James Daniel Flynn

James Daniel Flynn is a native Washingtonian who spontaneously started to write poetry in childhood. Except for the occasional newsletter or school publication, most of Flynn's poems have never been published. In the early 1990's James Flynn helped to form a small local band called "the Way Out", it was comprised exclusively of people who were in recovery for alcohol or drug addiction. The band wrote all it's own songs and James was the main lyricist for the band. For a time he was also the lead singer. Although the band never went on to fame and fortune, they did play a number of local gigs at clubs in the DC area, such as Dylan's Cafe, The Rockville Metro Club and the Grog and Tankard ect. In 1995, "the Way Out" took first place in a battle of the bands that was hosted by members of Narcotics Anonymous. James continues to enjoy writing poetry and song lyrics, mostly for their intrinsic value and he hopes that EVP will provide him with a means of sharing his poetry with the world at large.

"Intelligent Design"

Shards of words too jagged to have meaning,
Too opaque to understand.

Broken fragments of phrases,
Juxtaposed in artistic brick-a-brack.

Pieced together like a mosaic,
Until some familiar pattern starts to emerge amidst the
Disparate parts.

What was once hopelessly shattered starts to cohere,
As if organized by some creative intelligence or guided by some
Unseen hand.

Yes, there is order to this chaos and beauty that is just too perfect to be
Left to chance.

© James Daniel Flynn

"A Mind Like Sky"

I want to have a mind like sky,
where everything just passes by,
that's large enough to hold it all,
From the dawn of day, until nightfall.

I want to have a mind of blue,
of snow and rain and sunshine too.
Where sunset sinks into the night,
to rise again and make it bright.

With starlight, moonbeams, candlelight,
breathing deeply, all is right,
I'm large enough to let it go,
to fade into the after-glow.

Not to fight or try to cling,
An open sky holds everything.

© James Daniel Flynn

"Strange Proverb"

Grandpa, I remember you were full of corny catch phrases and common sense
advice about businesses and shoestrings and early birds and worms.

You tried in so many familiar ways to pass your wisdom on to me.

You believed in those folksy old sayings, this oral tradition, and through repetition
you made a believer out of me.

You were more persuasive than you will ever know, and I was more attentive than
you ever imagined.

Even though I seemed to scoff at those old clichés' and your words seemed to pass
into one ear and right out the other just like you said that they did.

It amazes me now, so many years after you have passed away how often I reflect
on those corny little phrases and how they all rang true eventually.

Now when I find myself parroting some glib expression to my family and friends
about not counting their chickens before they’re hatched or how the grass always appears to be on the other side.

I think about you Grandpa and how insightful you really were, with your folksy
old sayings and mid-western farm boy ways.

© James Daniel Flynn

"Speaking Truth To Power"

‘Speaking truth to power’, so leftist, so cliché’, but as with everything else in life,
turn-a-bouts fair play.

How about Salman Rushdie and his Satanic Verse? That got a fatwa placed on him,
does oppression get much worse?

Or how about this songwriter, her name is Ash Soular, she wrote ObamaNation and
became a YouTube Star.

The death threats followed quickly, it seems she went too far. This ‘speaking truth
to power’ is becoming so bizarre.

Here’s one you never heard of, her last name is Nasrin, her books are banned in
Bangladesh , where they created quite a scene.

Islamic demonstrations, demands that she be gagged, it seems this ‘truth to power’
crap might get brave soldiers fragged!

Now their calling on the FCC to censor old “Faux News”,
The slogan for the left should be, free speech, we think it’s good for all of us,
but not so much for you.

© James Daniel Flynn

"Just Sitting"

Sequestered in my modern cave with stereo and microwave,
I stare into the slate blue sky and wonder why I live and die.

An open room with scenic view, a cozy chair and TV too.
I rest my bones and contemplate, and draw a breath as it grows late.

While incense burns in other rooms, I lay inside my hidden tomb.
And drift upon a song so sweet, feeling warm, alas complete.

© James Daniel Flynn

""Artificial Wings"

Icarus ascended using artificial means,
Like a moth he was unprotected by fortified
Strong wings.

The light is was entrancing,
The warmth it felt so good,
So he ignored the warnings,
Though he knew he never should.

The blaze it grew much hotter,
His waxen wings grew soft,
Without the right equipment,
One never should take off.

The flight is was exciting,
The soaring such a thrill,
So Icarus gave up his life
For a needle and a pill.

© James Daniel Flynn

"Seasonal Affective Disorder"

No poetry comes these days to break the haze of rumination.
Stone cut cross is cloaked in clouds,
Withholds it’s promised illumination.

Church yard gate swings in the breeze,
Forlorn of funerals it sighs and heaves.
And spreads some teardrops on the ground,
To speed the growth of summer’s leaves.

Praying that new hope is born,
Some reason to believe,
For loss of hope is hopelessness,
My spiritual disease.

