Ex Nihilo: A Book of Poems

By Eric Wayne Flynn

Diverse poems examine a young man’s journey through life as he experiences love, loss, hope, fulfillment, and failure while working to accept himself just as he is.

Home, just another thing to turn your back on.
Into the wild, into the unknown,
Into a 1965 Ford filled to the brim, foot upon the gas,
Accelerating into the future, back to the past.
Hands on the wheel, windows down, radio up.
In a rush, in a fog, figuring a way out …

Within his first volume of poems, Eric Wayne Flynn amasses an evocative, thought-provoking collection that challenges belief and morality through the narrative of a young man deeply involved with an ideal while battling through existential dilemmas of the spirit and temptations of the flesh.

Flynn reflects on a variety of topics that include his coming-of-age journey and experiences with love, loss, hope, fulfillment, and failure while lyrically examining the world—both seen and unseen—from creation to the brink of extinction and salvation. As he leads others down a path into his heart and life, Flynn explores what it means to truly live, not just exist, while celebrating the lessons derived from both good and bad experiences.

Ex Nihilo is a volume of contemporary poetry that examines a young man’s journey through life as he works to accept himself just as he is.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Jan 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781480887220

Eric Wayne Flynn

Eric Wayne Flynn is a writer/poet who works as a factotum, an endeavor that allows him to meet people from all walks of life and helps to influence much of his poetry and prose. He currently resides in Providence, Rhode Island. Ex Nihilo is his first book of poems.

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Copyright © 2020 Eric Wayne Flynn.

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-4808-8721-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-8722-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020901315

Archway Publishing rev. date: 01/30/2020

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CONTENTS

Alive

Imagination

The Diver of the Deep

Breaking Windows and Plucking Wildflowers

The Hill

The House with a Hoop

Hollow

Caramel Popcorn Power-Up

Beer Can Mattress Flashback

Under the Iron Fist

Asphyxiation

If I Never Left Town

Waves

Providence

Sometimes It’s Just Snow

Human

Happiness

Innocence

She

I Would Like to Think

A Slow Burn

Silent Harmony

Two Shooting Stars

The Lucky Ones

Mercy

Blue

The Burden

Falling

Integrity of the Heart

Women of This World

Books

The Beat

Raindrops

Calculated Madness

Let Go of Me

Chasing Seagulls in the Sand

The Boy Left Kissing the Wind

She Not Made for Thee

Kicking Rocks and Skipping Stones

A Lifetime of Appeasement

Wolves O’er the Lamb

Amnesia

Numb

Low

The Building and the Boy

Inspiration

In This Room

I Hear a Bird

Savants

The Bathtub

Brood

I

The Poet of Bus 99

Oddball

Successful at Thirty-Four

Reflex

Rerun

Poetry

Two Brits in a Ramshackle

Roger That

To Forget What the Sun Feels Like

Where Does It All Go?

The Canvas

Crossing the Ice

A Fury

Colorful, Swirling, Black

Of This World

Tiny Islands

People I Once Knew

Pop Goes the World

Rushing to Nowhere

Plastic Idols

They

American Minds

Our American Home

As Is

Visions of Freedom

Trapped in the Minds of Killers

Greased

The Pigeons of Kennedy Plaza

Progress and Liberty

Nature’s Final Act

The Battle of Madison Avenue

The Fate of the Undisciplined Man

Gone

Persons at War

Decision

In Vain

Dreams

The Carrot

The Loser

Today Is Tomorrow

A Gift

Vain Lil Monkey

Art

Picture This

The Condemned

Awake!

Hiatus

?

Balance

I Used to See Giants

Legacy of Love

Lost

Souls

Fear

Despair

The Poetic Dance between Light and Dark

Great Men

A Letter to an Untempered Soul

Desiccation

Blink

Now

Beautiful Songs

Enjoy the Walk

The Weight

Volume

Lemon-Lime

Astray

Deaf

Dormant

Metamorphosis

Conditions

Twilight

Black Hearts

Gentle Spirits

I Believe She Lives on Sarah St.

Mike from Oklahoma

Ex Nihilo

The Escape

And so I Ran to My Father

The Unit

The Bell

Ace

The Omitted

Nigh

Okay

Jurisprudence

Charms

Change

The Narrative

Wisdom over Money

Wings

He Granted Me

Home

The Great Provision

Free

Absence

The Church

Skull

Creation

Poetry for the End of the World

ALIVE

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To create or not to create.

To even exist, such an egomaniacal thought.

To play God—for the gift is upon us.

To make something out of nothing.

To take the time to sculpt the materials into a palace.

To falter in trial.

To repeat the process and eventually succeed.

To breathe it all in.

To taste the fruit.

To give birth.

To be born.

To love.

To die.

To be

alive.

