden chopsticks knitting
Wool origami
A chorus of owls
Woodwind section warming up
Bassoon, clarinets.
Pungent bang, you win,
Your fortune a cracker joke,
Plastic fish wriggles.
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. He is the author of the books Cake Jumping Out of Strippers is Just Vomiting and Other Poem (Dark Heart Press) and Sky Water Gravy (Marathon Books). His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Poetry Super Highway, Mad Swirl, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.
The following work is Copyright © 2024, and owned by Ryan Quinn Flanagan and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Giordano Bruno Smells Something Burning
It is a cagey lake effect way of knowing,
knees drained like bathtubs
of a long and personal water,
angry pills and men of the cloth,
foolish centers of the ha ha universe
& Giordano Bruno smells something burning,
like horses back into a fiery stable;
kerosene arsonists for hands,
what a mess I make of things!
Hey Touchdown
Hey Touchdown,
take a break,
take a breather,
the hard work is done,
skip the celly,
your teammates are happy,
coaches and fans too,
sit and catch your breath,
drink some Gatorade,
they will want another
touchdown.
May 22-28, 2023: Poetry from Ryan Quinn Flanagan and Richard Widerkehr
Send us your poetry.Click herefor submission guidelines.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many mounds of snow. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Poetry Super Highway, Ink Pantry, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review. See his many books on Amazon here.
The following work is Copyright © 2023, and owned by Ryan Quinn Flanagan and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Why Can’t I Be a Deck Chair?
It is that time of year.
She is always cold and looking to steal
my body heat.
Equalize!
she says leaning into me
on the couch.
Demanding I put my arms around her.
I can’t, I say
holding my arms out straight.
I’m a deck chair.
You’re not a deck chair!
she grabs my arms and tries to move them.
Now, you broke the arms of the deck chair,
I say.
You’re not a deck chair!
she is adamant.
Why can’t I be a deck chair?
I ask.
Because you should want to show affection,
she says.
To sit and hug me.
What kind of a deck chair would I be
if I did that, I think to myself.
Probably a broken one.
Capone the Pin Boy
Even the boss
has to start somewhere
and Al got a job
as a pin boy at the local
bowling alley
before he was old enough
to enforce his will
and start
knocking things over
all on his own.
Richard Widerkehr
Richard Widerkehr’s fourth book of poems is Night Journey (Shanti Arts Press, 2022). At The Grace Cafe (Main Street Rag) came out in 2021. His work has appeared in Poetry Super Highway, Writer’s Almanac, Atlanta Review, and in Take A Stand: Art Against Hate (Raven Chronicles).He won two Hopwood first prizes for poetry at the University of Michigan and first prize for a short story at the Pacific Northwest Writers Conference.Sedimental Journey, his novelabout a geologist, was published by Tarragon Books. He reads poems for Shark Reef Review. He is bad at using computers and paying attention towhat he is doing.
The following work is Copyright © 2023, and owned by Richard Widerkehr and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
My Big Fat Adult Bar Mitzvah
This year I study with Rabbi Myrna I see
she has a hawk spirit like our father,
strict as Leviticus. When I mention Aaron’s sons,
consumed for putting alien fire in their fire pans,
she says, Let’s hope that doesn’t happen here.
The Sabbath morning of my Bar Mitzvah—
folding tables in our synagogue basement
not set up—I thought Byron was taking care
of that, I say. Rabbi Myrna: Did you even ask him?
Yes. You heard what you wanted to hear.
In her inner office behind the sanctuary,
no attic, no shadows…
………………………………….Now on my road,
smoke from a burn pile, this red-tailed hawk
whistles. Shree,-shree. No, I did not set
the tables of the Lord.
February 21-27, 2022: Poetry from Ryan Quinn Flanagan and Lorie Greenspan
Send us your poetry.Click herefor submission guidelines.
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, Poetry Super Highway, Mad Swirl, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.
The following work is Copyright © 2022, and owned by Ryan Quinn Flanaganand may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Canadian Cobra Kai
Five helmeted kids on green
snow machines with
matching outfits
speed around the corner
over the trail by the gated storage
across from the Canadian Tire
and my wife and I are stopped
on the red
and I start chanting: Cobra Kai! Cobra Kai!
so that she laughs so hard
she snorts
and covers her mouth.
When we get home I tell her
that mercy is for the weak,
and that fear does not exist
in this dojo.
No Cats in Space
Now I know why they put dogs in orbit.