© James Daniel Flynn

"Cliché Café"

Duplicitous streetlight beams down on us,
Like a spotlight on a stage,

Two young lovers reenact expressive lines
From page.

Through the café window some sad guitarist plays,
Singing simple lyrics about how all romances
Fade.

Now these are only memories of candlelight
And haze,

Of steaming cups of java, and overfilled ashtrays.

Dreamy nights in Smokey rooms,
The sceneries replayed,
Nostalgic reminiscence of the good old days.

It’s funny how this imagery still means so much
To me.

Still I know we can’t return to a distant memory.

© James Daniel Flynn

"Dirty Bob"

Dirty Bob, scratches his crotch., shares his wisdom with me.
The essence of what he’s gleaned after fifty years of living as
A stomp down dirty dope fiend and greasy pork chop.

From the streets, to Vietnam , to the penitentiary,
From addiction to AIDS to AZT.

And now from some semblance of recovery Bob blurts
These words to me.

“The game goes on twenty-four seven, only the players
change.”

© James Daniel Flynn

"Bonfire Of The Inanities "

Enamored by inanities, desultory display,
Ephemeral elocution becomes hero for a day.

Angry admonition says you better watch your step,
Ignorant agitators just might slip and break their necks.

Synaptic transmutation whips out some new word play,
But fails to feel embarrassed by a lack of things to say.

Subtle supplication prays a bonfire for mere words,
An instant conflagration maybe just what they deserve.

"Drinking In Public"

I remember it was Friday night in Georgetown,
Prospect Street, about mid-December.

Sitting on a stoop and panhandling with a pocket
Full of money.

Drinking cold beers and telling off color jokes,
Me and Tim Connelly.

We were having a grand time, makin a public
Nuisance of ourselves.

Guess people thought we didn’t give a rat’s ass,
I guess we didn’t.

Then the cops came and arrested us, shoved us against the wall,
Hands cuffed, eight precinct, public intoxication.

Managed to pull my Houdini act, got my hands free and
Pissed all over the back of that Paddy Wagon.

Small act of defiance,
Anger at being misunderstood.

Part of the disease.

Sitting in the holding sell, I gave Tim my last ten bucks,
So he could bail himself out.

Had him call my dad to come and get me.

Dad showed up drunker than I was,
And angry as hell.

He started yelling and screaming,
He said he really didn’t understand me.

I guess he didn’t.

Part of the disease.

© James Daniel Flynn

"Georgetown "

Wisconsin and M, a passerby panhandles me for a smoke cause he’s “only got is the habit.”

It’s a vagrant street scene with beggars on every corner, fashionable, yet slightly depressing, a mixture of the ‘sheik and the schlock.’

The wealthy and weary on the same pastel painted streets that wend past historic buildings, restaurants’ and boutiques.

Suddenly a fashion plate model steps from the pages of Vogue magazine and whisks past a wino who is trying to spare some change. She keeps a stiff upper lip, has no intention of giving him the time of day.

She leaves him in a trial of Estee-Lauder, so he sits to rot in his own decay.

Me, I sit and watch from the Café’ window and I wonder how the world got to be this way.

I guess I live in two worlds, not rich enough to enjoy the wealthy world’s obscene display But I have enough to rent my roof, to buy my bed, to stay off the streets for one more day.

"Grand Monet"

Violet orchids breaking ground, gentians blossom new-

Springtime sits upon its perch, the quetzal’s plumage too-

Everywhere you look is smeared like colors on a page-

The bolder brush, impressionistic, blurry outlines fade-

Everything’s a Grand Monet, a dappled palette strewn-

While twisted tubes of oily paint lay cap less in a room-

What is it that we try to say in streams of consciousness-?

That leaves their tendrils chasing us through open fields

Of bliss.

© James Daniel Flynn

"Cygnus"

Cygnus constellation of the Swan,

What starlit gaze swims these stellar streams of serenity?

For so long, for so long….

Eternal drift beyond the shadow of the Cypress tree.

A calmness on the surface belies the churning of his web like feet.

And where, where does this journey lead?

Beyond the germination,, growth and death of every seed?

And what, what is always churning underneath?

Pushing us towards our wants, to fulfill some need.

Perhaps there is no destination, hence the Swan and his leisure pace.

Taking in the scenery, gliding smoothly, in no race.

He breathes deep the fragrant air, swimming slowly he seems aware,

That there is no final place to reach,

Always mindful of the lesson, that just through being one can teach.

© James Daniel Flynn

"Full Circle"

The wayfarer deluged in the sultry air,
His pilgrimage full circle had left me standing there.

On the self same shore where he had begun,
With a first hand knowledge that is second to none.

Discernment not disquietude now shown upon his face,
Happy to be standing in the self same place.

The demeanor of a man, who has seen and knows,
The strength of his character shown in his repose.

