February 13-19, 2017: Poetry from Elaine Reardon and Ryan Quinn Flanagan

​Elaine Reardon and Ryan Quinn Flanagan

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​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.