Space is a vacuum and cats are terrified of
the vacuum. That is why there are no
cats in space. Imagine all those little kitty
heart attacks clearing the atmosphere
only to come face to face with the largest
vacuum known to man.
Lorie Greenspan
Lorie Greenspan is publishing director at a Deerfield Beach, Florida, book publishing company. Prior to moving to Florida in 2015 she was a newspaper editor in New Jersey. While initially inspired by the death of her husband in April 2020, her poetry has wandered a gamut of subjects, including the life that follows death, love, and relationships to those things we hold dear. She is in the process of completing a middle-grade fantasy novel inspired by Alice in Wonderland.
The following work is Copyright © 2022, and owned by Lorie Greenspanand may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
and now it is time to talk about the eye . . .
notthebones, forthey weretoo brittle
notthetongue or jaw becausethey remained in place, one not respondingtotheothers
notthefingers or hands because we can’t recall what positionthey were in,
arms outstretched towelcome what wastocome –
theair, perhaps.
Notthemouth, which remained shut throughthewhole thing
nostrils could not collectthebreath, mouth could not exhaleit
ears listened and I cannot tell you iftheleft ortheright was most receptive.
And you ask, how do you know?
Ah, I say, that brings metotheeye
that would not close.
Theeyethat captured like a camerathelast remnants of whatitwastosee –
notthemachines
notthewalls
but my face.
I reachedtotry and closeitanditwould not close.
Thatishow I know
theeyedid not wanttoshake divine life, not yet
not untilitrecorded every last shape and line and tear from my face.
Theeyeglared at me as iftosay we know what you’ve done through your years . . .
we know how you have held onto a vision, a place, a thing by staring
directly, intently
so thatitbecomes burned into memory.
And so, my love,
let me dothesame.
March 29 – April 4, 2021: Poetry from Ryan Quinn Flanagan and Leslie Young
Send us your poetry.Click herefor submission guidelines.
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, Poetry Super Highway, In Between Hangovers, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review. Visit Ryan on the web here.
The following work is Copyright © 2021, and owned by Ryan Quinn Flanagan and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Office Christmas Party and a Stapler Named Hal
It was exactly two weeks after that office Christmas party
where Barb taught half of accounting and all of advertising
to do the jitterbug, that bartender they hired from the projects
so everyone would know who to blame if anything went missing
and the way the coat check girl seemed to be way more into coats
than the people who wore them and now I was standing at this desk
full of papers and a few personal knickknacks reading a single brown
swipe of tape across a stapler that read: Hal. Shuffling back between tired
aching feet as Cathy pulled something from the printer
that never seemed to stop, holding it to my face
so I could see what she had been trying to tell me all morning.
Wishy-Washy
I am that young child again.
Laying out on the floor in the laundry room.
In front of the washer and dryer.
Closing my eyes and listening to the wishy-washy
swishing of the washer as it fills with water and soap and churns.
My mother thinks it weird, but never asks.
Soon leaving and closing the door behind her.
I have always been hypnotized by both the sound of running water
and light industrial noises.
Laundry day offers both and my body slowly relaxes.
Laying out on the dirty basement linoleum.
Litter stones from passing cats through my hair.
Before that sudden tumbling warmth of the dryer.
My heavy dawdling eyes rolling around with each cycle.
Leslie Young
Leslie Young lives in Southern California with her wife and miniature poodle. She was a public school educator for 27 years and upon retirement, has returned to her other love –writing –as well as teaching education courses at Cal State Fullerton and Chapman University. She lived in France in the 1980s after completing her studies at UC Berkeley. She has published autobiographical narratives in the California Educator magazine, Danaid: An Anthology of Six Women Writers, Between Ourselves: Letters Between Mothers and Daughters, and Liaison, as well as in a number of small press publications.
The following work is Copyright © 2021, and owned by Leslie Young and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Women of France
Claude
Claude
with the nose of a French king,
Louis XIV or XVI
looking down on those
she doesn’t know,
declaring
“They have an unusual marriage” or
“He’s a most interesting person,”
conceals what she really thinks
because manners matter.
Claude
who can quote Baudelaire or Molière
or La Bruyère or Camembert
like the plateau de fromage that’s brought out
at the end of every meal
with a bottle of Vieux Papes wine,
which she has heard is very good
even though it’s very ordinaire.
Claude
who always enters the Télérama trivia contest
“Which insect makes the best silk on earth?”
“When was Rabelais’ birth?”
Combing through her first editions, then
off to the bookstore to search,
turning her back to the world
because without the answers
nothing is in place.