Watching saffron sunsets,
Fanning fingered blaze,
Through the dance of seagulls,
On magenta waves.

© James Daniel Flynn

"Images Of Way Back When"

Empty verses, words that rhyme, pointless phrases pass the time.

Slow sand trickles, hourglass fills, time is ticking, ink well spills.

Candles dripping, feathered pens, images of way back when.

Words that weather, tests of time, empty verses, words that rhyme,

Pointless phrases, made with pens, images of way back when.

© James Daniel Flynn

" Long Distance Train"

He said, “I know enough about pain to write in volumes.”
As he paused to hear the whistle of a long distance train.

“Were all destined to want and wander, and to wonder if
we’ll ever have a chance to love again.”

“For more than thirty years I’ve been a rambler,
from the campfires to the boxcars, cross this country,
back again, and I’ve had an awful lot of time to ponder
just how I came to be in the shape I’m in.”

“You see son, you can always chase those rainbows,
that pot of gold is always just around the bend.
but the happiest folks you’ll ever lay your eyes on
are the ones that learn to love the place their in.”

© James Daniel Flynn

"Insignificant Other"

Insignificant other, know just how that feels,

A lesson in futility, denial of what’s real,

It’s worse than total solitude,

Invalidating hell,

Too devoid of self-respect to demand

"Who Am I?"

Maybe I’m a wacko, maybe I’m a clown,

Maybe I’m a slacker who just won’t settle down.

Maybe I’m a gypsy, maybe I’m a bum.,

Maybe I’m a misfit living in a slum.

Maybe I’m sailor in search of un-sailed seas,

Maybe I’m a drifter, who drifts eternally.

Maybe I’m a fruitcake, maybe I’m a slob,

Maybe I’m too lazy, to go and get a job.

Maybe I’m an artist, maybe I’m a slave,

Maybe I want some freedom, before I’m in the grave.

Maybe I’m a dreamer, maybe I’m the dream,

Maybe I am coffee and maybe I’m the cream.

Maybe I’m invisible; perhaps I am a ghost,

Maybe I’m a butterball and you’re a piece of toast.

Maybe I’m moronic, perhaps I am insane!

Maybe I’m just too darn smart to think I have a brain.

Maybe I’m a seeker, maybe I am sought,

Maybe I am someone, who never could be caught.

Maybe I’m elusive, maybe I am slick,

Maybe I’m not falling for those dirty little tricks.

Maybe I’m a hobo, hopping train to train,

Maybe I’m a migrant worker picking at your brain.

Maybe I’m unstable, perhaps I’m really wild!

Maybe an adult and maybe still a child.

Possibly I’m mixed up, possibly quite sane,

Either one is possible, though neither one is plain.

"Anthems Awakening"

Straining at my heavenly gate, knocking on my door,
Shrouded in a silhouette, the anthem of a Troubadour.

Silver lining of the clouds, precipitous of rain,
Burst of lighting, break of dawn, foreshadowing
Made plain.

I guess it’s simply ‘in like Flynn’, the point at which
We must begin, to let our Celtic spirits rise, in spite or
Falsity and lies.

"Look Who’s Caught In The World Wide Web"

It’s a sterile world of glass and steel; concrete corporations mass appeal,
With CNN and internet encased in plastic TV sets.

Here’s CD-ROM with Mega-Bytes to dominate your thoughts tonight,
Where can you go? You can’t Netscape, I won’t erase the back up tape.
No floppy disks and no thumb drive, like robots that are half-alive.

We’ll program you to earn your check, it’s nothing sinister as you suspect.
We’re moving on and having fun, the battle for souls already won, and now you’re
Mine good City-Sins, your minds in the re-cycle bin

Produce and consume the American Way?

You’ll have to slave to get your pay, and you’ll never seem to earn enough to purchase
All that useless stuff.

It’s the perfect plan for the modern man; you’ll need a house, a car, a van.
You’ll go to school to get ahead; on bullshit you will be well fed.

Next you will have to get a job, in the wheel you’ll become a cog.
The sterile world of glass and steel will spin so fast you head will reel.
You’ll be confused, you’ll feel misplaced, my memory you won’t erase.
You’ll wonder how you got sucked in, and why it is I always win.

Concrete corporations here to stay, so get to work and earn your pay,
You’ll need some food, to pay your rent; your life in service will be spent,
In an endless cycle of produce and consume.
For you’re God, you’ll have no room.

‘Til the entire world is glass and steel, nothing natural, nothing real,
All of nature blotted out, that’s what I’m really all about.
No mountain tops or running streams, no time to laugh or talk or dream.
You’ll all be chained to one big time clock, human bondage; it’s my trade and stock.

To your ambitions you’ll be enslaved, you’ll work yourself into an early grave.
Then I’ll cover you with dirt and glee, knowing you were never free.

© James Daniel Flynn