5 poems by David L O’Nan : “Wicked Witch Fossils” “A Crosswind””There Have Been Strange Men Coming Down Here” “Tyre” “Old Oranges in Grandpa’s Graveyard”

Orange, Rotten Fruit, Rotten Fruit
Old Oranges in Grandpa's Graveyard

Across that busy river,
rests my grandpa and my grandma
And my other grandma, Diana
In sorrows, I think of his humor
In laughter, I think of his calmness
In anger, I think of his abuse
his only tumor
in silence, I think about his wisdom and bravery.

All the California shells covering the dirty grass
You can hear the belly-growl from the dead fishermen,
the ghosts of all the nightcrawlers whom,
met their fate in the San Gabriel River.

Walking in memories,
I begin to see grey orange after grey orange
and over the cemetery of a crisping wind
Unusual to this time of year, 
a sad assortment of thrushes and crows
they peck at the seeds from the dead oranges.

I feel foggy in my brain,
a little bit lost on the coast
a gargled drowning sound,
Icicles don't usually form on the pupils,
in California
I wished for the sands to return to my carousel beachfront

A line of oranges,  some green, mostly grey
The pathway between my feet and grandpa's grave
About 4 coppered tombstones away,
I see a slick bluesman pick up some of the old oranges
and place them in a green sack,
then he vanishes into a casino colored sunset.

That sunset howls
It murmurs out the blues
The Gulf of Mexico moonshiners applaud
and the sugar sweetness returns to the oranges

Grandpa is dancing again with all the resurrected women -
from a 1958 dancehall.

Wicked Witch Fossils

It was the night on the fairytale beach
The sick little seahorses collected
by the fiends, and through our walks,
like a thunderclap over the zoo.

We become a frightened twig
floating in a scurry
our minds can be abandoned
and try not to evaporate
like the shine off of the wicked witch fossils
in the cavern's tongue.

The dirt and the fizz
On celestial grounds
Are now just a Sleeping Beauty hospital
apple cores
smashed to ruins
and little ants are never loyal
they just go from one sugar to the next
even when it is poison disguised.

A Crosswind

She comes to bed
with hardened concrete skin
She hides the smoothness
from the talking dolls
they come around
when the truck is gone. 
They come around
with keys to the lock.

We meet up
to an impossible conversation
in a bleached spit of a dining room
Where red wine spills,
while i'm at work
And everything intermingles with
all the broken glass

We meet up to a burn-dry kiss
on a goodbye
that lips up your morning breath
before playing mistress for a prowler
with hungry blood.

I never knew it would be so tough
to repair this bridge with bandages
preserving decay on imperfections 
Sleeping alone on lamenting crosswind.

There Have Been Strange Men Coming Down Here

The bugs on windowsills
like a little camera,
the skirts lay dirty across the basement
loose chess pieces
after madness ended the game.

I wear this glove of a ghost over my skin
The soul still preaches out cynical waves
the bars on the windows
as cold as the haughty icing that caresses its pane.
while the pain is grenades during a beautiful hymn.

Play bashful to the soultakers
bless me with the blankets
not the smothering ones
bless me with the cradling 
and visions of the temple.

Don't leave me prone to the majestic
I want the sour to be removed
and the spell crippled away by Jesus Christ
and Violas playing for me forever
let me forget that there have been

Strange Men coming down here.

Minutes after my shadows dissolved with the night.

Tyre

Sun-bleached crucifixes
pawned
from paper skin hands
that lay all the cuts
Our reward for seeking treasures of voices
the word in Olive desert wash.

The soulmates of greats
in Phoenician unity
the heart shapes the Mediterranean 
from the island, blood breathes the holy
and the trash bangs against the breeze

It was a buzzin' city
Which made some forget Jerusalem
We married the rocks up to look identical
Eternally like twins in one soul,
we are cursed in one kiss, it is reversed.

The kings gather in prosperity
in the wealth from trading
the ruins are unspoken
and we sail into the curtain of the coast,
realizing the currents feel the death the most.

Feel me through my hands
my beating clashing ocean heart
pour me in with your thirst,
drink in all that has been existence.

Suddenly, we are lost in time
The entire time.


 Meet the Fevers of the Mind WolfPack Pt 1: David L O’Nan & HilLesha O’Nan


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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