Poetry (re-post) Paisleys, et Cetera by David L O’Nan

Sunset, Sunrise, Sky, Orange Sky, Clouds

Paisleys, et cetera

From a nest of crows lay a red robin
That we saw develop from an amber to a passion.
A spirit animal that flies free from the misery
Swimming in the sky vertically
From backwards to frontwards,
Curving with ease

In the sunsets of Purple and Pink
From Ice Blue to the Orange Papaya whip
Swiftly,
wings threading the needle of the seas
Marveling in Springtime heavens
Only to depress in your cup nest covered by January frost.

Bind your ribbons to an ironclad bend
resting your tarsus in the blanket of snow,
and dream with your culmen,
Drinking in the rewards of the March air,
only shades are left to conquer.

2 poems by David L O’Nan: Those Hazels, They Slice & Living in This Toxic Coalmine

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

3 poems by David L O’Nan : “Come Possess Me in the Rain” “Sleight of Hand” “In the Palms of Schizophrenia”

Poem: Trippin’ Crawlin’ Learning to Fly by David L O’Nan 3 poems by David L O’Nan

“Immortalized in Dorothy’s Tears” “Precautionary Nightingales” & “Listen to the Bones Breathe”

Micro Poems & a few longer ones by David L O’Nan

Poem: Trippin’ Crawlin’ Learning to Fly by David L O’Nan

gray pigeons flying under blue sky

Trippin’ Crawlin’ Learning to Fly

Crawling out of his crooked shoe
His mission is to fly
He swallows one raindrop
From storm cloud after storm cloud
He shadows his face and hides.

In his ears, the harmonious peasants sing of love
He disappears,
A fading tumble into seclusion
Why does the wind play tricks on the brain?
Acting as though the whispering is real.

It is another game
We laugh at the fool
"Look at him stumbling out of his shoe"
Trap him, corner him
Into submission
Bury his dreams in with the oblivious
Pull apart the blue sky to devalue his freedom.
"What is behind those blue curtains"?

Just air, smoke, unbreathable distance?

Whistling echoes from the well
He has fallen into his long unwinding spell
Now lord help me, all that is mighty!
Give me a hand, let me stop the blind crawl
I can't see or hear the visuals, the auditory bleeding missions.

Searching for guidance
The hand that cradles you into thought
To no longer fear the frightening.

We are not a puppet controlled by the flirtatious mind of mercy
Flames become invisible
If you want to fly,
You must first run into walls.

The skin, the heart must thicken when struck by the whip of evil.

Time and time again.

Hiraeth Series Poems 31-33 from Kushal Poddar

Hiraeth Series poems 31-33

31

The neighbor’s tree encroaches
the air space,
taps my shoulder tired bearing
the weight of my slumber.

This day will not be known as
‘The day our neighbor’s tree woke me up’.

I struggle to descend downstairs.
No sound greets me. It seems
either no one else lives here
or all has left for a celebration
I’ve forgotten.

This day will not be known as
‘The day our house emptied its belly’.

If I try not hard enough
this day will roll on and be
‘Any other day’.

32

Nothing noted today, for two days in a row I have nothing to report. I stare out at scrawls on the bank of the pond nearby and imagine the ducklings,

and oh yes, I have not seen the local fishmonger shove some sacks of Cocaine down the throats of the bloated belly fish .

33

“My son died from sea-sickness.”
What are you saying?
I shake my head in silence.
“Oh yes.” You say.
“A brain cells eating amoeba.”

I witness the absence
ravage the presence.
The misplaced memories topple
the shelves full of souvenirs
from one seaside far away.

A kite shrieks in a seagull voice.
The sky reverberates.

A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with R&B Musician Tasha Taylor

with Tasha Taylor:

Q1: When did you start writing and first influences?

Tasha: I started writing when I was 14. My first influence was my father’s music. Johnnie Taylor was my dad, he was a Stax artist.

Q2: Who are your biggest influences today?

Tasha: I still love the greats: Aretha, Etta James, Bobby Blue Bland. I also love Leon Bridges, Lauryn Hill, Drake, HER and so many newer artists.

Q3: Any pivotal moment when you knew you wanted to be a writer/artist/musician?

Tasha: I grew up on the road with my dad, watching him perform from the side of the stage as a kid was all I needed to know this was what I wanted to do.

Q4: Who has helped you most with writing?

Tasha: I write solo and produce my own sic. Listening to great writers always helps.

Q5: Where did you grow up and how did that influence your work?

Tasha: I grew up in Dallas, Texas.

Q6: What do you consider your most meaningful work you’ve done creatively so far to you?

Tasha: My record TAYLORMADE was a sort of tribute to my dad, so it holds a lot of meaning for me https://amzn.to/3ktUQwz

Q7: Favorite activities to relax?

Tasha: Painting>

Q8: What is a favorite line/stanza from a song/poem/writing of yours or others?

Tasha: “When you change the way you look at things, the things you look at change.” Albert Einstein

Q9: Any recent or forthcoming projects that you’d like to promote?