Claude
who writes to Paule and Marinette in tiny script,
but doesn’t bother to include Paule’s frail sister,
needs space for two more lines,
better to write them sideways along the edge,
like saving a ball of yarn, an old hairbrush, a rusty skillet.
Can’t make up her mind what dress to wear,
finds an old one with a grease spot in front and
A cardigan with furballs.
Claude
who prepares
her itinéraire
in advance,
knows the Métro
Nation or Montparnasse,
inserts her ticket firmly
marches through the turnstile
tapping the platform in two-inch heels
her left eye discarding a tear
when the underground wind is too insistent.
Claude
who left her widowed mother
for a university degree
no need to live in her native town again,
who never speaks of men,
has always loved women
in her aloneness
dreams of sharing their beds and lives.
Une vieille fille
the neighbors whisper,
old maid,
she keeps walking.
One’s private life is sacrée in France.
Claude
who reads late and sleeps later,
listens to Radio France Inter
as she prepares
her tea and baguette in the kitchen.
Who, at 75, has earned her place,
a view of the Seine
through the open window.
Paule
Paule
digs a hole in the ground
behind the high-rise résidence,
plants a fleur-de-lys
the royal flower of Louis VII.
She hates all pretense, but
adores the pale sweet purple odor
of liberté.
Paule
rides her bicycle
in a life before,
fifteen kilometers
to the école primaire.
Here she teaches kindergartners
children of beet growers.
She must work
as there would be no husband to
take care of her.
She’d make sure of that.
Paule
rises at 6,
prepares a breakfast of biscottes et confiture for her frail sister,
washes the dishes in the sink,
showers in lukewarm water,
throws on a pair of Levis and rubber-soled sandals,
prepares a lunch of quiche lorraine
(again, for her frail sister),
practices Bach for her piano lesson,
speaks anglais with her English club,
reads a political article in Le Nouvel Observateur,
prepares a dinner of soupe a l’oignon
(again, for her frail sister),
watches the evening news on Antenne 2,
caresses her Siamese cat (le Chat),
hears Claude ask on the telephone,
“When are you coming up to stay with me in Paris?”
replies, “Not now.”
wishes her bonne nuit,
locks the metal shutters,
spread Le Roc moisturizer on her face,
slips under the duvet.
They all need her now:
le Chat
her frail sister
Claude
the fleur-de-lys
its petals swinging up
its roots locked away in the earth.
September 16-22, 2019: Poetry from Kate Alsbury and Ryan Quinn Flanagan
Kate Alsbury and Ryan Quinn Flanagan
Send us your poetry for POET OF THE WEEK consideration.
Click herefor submission guidelines.
Kate Alsbury
katealsbury@gmail.com
Bio (auto)
Kate Alsbury is writer and marketing consultant. She’s the founder ofJalmurra, a journal dedicated to spreading awareness for environmental issues through art. Her work has appeared in several publications including“The Heron’s Nest”and“Failed Haiku.”She was featured on“Poetry Pea”podcast in 2018. Visit Kate on the web here.
The following work is Copyright © 2019, and owned by Kate Alsbury and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Price Paid
wild pansies
the boldest
loses its head
The Buzz Of August
summer hike—
we talk of our future
a hornet’s nest nearby
Ryan Quinn Flanagan
ryanquinnflanagan@hotmail.com
Bio (auto)
Ryan Quinn Flanaganis 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, Poetry Super Highway, In Between Hangovers, Red Fez, andThe Oklahoma Review. Ryan’s collection Leaving Las Vegas was published in August, 2019 on Whiskey Press.
The following work is Copyright © 2019, and owned by Ryan Quinn Flanagan and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Tara Bytes
You don’t get to choose your parents
and your parents choose your name
and for some reason they already hate you
and want revenge and decide to start early
and your father is a tech genius, works in silicon valley,
calls you Tara which seems innocuous enough,
but your last name is Bytes
so things can’t be easy growing up in tech giant
central with a name like that,
like that Morrow kid down in Hollywood
that his parents chose to name Tu.
Corfu Master
I always come to things late.
Long after the conversation has happened.
Now that I am sitting at home
I realize he had probably said Kung-Fu master.
At the time,
I could not understand why he gave me
such a strange look.
I told him the Greeks were a proud people,
but that I thought his parents were Korean.
That was just about the time I got up to leave.
Now I know why he just waved goodbye
without looking.
I can be really slow sometimes.
Like your neighbourhood snail
with exceptional eyes.
