Always Inspiration | Why it’s Only Grass | A Slice of Cherry Pie | Poems by John Flynn

grass poem

ALWAYS INSPIRATION                            

I like to read the poems

poets call their
favorites; one’s

of always inspiration,

memory unbidden; or

guilt, despair. These
last I could

do without but know I

and read on immersed.


I have my Uncle John’s

rosary in its leather

case. He died going into

New Guinea in ‘44.


Dead on wet sand, in

for two days. Rosary and

stitched case reek to

day still of seawater.


WHY, IT’S ONLY GRASS                                  

What is the thing,

what sacramental truth,

rampages our non-deified,       

miserly souls, and con-

flates, blooms and


flowers in a fruitful

construct and manu-

factures fealty from

low condition? What is

that thing that hands


us out of darkness to

breathe in enveloping

walking plains, buffeted

sky, beneficent light; yet

dark for rest and respite?


Then the aborning sun again,

and again, and again?

What thing, what part

of god is this? Why, it’s

grass. Just grass. Grass.



A SLICE OF CHERRY PIE              


I read what interests me,

of course, and what does

not. I walk about. View the

reflections in store windows.

A city bus reflected rushing

by might be the highlight of

my walking day. A slice of

hotel cherry pie is always

to my taste. There are, yes,

other times, of course, that

I just wander off and waste.

Al poems© John Flynn