Poetry by Connolly Ryan
To an Unidentified Sunset Soloist
I can’t see who it is
singing her little heart out,
perseverating her sweet head off,
up in the attic of a red maple tree,
but whoever it is
belting it out like that, like there
is no known limit to the joy
engendered in praise, no end
to the celestial grist of grace
nestled in the simple act of thanks;
whoever you are, skillfully
flexing your nimble larynx,
tilting your beak just so,
to create this most
humbling, liquid music
for the disappearing sun
to remember as it deliberates
the pros and cons of coming back tomorrow;
on behalf of all those made whole
by the beauty of your calming homily,
I thank you for your service.
What We Say To The Kids (Also Applies To Us)
Take yourself too seriously
and no one else will.
Never discuss meditation aloud.
Befriend the elderly
Reinvent hilarity constantly.
Never pray without going heavy
in tears and/or swears.
Vanquish the word ‘inconvenience’
from your perspective’s vocabulary.
Realize vengeance is a failure
of imaginative courage
and that lovemaking is a sacrament
for which bodily contact is not a requirement.
Every inch and ounce of nature
is what the enlightened call gods.
Acknowledge that the philosophically inept
are intimidated by vulnerability
while the genuinely heroic
are inspired by it.
Cars should only be used during emergencies
because bicycling and walking are beautiful.
Beatles songs are as close to perfection
as any human art has ever come.
Certain jazz is the definition
of eloquence under crushing pressure.
Melt a little when whispered to.
Float away when screamed at.
And know that to be moved (by anything)
is to have been loved (by everything.)