Christopher Ryan Poems

Oh, you who herald winter’s tides,
And tell of drafty floors, besides,
For in warm weather you do thrive,
Oh fungus on my foot.
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In meadows every afternoon,
About the time for tea,
The flowers listen to the tune
Sung by the bumblebee.
...

Oh, surgeon generals always claim
That smoking leads to death,
But people still smoke all the same
And putrefy their breath.
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I. 'If drunk on wine...'
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Just chillin’ with our stylish loves,
Us Guys and Jimbos with our maids;
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Oh space-time, my true love,
I wish you the best:
You must be the rue of
An object at rest.
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“Lo! ” Vespers whisper as you walk past their gaze,
“Hail, o Venus, she whose beauty shall surpass and amaze! ”
“Lo! ” Venerations pour from the mouths of the kind;
Even the wicked by thy halo veracious are struck wholly blind.
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Giant rowans, hear my call
And answer, if you will –
You vines that canter up the wall
And crest the windowsill –
...