Poetry by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

December 12th, 2025 (Poem Written at the Quattro Hotel)

Tesla was right. We are receivers of external stimuli. The internal as well,
but Our Boy Lightning was much more deliberate about the external.
As though he were always searching for something. That’s what
some pop psychologist would say.  You know the ones:
red marker for brains, getting to nirvana on a bus pass.
Those people you would rather not run into waiting for an elevator.
It is in the silences that we find ourselves, I truly believe that.
Like a child of exquisite reflections.  Our time away is a necessary distance.
The well-whispered peace of burrowing things, I know this well.
It is hard to write about kisses.
You feel them long before the words ever arrive.
And the conundrum crowds are back before too long. In truth, they never leave.
And the yellow wet floor pylon is out again, making friends.
Squeaky housekeeping carts loaded down with an army of disinfectants.
Conference rooms in use like a meeting of the mindless…
Those colours of twin Oscar fish in the tank by the pool. 
I have always had the eye of a painter.
Happiness is watching light dance off the water forever.