New Poems from Elisabeth Horan : Parallelism & Suicide Attempt #_

Something about the tracks…
the tracks…
We reunite – end up with this outcome
scarred faces and arms —
A head against the metal like a penny
severed limb – (she will grow another one)
But the head, and the blaring; the blaring of the horn —
always late April; always amid the howl
of pain, of storm. When does the quiet come…
When does the child remember the coin and
Meander back. To see the metal in a new way. 
To see the neck re-attached at the seams —
When does the head stop rolling
down the river bank —
Into the water — 
with a plunk

Suicide Attempt #___

I mourn the wounded Aurora in your
eyes, who slit the grey blue waves at dawn –

The blade which opened wrists anew,
was once a friend, then gone. 

Birds know the brutal weight of air – 
we fight it, not understanding

How to float as cadavers, nor how 
to dive into abysmal depths without 

Breaking our necks on rocks
we know avarice, we know want. 

Vice to us is accumulated
nothing more than heroin and cigarettes. 

Muscle and bone – the coral and the abalone –
so patient with the eons

Not responding sooner to those who would
desecrate their beds

Pearled Pacific mornings turn to
chalk, ground up silicates and her 

Fresh flesh, crab and krill
your inner wrist split

Upon the atoll, 
bleeding clouded humanity

Into a placid sea awash in 
devastating beauty.

Bio: Elisabeth Horan is a poet, mother, and small press publisher living in the wilds of Vermont. She is the author of numerous poetry chapbooks and collections, and the Editor-In-Chief of Animal Heart Press. Elisabeth is passionate about discovering new voices and mentoring emerging poets. She is also a fierce advocate for those impacted by mental illness. (from her website

3 poems from Shiksha Dheda :”Is the Door Locked?” “Refugee” & “the Find”

Is the door locked?

Checking the locked doors once.
Washing the dirty dishes.
Checking the locked doors once again.
Washing the linen.
Washing the linen once again.
Washing the dishes once again.

Checking to see if the windows are shut.
Checking to see if the taps are closed.
Checking to see if the windows are shut.
Checking to see if the taps are closed.
Checking the locked doors.

Counting the steps from one room to the next.
Is the door locked?
Oh no! I must count again.
2. 3. Are the windows shut closed? Completely closed?
I am sure that I locked the door.
Let me check once more.

Checking the locked doors once.
Checking the locked doors once again.

Also appeared in Brave Voices Magazine January 2021 link:


I hide from the darkness of the world,
trying to find some comfort between the
letters that I memorize.
Words of affirmation.
Words that make me feel normal.
Less strange at the least.

I embrace the sterility of the walls inside.
Sheltering myself from the rainbow of outside.

I tune into the white noise inside,
Having grown tired of their sensationalistic music.

I lay covered by my cold,
hiding from their warmth.

I am struggling to breathe now.
My own air suffocating me.
My own coldness burning me.
My own noise bleeding through my ears.
My own letters mocking me for my strangeness.

I open the doors.
I open my doors.
To the outside.
To their outside.
To them.
I have been rejected
-left desolate-
-rendered homeless-
by myself.
I am now their refugee.

Also published in Visual Verse January 2021:

The find

I do not know how it started.

On Monday, the glass just seemed a little dirtier than usual.

On Tuesday, the speck of dust on the carpet appeared to be
slightly larger than the day before.

On Wednesday, the photographs hanging on the hall in the
drawing room seemed a little less straight than it had on Tuesday.

On Thursday, all the curtains that had any red colour had to be altered because everyone knows that red equals blood and blood is always bad.

On Friday, I steamed and bleached down all the cutlery and crockery at home before I could use those filthy things again.

On Saturday, all my laundry was washed thrice at 95 degrees and were made to dry indoors, as the air outside must be unhealthy and dangerous.

And on Sunday, well Sunday was peaceful, a conventional day for rest-
but wait…what is this I see?

All the days of the week have been engraved on my hands in the
form of tiny red cracks and spots: guess I just have to wash them out now.
And who knows? Maybe I will wash so hard and for so long a time that
I might just find some relief.
Some peace.

Also published in Ghost Heart Literary Magazine March 2021 here is the link:

Bio: Shiksha Dheda uses poetry(mostly) to express her OCD and depression roller-coaster ventures. Sometimes, she dabbles in photography, painting, and baking lopsided layered cakes. 
Her work has been featured (on/forthcoming) in Off Menu Press, The Daily Drunk, The Kalahari Review, Brave Voices, Anti-heroin Chic, Versification, and elsewhere. Twitter: @ShikshaWrites

Poems by Tim Heerdink: Us Motherless Men & Maybe This Will Be the Last Time

Us Motherless Men

I woke up just before 8 on a Sunday
without a voice singing Happy Birthday
at that time where I entered this existence.

Everyone in their beds while I scooched
past the pooch to stare at the older man
staring back at me in that dim night light.

There’s a growing list of acquaintances
who find this celebration hard for grins
as we travel along, us motherless men.

Maybe This Will Be the Last Time

after James Benger

The rain’s still falling
even on the inside.

