Fevers of the Mind Poetry & Art Blog

Our twitter is @feversof also eic @davidLONan1 Facebook Group: http://www.feversofthemind.com Fevers of the Mind Poetry & Arts Group

Paypal & Submissions e-mail: feversofthemind@gmail.com  We are now only taking submissions for website only.

We are unable to provide compensation at this time for any postings on this site. We have to reach out through the year for donations just to keep the site going. This is for the art of poetry, music, art & other creatives.

Submissions open: Looking for Poetry for Adhd Awareness, Mental Health, Anxiety, Culture, History, Social Justice, LGBTQ Matters/Pride, Love, Poem series, sonnets, physical health, pandemic themes, Trauma, Retro Pop Culture Music & otherwise.

Also: Looking for poets interested in a poetry showcase (send up to 5-10 poems to be considered. Will accept between 3-5 if chosen)

Also: Looking for poetry from defunct lit magazines or magazines that have been in a long hiatus to be considered for second online publishing. Please let me know where first published.

*Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interviews. Poets, writers, authors, musicians, comedians, actors/actresses and more that have something that they’d like to promote please consider a Quick-9 Interview. For interview we need author photo, bio, social media info, etc. Send e-mail to feversofthemind@gmail.com Subject line: Interview Request. Link to the Questions here. https://feversofthemind.com/2021/09/03/the-9-questions-for-the-fevers-of-the-mind-quick-9-promo-question-interviews/

*We have periodic book reviews. Reviews by David L O’Nan, Mashaal Sajid, Maid Corbic, Matthew da Silva, Catrice Greer, Georgia Hilton, & Tim Heerdink.

Submissions are for blog only: Poetry, Art, Book Reviews, culture pieces, rants, pre-published poetry from self-published materials, defunct lit mags, pieces from other lit mags with permissions.

All submissions with bio. Please let us know if something has been previously published, we will make a judgment call on whether able to include.  Please give us 2-3 weeks for an answer on accepted/rejected pieces. We will not send rejection e-mails. As long as work follows our guidelines or contests, prompts they have a good chance of being published on our site. If not accepted at first Just try again…but please just send once a month if a piece was rejected at first. We will not accept pieces that we deem racist, sexist, homophobic, or have pornographic themes, photos, or any type of nudity in submissions.

Please donate to our paypal at feversofthemind@gmail.com if you enjoy this site and our anthologies. Anything helps. Thank you!

About Editor David L O’Nan

David L O’Nan has been writing poetry & short stories for 20 years.   He is founder and editor in chief of Fevers of the Mind Poetry & Art Press with his wife HilLesha.  We have released 5 Anthologies of poetry & art since 2019.   He has also Curated & edited “Avalanches in Poetry: Writings & Art Inspired by Leonard Cohen” which he’s about to work on a 2nd Leonard Cohen Inspired Anthology “Before I Turn Into Gold” coming in late September 2021.   His books include the Revised version of “The Famous Poetry Outlaws are Painting Walls and Whispers” and his other self-published works are available on Amazon. “New Disease Streets”, “The Cartoon Diaries”, “Taking Pictures in the Dark” “Lost Reflections” “Our Fears in Tunnels” The original Famous Poetry Outlaws are Painting Walls and Whispers is also still available. His work has appeared in Icefloe Press, Anti-Heroin Chic Magazine, Royal Rose Magazine, Dark Marrow/Rhythm & Bones Lit, Truly U, Spillwords, Punk Noir Magazine, Eat the Storms Podcast, Cajun Mutt Press features, Ghost City Press, 3 moon Publishing, Elephants Never, Nymphs Publishing, and of course at www.feversofthemind.com


Poem #3 from Before the Bridges Fell by David L O’Nan : “They Had Sadness in Their Eyes (like in Littleton)” – poetry

They Had Sadness In Their Eyes (Like in Littleton)

The sky has cracked
Raining down a hail of tiny eyes
Invading our space, we'd walk
Walk into the crutches of the hall's shadows
To hide in a new divinity.

Away from the howling
You feel the flooding in your hideaways
Your shaking is the deadest of giveaways
Melting in your sweat,  in the fear
Will the maiming of the words keep your mind quiet,
can you forget it all?

