It Must Be

By John Michael Flynn

These poems, written in simple clear language, are concerned with self-reflection and evaluation, examining aspects of what it means to be human.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Flight Delay Books
• Release date: Mar 10, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224015641

John Michael Flynn

John Michael Flynn also writes novels as Basil Rosa. He's published three collections of short stories, one with Publerati, and another with Fomite, and a book of essays with New Meridian Arts. He's taught at schools, colleges and university in the United States, Moldova, Turkey and Russia. To quote the poet Forrest Gander, "his poems are not absurdly modern but take the risk of articulating a serious moral gaze." 

Book preview

I.

Someone Has Walked Again

How bold the sky

as his casket slides into a hearse.

Tell them to keep living, to bite back, to bark.

They never expected his corpse to redefine truth.

They never expected a legacy for one so loved.

Some called him sassy, others said a grump.

He created new bones and hid a few old ones.

A Round Theme Cages The Air

There is no full-proof plan or recipe

that states here is what to do –

there is fascination, goofiness

onion-slick when wet bibles of bawdy jokes

time, decisiveness, the gift

of chestnuts and kiwis filling a wooden bowl

arranged with crocus and forsythia petals.

Unremarkable young blades

rise for conquest like April rivers

and you open a window to see yourself

young husband frozen in fearful admiration

of those lilac blooms she's so fond of.

Mind The Gnomes

The gleam in their eyes suggests bright sharp senses

a knack for shape-shifting along moraine fringes

as they rearrange each of my memories,

daring to pack and ship them off to graveyards

helping me to avoid humiliation from one of my past

selves who might arrive to celebrate

another chapter and anniversary in my perishing.

Oh, you may laugh. Please do. They like it.

They’ve seen me in front of priests and presidents

wishing I could grab for a pistol and take aim.

They know my unvoiced intentions better than I ever will.

Their cheeks darken to salmon with laughter

as they remember how I tumbled when air

shoved me off a cliff and I thought they had nothing

to do with my surprisingly soft landing.

Please Don’t Park On My Ankles

Liquor bath

what a good prole craves.

Yesireebob.

Sod that gleams in the sun.

Not a weed in sight.

Garage door that rides up

with ease automatically.

Yet there’s the skull and crossbones

those big words death and forbidden

what a good prole knows and dreads.

The man on the hill

the one a good prole says don’t own him

says buy your own dang pole

look at me I done it

I learned how to fish for myself.

I schemed my way to the top.

You got to work harder to help

them at the bottom.

A good prole snickers as he listens

knows when he’s being lied to.

The hurt of not trusting

hurts less than crying about it.

He can always vote

and that’s a good thing

but it don’t seem to make

no difference.

A Toast To Toast

What you won’t carry becomes a burden.

What you will ask becomes an