February 12-18, 2018: Poetry from Ryan Quinn Flanagan and Komal Surani
Ryan Quinn Flanagan and Komal Surani
Send us your poetry for POET OF THE WEEK consideration.
Click herefor submission guidelines.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan
cyanogen_rqf@hotmail.com
Bio (auto)
Ryan Quinn Flanaganis 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, Poetry Super Highway, Literary Yard, Red Fez, andThe Oklahoma Review.
The following work is Copyright © 2018, and owned by Ryan Quinn Flanagan. and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
The Difference between Being a Pig
and Wanting Some Pig
She asked me what men were after
and I told her I couldn’t speak for all men,
but that sex would be nice.
I knew you’d say that,
she hollered
falling back in her chair.
You men are all the same,
all you want is sex.
That’s not true, I argued.
I’d also like some
bacon.
Komal Surani
ksurani@umail.ucsb.edu
Bio (auto)
Komal Surani is a Writing and Literature major at the College of Creative Studies in the University of California, Santa Barbara. She currently lives in Isla Vista, CA. She writes for The Daily Nexus, the university’s newspaper, and is the Poetry Editor for Spectrum Literary Magazine. She is currently working on her novel.
The following work is Copyright © 2018, and owned by Komal Surani and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Ablution
for a minute there
I couldn’t breathe
lungs filled with sea
water, head down,
drowning in everything
him I floated to the surface
my eyes are new
and I cannot even remember
what the world looked like
before he came along
Highway
my hair flies behind us
in your old blue
blue convertible
The ocean is bluer than your car
Your eyes are bluer than
the sea
My dress is bluer
than everything
February 13-19, 2017: Poetry from Elaine Reardon and Ryan Quinn Flanagan
Elaine Reardon and Ryan Quinn Flanagan
Send us your poetry for POET OF THE WEEK consideration.
Click herefor submission guidelines.
Elaine Reardon
ear@crocker.com
Bio (auto)
Elaine Reardon is a member of the Society of Children’s Book Writers & Illustrators, an herbalist, and poet. Her new chapbook, The Heart is a Nursery For Hope, published September 2016, won first honors from Flutter press as top seller of the year. Elaine was a featured poet in the January 2017 issue of stanzaicstylings ezine, and has won several poetry competitions, including Writer’s Digest, and Poet Seat. Elaine also published global curriculum through University of Massachusetts Press. Currently Elaine lives tucked into the forest in Warwick MA. Visit her on the web here.
The following work is Copyright © 2016, and owned by LB Sedlacek and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Canning Jars
I had need of the old jars this morning
went to the cellar to retrieve them
from the bottom shelf
the empty jars still had bits
of your faded handwriting
Twenty-two years ago you sat with me
writing lavender, thyme, anise hyssop
on stickers with neat calligraphy
a row of garden for the herb shelf
It was difficult to loosen faded labels
to fill the jars with something new
they now sparkle in the dish drainer
aside from rust on the hinges
Like what changes the heart
what changes iron to rust
can’t be removed easily
Ryan Quinn Flanagan
cyanogen_rqf@hotmail.com
Bio (auto)
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his other half and mounds of snow. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Poetry Super Highway, In Between Hangovers, Horror Sleaze Trash, and Red Fez. Visit Ryan on the web here.
The following work is Copyright © 2016, and owned by Ryan Quinn Flanagan and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Snapping Turtle
door left ajar
turned in off its hinges –
the thieves had taken everything
except his great-grandmother
and he asked ma what happened
and she smiled and showed him a fridge magnet
in the shape of a turtle
and he gave her a great big hug
before putting her back
to bed.
A Little Love for the Common Rectangle, Please!
locked in this room
this thick rolling fog of a room
with head nestled in knees
surviving on bread and water
and words
words repeated over and over
until they all become
the same word:
patella
I have influential friends
no need for kickbacks
both knees carry great sway
and the weight of my dangling thermostat
head as well
the fluid leaks out of my ears
and forms new rivers
salmon pour out of my eye sockets
to spawn, then die;
hungry birds circle high above
like it’s the only shape
they know.
Group of Seven
A strike was out of the question.
Seven pins remained.
As I fondled my second ball in hand.
The best that could be hoped for now
was a spare.
Trying to avoid the gutters
all around me
I made my approach.
In smelly shoes
that at least a thousand other men
had lost in.
May 9-15, 2016: Poetry from Corey D. Cook and Ryan Quinn Flanagan
Corey D. Cook and Ryan Quinn Flanagan
Send us your poetry for POET OF THE WEEK consideration.Click herefor submission guidelines.
