Poetry by Mary Jones in Fevers of the Mind Issue 1 in 2019. “Army of One – The Father I Never Had” “Anxiety’s Face” & “Nothing but Nothing”

photo by Specna Arms

Army of One – The Father I Never Had

Stand at attention, hold your fire.
Army of one in soldier attire.
First up then down,
crawling all on the ground,
staying loyal to desecrated soil.

The Fred Lee I knew became the father I never had.
Death is never really over.
You'll always feel a little sad.
But my sad is more than mourning,
I always wanted to make him proud.
Now I can barely even step out into a crowd.

Outstanding is it?
I think not.
I'm forever seeking what cannot be sought.
Where will I be when this all comes to an end?
Will I finally see him and completely mend?
Jesus, I know you understand,
How back and forth and continually bend.

Once more I profess the tragedy of this.
I send you my love, Fred Lee, Sr.,
And blow you a kiss.

Anxiety's Face

A swift heap to my downcast, much like the weather
No, that's the forecast, a Doppler radar, used to report the weather
A light touch, like a feather that barely makes an imprint
Yet, here I am contemplating its slightness
Having a mixture of fear and resentment,
A mixture of anger and encampment
A mixture, something you can digest
Not like a casserole, but something divine,
something with a little sweetness.

Prescribe me an answer to my problems, doctor
He gives me some pills, saying i'll be able to deal
and if not to call him in the morning.
None of the artificial medicine cures my tears.
None of it stops my fears.
Day after day I wonder why I have so many fears?

Just in case you forget or are unfamiliar with anxiety's face
Focus your view, look at me
I am what you seek
What are you waiting for?
What is it?
What do you see?
Oh wait, it's just little old, crazy, anxiety filled me.

Nothing but Nothing 

Pitter, patter on my head,
Recognizing I feel dead.
Little, latter, onward each day.
Nothing but nothing, mold me like clay.
The trickle of a stream running, waving to a shrine.
Bowing to the owner of what I left behind.
Hand in your crown, hand in your title,
You think you are the judge, when you're no American Idol.

Bio: Mary is an Ohio native. She graduated from Full Sail University with a Bachelor's Degree in Creative Writing in Entertainment. She's worked as a reporter for a local newspaper and is currently a part-time freelance writer. Mary enjoys writing poetry, scripts, & short stories.  She is married and has three children, 2 boys & a girl. She loves wrestling, spicy food, wine, and a good drama-filled book.

By davidlonan1

David writes poetry, short stories, and writings that'll make you think or laugh, provoking you to examine images in your mind. To submit poetry, photography, art, please send to feversofthemind@gmail.com. Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof Facebook: DavidLONan1

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