Such wonders is the wind when it acts in a manic swaying
Those crippling leaves do tease us.
To digress us in a blood trace waxing in the sticks and spoons
Closets full of broken lights, tiny eyes
like boomerangs across the sky.

Watch me universally break apart the knife-stars
Collecting all the falling dust in a skinny bag
Flames scattering in our chase
Schools of blue watch us outrun the lunar flood.

Violence, anarchy from the treetops. The birds digest our mayhem 
to the streets.   While gases and ashes run over the walls.
We shout peace to walls like John Lennon,
and then we watch the buildings burn and drink in the breaking glass.
It was like someone broke in all the codes.
That lead us to the pink of the sunsets crying.

Our love is an infinite future.  
To become free from all we've yearned for.
To feel complete, without the worries of hate.
To present beauty through all the drizzling art.
The world was too greedy to share

We couldn't believe words as laws.
So we continued fighting, lives are just scars
to look at in our corners of a heaven.
We continued gunning down true leaders.
We took the beauty from our land, 
we danced a sad song to beautiful music
and danced madly without listening to the message.

Replaced it with angst, disgust  while marketing mercenaries
that bled green invades our kiss.
A cyclops sees what a cyclops wants to eat.   While with us, One eye is tears and One eye is drowned too deep to breathe.  
Like a life in Littleton.
We shouted peace to the walls. And received the eye of war back.
Just another cyclops.  Practicing carbine rifles on mannequins.
Listening for the echoes. 
Forgetting we can only dream ideally in silence.

Ghosts they linger, and ghosts they whisper to all.
Ghosts they love and ghosts they fall through
Ghosts fade under pressure, ghosts suffocate on social screams.
So we hide under bridges until either gunfire or greed fades.
In peace, unity, and love we can all blend together and move our orbs through Orion for awhile. 

*Free web poetry book* Before the Bridges Fell by David L O’Nan: Poem 1: Narcissism Taxi Cab Parades

Poem #2 from “Before the Bridges Fell”  Black Jackets and Boneless by David L O’Nan

Links to eic David L O’Nan’s interview & short poems from “Lost Reflections” on Wombwell Rainbow Blog

A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with EIC of Fevers of the Mind David L O’Nan

EIC: David L O’Nan is the Saturday Feature on Cajun Mutt Press with old storytelling poetry

Wolfpack Contributor EIC Bios:  David L O’Nan & HilLesha O’Nan

“Whispers” by David L O’Nan poem from new/revised book “The Famous Poetry Outlaws are Painting Walls and Whispers”

10 of my poems published in Lothlorien Poetry Journal


Poems about Bob Dylan, Edie Sedgwick, a response poem to Seems So Long Ago, Nancy inspired by Leonard Cohen. I will be posting versions of these poems soon on here. For now please read on the wonderful Lothlorien Poetry Journal blogspot hosted by Strider Marcus Jones.

Thank you again

Poetry Showcase by Strider Marcus Jones

Links to 6 poems of mine (David L O’Nan) on Lothlorien Poetry Journal

3 re-published poems by Marisa Silva-Dunbar : A Poetry Showcase

brown flowers

photo by Annie Spratt (unsplash)

First published in Dark Marrow Issue 2: Survivor

Coins for Charon

You ignored her for three months,
if you hadn’t, it would’ve brought
war between us—I kept constant
guard and never wanted you to know.
Confessions are pouring out of me.

You say there is no meaning in the attention
you give her now—she isn’t coming back;
you won’t let her, but she’s a rotting seed 
you planted in me. You let her presence 
grow—didn’t cut her out to save me.
If you wanted her gone, you would’ve 
removed her from the root—crushed
her leaves beneath your foot.

This is how Persephone died—
poisoned on the table after performing
a self surgery to pull the festerous Minthe 
from her belly; using all her strength
to quell the destructive and foolish nymph.

She’ll never know if Hades left coins for Charon
resting on her eyes as she faded into oblivion. 

One last message for Hades

I’ve swallowed my own form of poison—take a scalpel to me; 
dissect and see if any enchantments remain.
I can’t stop myself from spilling some sort of prayer 
over you even in these liminal spaces; you need to find 
the incantations and magick that sleep in your bones
without splitting your own skin. 
If  I had the same curse as Kilgrave, a simple suggestion
would cease any of your favorite forms of self-destruction.
or if I was Our Lady of the Trees, whatever seeds I planted 
around you—would sprout and heal your hurt. 