Corey D. Cook
corey.douglas.cook@gmail.com
Bio (auto)
Corey D. Cook’s fourth chapbook, White Flag Raised, was recently released by Kattywompus Press and is available for purchase online (http://kattywompuspress.com/). He edits Red Eft Review and lives in Thetford Center, Vermont.
The following work is Copyright © 2016, and owned by Corey D. Cook and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Second Grader
The day before
she drew a picture
of her house
and family.
Her.
Her sister.
Their mother
and father;
a blaze of red hair
above his scowling face.
The neighbors said
it was the shrieking
that woke them.
That his car
was missing
from the driveway.
The next day
at recess
a classmate
shoveling pea stone
into a bucket
paused,
announced:
I smell fire.
Previously published in
Columbia College Literary Review
Ryan Quinn Flanagan
cyanogen_rqf@hotmail.com
Bio (auto)
Ryan Quinn Flanagan presently resides in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada under ten feet of snow. His work can be found both in print and online. He has authored the books The Blue of Every Flame (eptember 2015) and Bildungsroman, No! (June, 2015) He has an affinity for dragonflies, discount tequila, and all things sarcastic.
The following work is Copyright © 2016, and owned by Ryan Quinn Flanagan and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
EwokI like to watch those space movies Even those hairy little bastards |
March 2-8, 2015: Ryan Quinn Flanagan and C.S. Fuqua
Ryan Quinn Flanagan and C.S. Fuqua
Send us your poetry for POET OF THE WEEK consideration.Click herefor submission guidelines.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan
cyanogen_rqf@hotmail.com
Bio (auto)
Ryan Quinn Flanagan presently resides in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada plugging in his car to minus 45 wind chill. He is very excited for the spring thaw. The snow plow is not his friend
The following work is Copyright © 2015, and owned by Ryan Quinn Flanagan and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
The Arm Wrestlers
of Azerbaijan
sit in shallow trenches
daring one
another.
Shooting at mud slung rats
and taking turns
at the pisser.
………..The enemy is somewhere
out there,
almost by mistake,
as the arm wrestlers of Azerbaijan
line up grip to grip
elbow to elbow
#ffffffand put
money down
on the
winner.
Sometimes
sitting for hours,
grunting and posturing
like circling
tigers.
Where the Squirrels Gather Nuts
like the Madhouse
Think of the fields
where broken clavicles
are buried,
severed hands
without arms
still jerking off
to the
afterlife,
think of boxes of wood
and heads
of stone
of flowers
well on their way
to wilting.
C.S. Fuqua
cf42506@gmail.com
Bio (auto)
C.S. Fuqua’s (Las Cruces, New Mexico) books include White Trash & Southern ~ Collected Poems ~ Vol. I, Hush, Puppy! A Southern Fried Tale (children’s picture book), Rise Up (short fiction collection), The Native American Flute: Myth, History, Craft, Trust Walk (short fiction collection), The Swing: Poems of Fatherhood, Divorced Dads, and Notes to My Becca, among others. His work has appeared in publications such as Main Street Rag, Pudding, Dark Regions, Iodine, Christian Science Monitor, Cemetery Dance, Bogg, Year’s Best Horror Stories XIX, XX and XXI, Amelia, Slipstream, The Old Farmer’s Almanac, The Writer, and Honolulu Magazine. Visit C.S. on the web here: http://csfuqua.weebly.com
The following work is Copyright © 2015, and owned by C.S. Fuqua and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Dimming Wit
It’s now the fad
of misspelled words,
intentional and not,
to be as accepted as ain’t.
I knew a man whose wife
never talked to him,
but who e-mailed constantly
to people she’d never met.
Then his phone chimed
with text one day
and he read divorce.
In the psychologist’s office,
two women whine
while thumbing words
to the targets of their complaints
via OMG-gadgets.
The constant beeping
in their palms
proves incessant,
and I begin a silent wager
on how long it will take
their damn thumbs to
fall off.
Siblings
Rob sure wished his kids —
two by different mothers —
would visit him.
They showed up at the funeral,
meeting for the first time,
grown and expecting more
than the cancer had allowed Rob to leave.
I didn’t attend, so I can’t say
how they got on or why they even attended.
Rob left nothing for his kids,
unlike my father who’ll leave enough
for his wife’s children and me to fight over,
but I won’t.
I refuse.
I want nothing,
and I’ve told him.
When the time comes,
I’ll tell his adopted brood as well.