IMAGINATION

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My childhood friend.

My lifetime lover.

The best company I’ve ever known.

A thousand failures we’ve created together.

Without you, I wouldn’t be me,

the person I’ve always tried to escape.

I’m finally settling into this skin.

Tonight, we will stay up late.

Just you and me.

THE DIVER OF THE DEEP

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Orange cream sits atop the blue of the bay.

A young father must feed his seed.

And so he must work.

And so he dives down,

down into the deep.

Into the dark.

Into where the monster lives.

Where life is measured in breaths.

The pressure mounts as he dives farther.

Down into the dark with only a drum that beats

black, boom, boom, black.

I hear he couldn’t see a thing

except a few specks.

Little flickers of light.

Something to swim for.

But the diver must now fix a net

so his family can eat fish.

Into the net with a knife he goes.

He cuts, he breathes, he rests, he repairs, he thinks,

Swimming to the top is the only way out.

Emerging back in the glow of the orange cream,

victory fills the lungs.

Climbing back on to the boat, the diver collects his pay.

Today his family eats.

Happiness in life managed by the day,

by the weather,

by the window,

watching the rain,

watching his wife.

The diver dives into her.

It’s a soft summer night.

There is love in the room;

there is magic in the air.

In just a few moments, a seed will sprout a life that wasn’t there.

It’s a boy, born afraid to dive.

A coward with a pen

searching for air.

And so he must work.

And so he dives down,

down into the deep.

Into the dark.

Into where the monster lives.

Where life is measured in breaths.

BREAKING WINDOWS AND

PLUCKING WILDFLOWERS

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An aged, old stone

Lay there upon the earth.

An adolescent soul

Possessed by rebirth.

The energy to feel alive

Escaping us from the start.

Billions of beings.

Beams of light.

The stone awaits,

Ready to be thrown.

Showing off for no one, the soul alone.

Tossing the stone up and down in his hand.

What does power feel like?

What is it to be man?

Smash! Boom! Bam!

Right through that window.

The one that reveals an empty garage filled with junk.

Satisfied and coming down from the adventure,

The young soul takes a stroll down to the meadow.

There is a bouquet of fresh-plucked wildflowers.

Destruction can be beautiful.

Whispers from the wind breeze through the air.

Clear and soft, soft enough to hear

A secret.

THE HILL

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Watching children ascend upon the hill.

A lonely one, left behind, observes as the others climb.

Many are reaching the top and soon looking around for another sweet soul,

Someone to tell them they are good and to further their sense of achievement.

Assuring they are wonderfully capable of accomplishing all feats as they embark upon this life.

The sun is shining bright upon their faces, and they are comfortable in its light,

Feeling the warmth of their success.

Golden milk from a mother’s breast

And a pat on the head from a proud papa.

Looking up at the hill, lost in their shadows, the last, the forgotten, is ready to start its climb.

At the bottom, it desires to feel the same as they.

Young hubris dancing at a party in which it seems it were not invited.

An ache it is, wanting to be on top with the rest,

The beautiful and glamorous ones who get to smile and wave to Mommy and Daddy.

Look at me! Look at what I can do!

So the lonely one decidedly takes its first step.

Digging its foot into the face of the hill,

Muscles and mind working on the goal: the climb.

And so it does.

Soon the lonely one is halfway up the hill and overlooking a cliff,

Scarcely holding onto a clump of grass; the thin roots somehow allow it to hold on.

At the bottom, it now sees water crashing into rocks.

It questions why they weren’t there before.

Looking back up, it wonders if the others saw the same,

And if this whole challenge is all just a part of some silly game.

Ahh, keep on going! Upward and onward! Don’t look down!

Failure isn’t an option for the lonely one

For ’tis faith that conquers fear and steers us from the ground.

And so it won’t stop climbing.

Up, up, up.

Brown, brown, brown dirt is falling down upon its eye.

A peek of blue then smacks the face, suddenly revealing the sky.

For the lonely one has reached the top.

And with a swivel of the head, it looks around to find some adoration from the others.

But there is none.

So instead of wallowing, the lonely one’s head kicks back to focus upon the glory.

The spirits then send praise that no one else can see.

Mere mortals search for skin.

The child’s head then lowers in shame,

Questioning while the others dance on by, laughing and enjoying their fruits.

Why had it been set apart?

THE HOUSE WITH A HOOP

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Southern skin, headed up north—an abrupt shake.

Five strong against a full-court press, making a fast break.

Laughing and crying in a wood-paneled wagon.

‘80s fresh: big hair ’n’ Buster Browns; now that’s what I call fashion.

The trail blazed; mission accomplished.

‘N’ there it stood, ten feet tall, and wow, I was astonished.

Wondering, Now what could that be?

Instant—its