Each clock’s hands gone dead
like maybe it’s time to unwind.

My pockets are filled with empty promises
I use when dead presidents aren’t found.

Come & give me your mind if I’m still around,
but knowing you through verse, I think you understand.

We’re all trying to find a place to sleep
& a little bit of that lost sunshine.

Some of us hope not to wake,
but maybe this will be the last time.

Bio: Tim Heerdink is the author of Somniloquy & Trauma in the Knottseau Well, The Human Remains, Red Flag and Other Poems, Razed Monuments, Checking Tickets on Oumaumua, Sailing the Edge of Time, I Hear a Siren’s Call, Ghost Map, A Cacophony of Birds in the House of Dread, and short stories, The Tithing of Man and HEA-VEN2. His poems appear in various journals and anthologies. He is the President of Midwest Writers Guild of Evansville, Indiana.

Wolfpack Honorary Contributor: Tim Heerdink

A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Tim Heerdink

3 poems by Coby Daniels: Lost, Contemplation, Broken Mirror

Coby Daniels


I am on a march now
To a place that opens
Upon the vista of Heaven
But I keep losing my way up
Jacob’s ladder
Please help me find the compass
That leads me right to you

For I am lost now
You are Babel
Re-orienting my ability of speech
I speak in different thoughts
And think in different tongues
I never seem to make sense
There is a revival
That has left me understanding
The mysterious language
Of the lost

Those who see without eyes
And only hear with ears closed


I am stuck in conference
With the dark night
Listening to the fireflies
Telling me tales

When the moon fell in love
With stardust

Hangs a veil of fog
Thicker than a slay queen’s lashes
And as heavy as
The beat of a million songs unsung
Marking time inside my head

I want to reach out
And touch the stars
But then I pause

My dreams are in a line of fire

I don’t want to burn to ashes
Pursuing my dreams
So I listen to this tale
The fireflies tell

Much like some long forgotten rhymes

Broken Mirror

Let my reflections
Of once upon a time
Bleed on the shards of a mirror
Now broken

This verse
Should have been
A tale of two cities:
Time and Space

Standing still because;

You became
The only thing in my world
That brought me
From the abyss of forgetfulness

You taught me that
Remembrance is not always a curse
But a beautiful song too

Down memory lane
Have now become incisions
Letting out bad blood

Letting out insanity

You remind me that
Some broken things
Are never meant to be
Made whole again.

(c) Coby Daniels

Bio: Daniel Asamoah Yeboah (a.k.a. : Coby Daniels) is a young Ghanaian poet, novelist, spoken word artiste, and proud alum of the University of Cape Coast from where he graduated with a
Bachelor of Arts in Education Degree. He was also president of the Department of English’s Creative Writers Club. He has featured in several journals including the maiden and second editions of the Lunaris Review Online Magazine. He has performed some inspiring poems on platforms in Ghana such as Moonlight Cafe, Indigenious Minds, VerbzCafe and has been greatly influential together with other creatives like The Village Thinkers in instituting the poetry revival in his university campus with selflessness, zeal and enthusiasm. He is a social volunteer and
aspires to positively impact society with his writings and volunteerism. He loves nature photography and is a voracious reader. Find him on: IG & Facebook: coby Daniels, Twitter:
@coby_daniels and his blog:

Poem by R.D. Johnson: “Just a Scratch” (new poetry)

Just a Scratch

See you used to scratch me
That first one showed the lines 
First contact, first strike
Caught off guard by your words and actions 
And how they both affect me physically and mentally
The next time you went for blood
The blood permeated the layers of the subcutaneous and cutaneous 
Oxidized and oozed 
You knew how go take things up a notch
You became a mosquito that was drunk off blood
Wanted to be the life of the party
Knowing the very thing you were doing was killing you inside too
But you still continued
You finally scratched me hard that you went deep 
The scars from before reopened as the pain and suffering 
Became your fountain of youth 
But for me it was getting old
To me, it was to time to scratch em back
And let me feel the rage
Of doing what you’ve done to me
All these years
And I just sat there and let you do it
I look at the mental scars I have left 
As the memories of where I was 
And how far I came
And I’m glad to see those marks
Are fading away 

Bio: Follow R.D. Johnson on twitter @r_d_Johnson                                                                                     R.D. Johnson is a pushcart nominee, a best of the net nominee for Fevers of the Mind  "(Not Just On) Juneteenth"    Reggie is an author reigning out of Cincinnati, Ohio. At the age of 9, he found a love for writing while on summer vacation. With influences from music, Reggie has created a rhythmic style of writing to tell his personal experiences and beyond.  Reggie has several books available on all major online retailers and his work can be seen in various literary magazines. He currently has two columns, Drunken Karaoke featured on Daily Drunk Magazine & REPLAYS featured on The Poetry Question.      

A Review from “Thank You For the Content III” by R.D. Johnson (Reggie D. Johnson)

4 Poems by R.D. Johnson : Malcolm & Martin, Angels, Dr. King’s Dream & February 1st (re-post)

Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Reggie D. Johnson (aka R.D. Johnson)

Poetry by R.D. Johnson : (Not Just On) Juneteenth