Unlike Rob’s kids,
I’ve met my paper siblings
far too many times
to want to again.
They’ll be happy.
I know.
February 3-9, 2014: Ryan Quinn Flanagan and Jeremiah Walton
Ryan Quinn Flanagan and Jeremiah Walton
Send us your poetry for POET OF THE WEEK consideration.Click herefor submission guidelines.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan
cyanogen_rqf@hotmail.com
Bio (auto)
Ryan Quinn Flanagan presently resides in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada under 12 feet of snow. He is very excited for the spring thaw. The snow plow is not his friend.
The following work is Copyright © 2014, and owned by Ryan Quinn Flanagan and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
I Have Always Been Inquisitive
What say you
of the tire iron on the bed,
sharp and Freudian
and greased palm
influential?
of headless Barbies
and Daylight’s Saving’s time
and spiked dinos out of
extinction?
As jumping jacks jump
storm clouds storm
letter carriers carry…
what say you of Belgian chocolate
crotch-less panties
the invention of the
steam whistle?
Leather interiors
that used to
moo?
A Little Americana
The wild man of Borneo,
drowned to death on wine
in London.
MK Ultra
was a success.
The Philadelphia Experiment
too.
………..There were some setbacks,
of course.
………..Three mile island.
The burning of the white house.
The advent of the bacon double
cheeseburger.
String theory
if you’re a cat
with a ball
of yarn…
Did you know that Marilyn
had a chin implant?
I doubt the Kennedy’s ever knew that
when they had her snuffed out.
I saw that rendition of “Happy Birthday” on youtube,
I bet Jackie saw it too.
No one likes a third wheel.
Least of all
a unicycle.
Jeremiah Walton
jeremiahwalton@nostroviatowriting.com
Bio (auto)
Jeremiah Walton is 18 and currently backpacking across the East coast. He was raised in Bedford, NH. Jeremiah is author of Gatsby’s Abandoned Children, Smile W/ Sparks (of a shotgun shot), To Your Health!, and a handful of other poetry collections. He manages WISH Publishing, Nostrovia! Poetry, The Traveling Poet, and is an editor for Underground Books. The majority of Jeremiah’s publications are available free from his personal blog, Gatsby’s Abandoned Children.
The following work is Copyright © 2014, and owned by Jeremiah Walton and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Love Poem 12
Kiss me under the stars
& I will not care to know which are already dead
Kiss me under a bridge
& the graffiti will melt off the walls
Kiss me as if the world tasted clean
but roll me in filth
there’s some in my lips.
Kiss me
in New York City traffic
we’ll be shooting down country highway
bodies pushed close enough to split atoms.
January 21-27, 2013: Patricia D’Alessandro and Ryan Quinn Flanagan
Patricia D’Alessandro and Ryan Quinn Flanagan
Send us your poetry for POET OF THE WEEK consideration.Click herefor submission guidelines.
Patricia D’Alessandro
ciaopat12@gmail.com
Bio (auto)
Poet Patricia D’Alessandro has been writing poetry for over 40 years, and is a Graduate of the University of San Francisco, earning her B.S. in 1980, in Human Relations & Organizational Behavior, while working at Levi Strauss &Co., in San Francisco subsidized by LS&Co, to enable her to move forward as an administrative assistant in the Merchandising Department. Host of POETRY ON THE PODIUM, a three-day BROWN-BAG noontime poetry event at SAN FRANCISCO’s EMBARCADERO CENTER, presenting Bay Area Poets (three per day), including FRANCES MAYES; the late Stan Rice, and California Poet Laureate Emeritus, AL YOUNG, currently, she hosts the Barnes&Noble/Palm Desert/Westfield Center’s monthly poetry series “Valley Voices of the Muse,” having done the same in Sacramento for “TEA & EMPATHY” for the Wellspring Women’s Center, sponsored by POETS & WRITERS MAGAZINE through a grant received from the James Irvine Foundation. She hopes to live to celebrate 100, in 2024.
The following work is Copyright © 2013, and owned by Patricia D’Alessandro and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
I.
for constructive seminars in Greece
on the cusp of a new season in the sun,
poetry evolved immediately –
thrown on the table by a jockey named Alexander
who was a really a micro-chip in disguise
with a nose for news and new experiences
persistent in his hipped attitude, although kind and
unpredictable as a plaything he could not destroy
since he tippled a lot during any day for the thrill of
transfiguration that sent a signal up his spine
as an excuse for serving more wine and shouting
“YES I CAN!” to whatever was asked of him,
as he continued developing movies into small vignettes
that ushered in a new way of
never using apostrophes again.