Persephone Reborn

In the anatomical theatre, I was the cadaver on the table
—chalk white and empty of body fluids. No one remembered 
who I was before the leeches and bloodletting—they said all 
the old gods were dead. In absentia—on the edge of consciousness,

I dreamt I was packed with sand and pebbles—growing succulents,
the only plants I could produce through bone and muscle—a body
barely worth returning to. What magic was left in me? Who would want
a Goddess of Spring, only useful in the unchanging desert? 

Death always has a job—even if the title is ever changing; he is honored
out of fear. You should’ve known he despises a life without me, 
that he would find a way to cultivate a garden to grow within me.
He filled my torso with peonies, and gardenias; placed chrysanthemums

in my heart so that it pulsed with color.  He gently planted narcissus 
in my throat and palms; his own way of calling and clinging to me. 
Waking, I tasted him in my blood, could smell his familiar scent
as if I had never left—it was inevitable he’d find a way to bring me home.

Bio: Marisa Silva-Dunbar's work has been published in Analogies & Allegories Literary Magazine, Dear Reader, Chantarelle's Notebook, and Daily Drunk Magazine. Marisa is the co-editor of the anthology "Kirstofia." She has work forthcoming in Sledgehammer Lit Mag and Pink Plastic House. Her second chapbook, "When Goddesses Wake," is forthcoming from Maverick Duck Press. You can find her on Twitter and Instagram @thesweetmaris. 

Poetry Showcase from Kendall A. Bell

red and white light digital wallpaper
Unsplash image by Fakurian Design
All writings were previously published by Rhythm N Bones Lit & Dark Marrow


The blister is the comeback,
the shrill voice on loop,
an anchor in shallow water.
Here, you follow the sound
each dying note, the death
rattle in your throat. The
blister is leaking, is the 
crescendo of a converging
melody of panic, of hearts
becoming the slowest metronome.
The blister reminds you that
all pieces of you are dirty,
are damaged, that affliction
will always hold your hand.
The blister is the last sign
of passion's cessation.

How to disappear

Start deleting phone numbers backwards
to A, forget how to answer the phone.
Deactivate every social media account.
Save your voice only for singing in the
car, speak to no one at work, listen to
how many times your name comes up. (It
will be none.) Unscrew every CFL lightbulb
and donate them to Goodwill. Invest in
black curtains, for every room. Leave your
dog inside someone else's fenced in yard -
the one with big tires on the grass. Throw
your mailbox into the street. Wear a hoodie.
All the time. Never, never make eye contact.
Go for your walk, abandon your route, blend
into trees, into sidewalks and streetlights.

The constellations are fading

They are descending into
a plodding death, swallowed
by the expanse of black
that will consume each of us.
Remembrance is a shattered
bottle, carelessly littered
over forgotten country roads.
We once danced like the most
brilliant of lights, seen only
in the most remote regions-
a treasured locket that held
heartbeats and promises,
but all stars explode.


You are shucked like
an oyster, hollowed
to keep you vertical.
Doctors cup your hands,
speak softly of this
parasite you cannot see -
an intruder I cannot slay
for you. Upon waking in
a sterile, foreign bed,
you will only feel the pain
of theft, hear the soft hum
of machinery, while I wait
in a room of strangers to
see you-the only home I've
ever known, almost taken.

Trace this shooting star of sadness across my brain

        after Jennifer Rouse

watch it explode in mid-flight
                            see the fragments become
                a shower of pulp
                              the once beating
once overflowing heart that has now
                           turned supernova
                           leaving streaks of all the love
that once inhabited the fuselage
              a finale unwitnessed

Bio: Kendall A. Bell's poetry has been most recently published in Crepe & Penn and Pink Plastic House. He was nominated for Sundress Publications' Best of the Net collection in 2007, 2009, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2015 and 2018. He is the author of two full length collections, "The Roads Don't Love You" (2018) and "the forced hush of quiet" (2019), and 29 chapbooks, the latest being "bloodstream". He is the publisher/editor of Maverick Duck Press and editor and founder of Chantarelle's Notebook. His chapbooks are available through Maverick Duck Press. He lives in Southern New Jersey.