Tasha: Yes, working on a new record now.

Other links to Tasha’s music:

https://amzn.to/3zAINSy

https://amzn.to/3lNsblH

https://amzn.to/3ktqRFe

2 poems by David L O’Nan: Those Hazels, They Slice & Living in This Toxic Coalmine

First published in Icefloe Press https://icefloepress.net/two-poems-david-l-o-nan/

Those Hazels, They Slice

Remembering, those memories
Before the seclusion
To memories of you,
Somehow you made it from Limerick to Lane Fork
A creek full of snakes
They intrigued you to say
More snakes than angels here
Then you laughed
Níos mó nathracha ná aingil anseo
In our early twenties with hazels that wondered

Remembering, for many months
Trying to catch the butterfly
To dance with before the thunder bled on us
I had you within sight,
You were a millennial hippy in bellbottoms on Thursdays
By Friday you were vintage chic in a La Mendola dress
I’d long for you while hearing Sarah’s song playing in my head
Sharon from the Vampire Killers,
Your passion was to be Sharon from the Valley of the Dolls
And you, you drifted with hazels that sliced

Now we are children of 27.
You the Irish starlet searching for the dream
Stuck with a follower in love, a boy created in the dirt of the Midwest
Gravel chaffing your boho chick boots
We have to keep moving to keep your mind still
From Nashville to Kansas City to Yokohama for a week
We bled money from mud caves to gold mines
Until we shelved ourselves and began to pity as rats –
On the skim of the raising floods of New Orleans
The comedy of fools we entered drunk for many years
And your hazels lined with red in the castle of your soul

Twenties to Thirties,
Drinking and falling deeper to the sins
In passions you ran away,
I lay dire as the lone wolf
And still give you chance after chance
Dreaming of our rainjackets clashing on Toulouse
Wasting away in the downpours,
Our shoes getting stuck in sewer grates
Where are you now?
To new protectors, to new thieves
To talent scouts on Magazine Street
Your hazels looked to me and you say
sorry, no more kisses. I have to say goodbye
brón orm, gan póga níos mó. Caithfidh mé slán a fhágáil
What a tease as I fall to a prayer

Memories aren’t easy in the Big Easy in a lockdown
Coltrane’s “Blue Train” is growing more static and hisses
I just see those hazels, slice and say goodbye
Like your dizzy wake-ups before you drink your first drink
This song plays me like a straitjacket
And I dream of escaping on a ferry boat and hiding away
To one day escape your eyes and fall into the waters that’ll sway –
Sway me back to my youth and the worries I did not have.
The memories are my seizures
To my madman bones melted into your old Mahogany chair

Are you in your destiny,
Are you in love
Are you protected from the diseases,
Have the diseases took your identity
Has your fashion turned to rags
Have your men gone from Polanski to a black & white photo of our past
Are you enfolded to someone to cling to in the dying days of sunsets?

I’m not sure I can move past those hazels that sliced
Not knowing is just as bad as ever having you around.
The ashes spit down from the attic. The dust settles down my feet
It all becomes a haven for the depression to circulate within me.
And I whisper to myself, as if I were talking to the memory of you like a ghost.
to live alone, I don’t really know if I can. Without you, can I?
le maireachtáil liom féin, níl a fhios agam an féidir liom. Gan tú, an féidir liom?

Living in this Toxic Coalmine

There are fields that no one wants to breathe
There is a reality in which we cannot be

I wait for you to heal, as you wither like the sand
I wait for your angels to come by and build a temple with your hands

You’ve breathed in the blackest of beasts
That smother the air within the flow of these demons

Within our heart is little shards of twisted quartz
The crystals that cut through like minuscule crowns

The devil’s wind rips at the brim of my hat
I’ve got old souls dancing and trying to read the word to me

They know I’m no longer feeling human, I’m becoming a wooden boy
Talking like a stranger, fumbling sickly with his oil can toy.

Diseases like loves are just the flesh of charred whispers
Both feel the burns to the pores.
Sunlight can only wave in the hope to our deepest core

We’re tired of this burning, these shovels
The mouthing rambles of some fake heroes

Broken nose old men become experts at living
As they work on that same carburetor in that ‘95 Ford Taurus every day.

The sunshine has browned the roots of the grasses.
The heat has freckled me to the bones.

Through a life worth living we’ve all felt the worst grief
Some predators and sinners drink in to become their personalities
They’ve watched as the women weathered all the pedals
Under the icy stares from the devil in their men.

The minds that we all see as windows
Always think that they are invisible

The blackest of beasts may not be a pandemic
But the beasts that walk within one’s nerves, flesh & mind.
The darkness of the coal-seam fires
Leave the purity of what is underground to rise up to murder our hope

The mines are vibrating to combustion
The little stones quiver around my pulse
The pulsating veins quake like that bituminous coal
The canary flew in to sit on the wall just to become a wooden body.

The self-igniting madness of families severed by the greed
A pandemic could have been tamed
The spreading of ashes just splintered our breathing, and left us leathering.