II .
Everyone turned away from him,
and he disappeared into the pages
of the Oxford Dictionary and
Roget’s Thesaurus, American Edition,
living happily on page 61 with an Apache Maiden
living on page 59, who spent a lot of time together in Paris,
dancing together in the 9th Arrondisement
at Shakespeare & Company’s Bookstore on the Seine
near Notre Dame Cathedral, where they are
perpetually welcomed most of the time by Sylvia Beach’s Godchild,
Sylvia Whitman, for tea and crumpets of a Sunday afternoon.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan
cyanogen_rqf@hotmail.com
Bio (auto)
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a transient by nature. Presently residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada, he is the author of three books of poetry and a chapbook entitled Bloodletting in the 21st Century. His work has recently appeared in The New York Quarterly, Poetry Super Highway, Vallum, Quills, Existere, Precipice and The Antigonish Review.
The following work is Copyright © 2013, and owned by Ryan Quinn Flanagan and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Hemlock
When I drink too much,
I tend to get philosophical.
Others get horny
or belligerent,
but I start in on Aristotlean
principles
of classification
or Epicurean justifications
for another bottle.
Sometimes
I dress up as Socrates
in a bed sheet
with clothes pin
complement
and go door to door
at 4:30 in the morning
trying to find anyone
who can
prove
me
wrong.
At that hour,
there arealmost
no takers.
Why do the Japanese
have to make everything
so small?
Miniature phones
miniature computers
miniature cars…
Someday soon
their miniature robots
will short circuit
and take over
the world.
And it will
all be too small
for any of
the rest of us
to notice.
Teresa was feeling lonely.
Her hybrid werewolf boyfriend
had just broken up
with her.
I feel for Teresa,
I said to my old lady
in bed,
we’ve all been
there.
April 9-15, 2012: Graham Fulton and Ryan Quinn Flanagan
Graham Fulton and Ryan Quinn Flanagan
BECOME A POET OF THE WEEK
click here.for submission guidelines
Graham Fulton
hfulton32@btinternet.com
Bio (auto)
Graham Fulton is 53 and lives in Paisley in Scotland. His poems have been widely published in both the UK and USA in magazines, anthologies, newspapers and online journals such as The Potomac, Poetry Super Highway, Chaparral, Illya’s Honey, Hidden City Quarterly, Concho River Review, Word Riot, Barbaric Yawp, Raintown Review, Ambit, Edinburgh Review, Envoi, Stand, The North, Scottish Literature in the 20th Century. His published collections include Humouring the Iron Bar Man (Polygon, 1990) This (Rebel Inc, 1993) Knights of the Lower Floors (Polygon,1994) Ritual Soup and other liquids (Mariscat Press, 2002) Black Motel/ The Man who Forgot How to (Roncadora Press, 2010) Open Plan (Smokestack Books, 2011) The Zombie Poem (Controlled Explosion Press, 2011) and Full Scottish Breakfast (Red Squirrel Press, 2011). His latest collection is Upside Down Heart (Controlled Explosion Press, 2012) featuring colour illustrations by artist Becky Bolton, one half of Good Wives and Warriors. New collections called Brian Wilson in Swansea Bus Station and Please Wear Comfortable Clothes and Be Prepared to Discuss Suicide are to be published by Red Squirrel and Smokestack in 2013 and 2014. More information on www.grahamfulton-poetry.com. |
The following work is Copyright © 2012, and owned by Graham Fulton and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Films of Famous People
Who Will Soon Be Dead
Watching The Misfits it feels weird
to think that Marilyn Monroe and Clark Gable
were dead
soon after
with the brown mountains of Nevada
and the stars in the unpolluted sky,
and so was Montgomery Clift
with his frozen in half car-crash face
and sad way of walking
who appears
at the rodeo
written by Arthur Miller,
and watching Giant it feels weird to think
that James Dean was dead soon after
with his hair shaved back at the temples
to make him look older than he is
and slumped drunk and mumbling
on a Hollywood Texas table,
and watching The Dark Knight
it feels weird to think that Heath Ledger
was dead soon after with his face all white
and a purple suit all alone in his
New York City Little Italy apartment
it doesn’t seem fair with his straggly dirty
red hair,
and watching Stand By Me it feels weird
to think that River Phoenix was dead
a precise number of years later
on a misguided sidewalk in Los Angeles
with everyone going Oh look, isn’t that
River Phoenix lying dead on the sidewalk,
he was really good in Stand by Me and showed
a remarkable degree of maturity
for one so young,
and watching the Abraham Zapruder film
it feels weird to think that John F. Kennedy
was dead a few seconds later or a few seconds
before depending which part of the film you’re
watching in the privacy of your own home,
and watching the grainy shimmery black
and white film of the first man into space
with his sparkling cosmonaut orbital helmet
it feels weird to think that Yuri Gagarin was
dead sometime in the future when he was killed
in a plane crash under inevitably suspicious
circumstances sometime in the past
Reading Song of Myself
and Watching Taxi Driverreading Song of Myself
by bearded bisexual Walt Whitman
with all his lovely American lines
such as
I celebrate myself, and sing myself
and
A child said What is the grass?