Re-published poems from Amanda Crum

first published in Rhythm n Bones Lit & Dark Marrow mags.

Ghost Fractures

There's twang
tangled in my roots,
but it only unspools
inside loss.
Grief rolls syllables
across my tongue, 
transforms ain't into
a lullabye. Language
fractured by ghosts.
I can almost hear
the trailer park girl I was,
spinning circles in her room.
I wonder
when she became so afraid
to let her bloodline
tumble from her mouth.
Maybe it was the first time
Death stood in her doorway,
rolling a cigarette for someone
she loved. That girl
wanted grease-spattered comfort,
husky Appalachian pronunciations
and dropped g's,
and all she got was
more loss.
Now I cling tightly to my accent,
a connection to my beginnings
that can only be
put away
rather than

In the Abbatoir

We watch with eyes full of moon
as she crosses the tile floor,
sensible shoes clicking a metered rhyme.
She wears a jacket, like a banker,
but underneath she's as sad as the chipped
glitter polish that lines my fingernails.
Under her examination I am still,
bloodless wounds marking my time,
a lump in my throat that betrays
my voice. She doesn't feel my gaze
as she dips her finger into a pot of
mentholatum and smears it across her lip,
doesn't see my contempt as she steadies
her shaking hands. Those suits will
never take her seriously, not with those
cheekbones. With the snap of powdered gloves
she reaches into my throat, her interest
piqued as the voices outside the door fade.
Their expectations were low, the beer bellies
sheathed in pinstripes and coffee-stained ties,
not bothering to mask their derision. From
the soft pink tissue she pulls a cocoon and
the moth unfurls its wings across my vision.  Here
I am there and all the spaces in between. I tell
her my secrets, my throat unstuck,
focus narrowed down to millimeters. I tell
her that she can leave but she'll never get away,
we are all just lambs crying in the night and
the abbatoir is always full. 


Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Amanda Crum

Poetry by Amanda Crum : An Offering


Re-published poems from Mela Blust – Poetry Showcase

All poems in this showcase were previously published in Rhythm N Bones Press & Dark Marrow Litmags


from the prison of skin;
a bitter pill.
unexpected bloodflowers
bursting the soil.

backwards/a time when we
wrested joy from the wind
now the knife,
a love-shaped gift.

you won't know

you won't know
when the ghost slips out of you
whether with a bang              or just a breath
a step forward                         or a leap
when the smoke clears
and you find yourself somewhere unknown

you won't know when you've changed
just enough to leave behind
pieces of yourself
crumbs to find your way home
when home shifts from comfortable
          to weary
you pack your things
and go quietly into the night
the compass points north but
              everything feels south

you won't know why the song
       your heart sings
sounds so faded
like the beat of a faraway drum

you'll follow the river to somewhere new
where you can lie your head on a different pillow;
count your breaths
and start again.

thin lines

think about what they take
yes, but
think about how you let them
this is how we are raised
a temple of loneliness praying to

think about what is gained
oh, but think about
what has been lost
if you are a dead butterfly in a jar
at least you were pretty enough
to collect

now, dream about what comes next
oh, now, but
don't dream too far
it is the thin lines that separate
what we were from
what we have become


taste the wretched honey of my sins
wrench the last breath from
the poverty of my lungs

how many times have i been on my knees
praying for the next delicious theft?

see these hands
built this shrine so that you could worship
a come-hither demon.

the lie we think of as love.

More from Mela below:
Spotlight poetry from Mela Blust in Fevers of the Mind Press Presents the Poets of 2020

Mela has been nominated a few times for Best of the Net and has appeared in numerous magazines such as Rust + Moth, Anti-Heroin Chic, South Florida Poetry Journal, Collective Unrest, Rhythm & Bones Lit, The Sierra Nevada Review.  Her debut collection Skeleton Parade https://www.apeppublications.com/product/skeleton-parade/

Another Bio: Mela Blust is a moonchild, and has always had an affinity for the darkness. She is a poet, a painter, a sculptor, and a jeweler. She has been writing poetry since she was a child. She currently resides on a small farm in rural Pennsylvania. Her work has appeared in The Bitter Oleander, The Sierra Nevada Review, The Nassau Review, and more. She is a contributing editor of Barren Magazine, and Head Publicist for Animal Heart Magazine.

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