and
I witness the corpse with its dabbled hair,
I note where the pistol has fallen
which seems appropriate
as I’m watching Taxi Driver
at the same time
starring Robert De Niro as Travis Bickle
with all his lovely American lines
such as
Here is a man who would not take it anymore
and
a man who stood up against the scum,
the cunts, the dogs, the filth, the shit
while holding his hand over a flame
and burning roses
and leaves in a sink
and telling Harvey Keitel to suck on this
as he shoots him in the stomach.
and I’m looking
from the page to the screen
and the screen to the page
until it’s impossible
to tell them apart
and it’s actually loveable old
transcendentalist Walt Whitman
lying on a bedroom floor
and shooting himself slowly in the head
with his own blood-dripping finger
as Travis tells us
about the meaning of poems,
things plucked from thick air,
and reassures us
Clear and sweet is my soul,
and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul.
Life of Brian
Filming of the movie World War Z
took place in Glasgow in August 2011
Jesus at last it’s Brad Pitt in his blue jeans
and all of the women and some of the guys
are going mental
and saying things like Oh my God!
and He’s so cute! and
He’s much smaller in real life!
and screaming and taking pictures
as he raises his arm and waves and smiles
in a meltingly friendly way
with his convincingly not-too-
long blond hair
and his reassuringly confident swagger
all the way back to his luxury trailer
for a cup of coffee, or a leisurely dump,
as soldiers
and SWAT teams
and a bearded trampy man
with a three-legged dog
wait about for the next take,
and a newly arrived wee woman
who’s missed it all
says to her man Whit ur they dayn?
to which he replies Thur maykin a film
uh thu Zombees!
to which she replies
Brian Pitt?
Who the fuck is Brian Pitt?
which is a really good question
Ryan Quinn Flanagan
cyanogen_rqf@hotmail.com
Bio (auto)
Ryan Quinn Flanagan presently resides in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada. He is the author of three books of poetry, the most recent entitled Pigeon Theatre (JTI Press). His work has recently appeared in The New York Quarterly, Poetry Super Highway, Word Riot, Gutter Eloquence, and The Antigonish Review. |
The following work is Copyright © 2012, and owned by Ryan Quinn Flanagan and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Gulags
like Alarm Clocks
Chained to the Morning
……………..The cops sit across the street
day and night.
Perhaps
they’ve been tipped
off.
I don’t know what they expect
to find
at this late hour,
but it seems they think
they are still undercover.
Even though I know
that everything I throw out
is public property
(admissible in a court of law)
and that
the strange clicking on my phone
when anyone calls
means I should not divulge state secrets
or call 1-900 numbers
with my hand down my
pants.
If this is totalitarianism
than it is not very
well done.
Stalin
takes a lot of practice,
but I guess everyone has to start
somewhere.
There’s a Market for Legs
The spider in my backyard
did not deserve to have all his legs pulled off
with pliersone
by onebut something came over me
when I watched those flies struggle
and become immobilized
in its web.……………In a fit of rage
I ran to my father’s tool box
and wentto work.
By the time I was finished
I had a pile of legs
which I kept under my pillow
for the next three months.Waiting for the tooth fairy
to diversify.
Honour the Ball Sack
I said
before I was grounded
for indecency
when I was eight years old
for trying to pronounce the name
of the French author.
A slip of the tongue
when I was ten
put me on time out
on the stairs of a babysitter
for claiming that peter piper picked a peck
of pickled peckers.
…………….I am now thirty
and for the life of me
I still cannot say what peter piper
was picking
…………….without incident
or quote the French greats
without reference
to the family jewels.
Age has not dulled the blade
of my propensity
for error.
I still cut deep
with infantile wisdom.
