Book out by David L O’Nan “His Last Poetic Whispers”

This is the complete unpublished now “The Cartoon Diaries” (only available on kindle now) and a few best of “Taking Pictures in the Dark” & “Our Fears in Tunnels” poems also available in the huge collection Bending Rivers.

“His Last Poetic Whispers” is available on paperback & kindle.

Poetry: Monet’s Trees by David L O’Nan

Current bio for Fevers of the Mind’s David L O’Nan editor/writing contributor to blog.

Poetry from David L O’Nan in the Famous Poetry Outlaws are Painting Walls and Whispers

Hard Rain Poetry: Forever Dylan Anthology available today!

Available Now: Before I Turn Into Gold Inspired by Leonard Cohen Anthology by David L O’Nan & Contributors w/art by Geoffrey Wren

Hard Rain Poetry Online Anthology inspired by Bob Dylan : poems by Lynn White

Help Me Over

Help me.
Help me over.
Help me cross.
I can see the sky 
by debris,
by rocks,
by wire,
by dereliction.
by sharpness and
impenetrable barriers.
I want to see it clear,
clear and unblemished
creamy white
and pink and blue.
Help me see it.
Help me over.
Help me cross.
I want want to see it
framed by trees,
I want to see
the rocks become
Help me.
Help me over.
Help me cross 
to the place
where the birds are singing
breaking up the sky with flight.
Does it still exist, this place?
I must think so.
Help me find it. 
Help me.
Help me over.
Help me cross

*First published in Armageddon Issue, Pilcrow and Dagger, February 2017


The sun is standing still for them
Standing still for the streams of dreamers.
Dreamers streaming down the roads to somewhere
From somewhere that has become nowhere
destroyed by the money men,
the vultures who feed on their misery.
Dreaming of escape.
Dreaming of a future, any future.
Dreaming of better things to come.
Dreaming of the life they once had.
Dreaming, dreaming, dreaming.
Dreaming of returning
when the sun comes up again,
hoping it shows more than the vultures
that follow them
circling overhead
waiting patiently
for those left in a nightmare.

*First published in Free Verse Revolution, August 2020

The Hunger of War

They’re piling up
or splayed out
on streets
body after body
or ill advisedly
in haste
and heroism
their meat is needed
to feed the hunger.

It’s piling up
the rubble of lives
in flames
by weapons
and more weapons
the tears of the displaced 
are not enough
to douse them
so they leave,
when they can,
a low priority
as there’s no meat on them 
the women, children and elderly.
But the meaty men must stay
to fight like soldiers
to the death
and be spat out
with screaming shells
and fear.

And their screams die with them 
as victory comes closer
it is said
day after day
it is said
as the leaders scream
“no surrender”
victory will be theirs
when the hunger is sated.

More weapons
more bodies
more lives
in flames 
to feed
the insatiable hunger of war.


Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality and writes hoping to find an audience for her musings. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud 'War Poetry for Today' competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Apogee, Firewords, Capsule Stories, Light Journal and So It Goes. Find Lynn at: and

2 new poems by Kushal Poddar : 29th April, 2022 & The Noir Heart

29th April 2022

The coffee, born cold, takes its sweet time.
I wait, my eyes - half and half. My patience 
moonwalks through the shrapnel of wee hours' dreams.

The invasion of reality assesses the assets
intact and the assets lost.
You say out of context, "After a certain age
men need only one candle on top of their cakes."

I am more concerned about the line of control.
A wish-breath remains loaded in my lungs' silo.

The Noir Heart

"Examine your desire."
The priest says.
They become two last leaves
on the dying tree,
and the moon and its
siamese shadow on the rain water.

Tim speaks first on behalf of his
desire, his heart,
"To kill the husband of my liver."
An owl slashes through.
The priest nods, "Now that you
have said so, he is dead and reborn
in his next breath."

Wolfpack Contributor: Kushal Poddar

Poetry from Kushal Poddar : The Little Voyeur Incident, War & Peace

2 new poems by Kushal Poddar : Drinking with a Priest & Rabbit, Dance

A Poetry Showcase from David Hay

photo from pixabay

My Private Eternity

Have you ever placed the side of your face
flat upon the water
and let the reflections
become you?
The stars held softly on a midnight sea
where beauty touched your palsied tongue
and dreams more true than 
waking life
revealed the doorway
to your 

God I miss the sea,
how the rhythms of the waves
became one with the rythms of my thoughts 
and my soul once more became organic
as I communicated wordless
with those dark waters,

But now  in my bath of my rented house
with the mould above creeping 
 like the devil's spidered limbs
through the window of a crippling thought;
a routine panic attack makes the liquid
as inflexible as lead.

But remember that feeling
Alone, but tied to the string
of every rain drop falling
on the sea that could so easily be the sky;
everything folding into one,
I can breathe again.

Ode to the Vicar

So long in memories of childhood,
Did the long summers reside.
Where time trickled across and through
Flowers carnadine with such soft sorrow
That gave each ray of light 
A divinity squandered,
And replaced weekly,
With skin-flaked pews,
And organs, played laborious,
Whose note-tones
Stomped on the shoots
 Of freshly sprung tears
And the vicar, 
Oh god the vicar
Whose slow-dripping voice,
Made eternity with him and god
More frightening than damnation,
and just the thought made the devil's
Face, distorted by fear superimposed
On every fake flower in golden pots,
Haphazardly placed around his soap box.

But traumas acknowledged but not accepted
Lurk in the dim corridors of dream and thought
And slide underneath doors, like spiders during sleep
With queasy determination in to each sacred moment;
To nestle it's dark-trickle heart next to mine
And drown each beat with its own.

I've had enough.
I give my heart to the rose-tainted sun,
Let memories like notes embrace
Until melodies soar and dive,
Slicing through
Pale and black fire
Until all is harmonious,
And I can lie down
Without sentimentality or dread
Knowing the dreams and nightmares
Of the quiet boy,
Peeking in on death
Are still mine.

One-eyed God

God can only bear to open one eye
At a time.
The sun and the moon take turns
Across the animal dirt that was once
Just a flick of sleep from a thing
(No words can can symbolise true depthlessness)
That held everything but itself;

Stars are hermit-angels singing into our dreams,
The eternity contained in the falling of a leaf
Says the Druid 
Who communes with me
When my mind ascends into madness.

It birthed us:
our fleshy fabrics of light killing dark,
But It too is dreaming
And even its children's tears can't waken it.

Here lies one whose name is water

I capture the moon in
the flesh of every leaf.

I spit and starlings take their first flight
Emptying themselves out into the night.

A Cathedral tries to headshot the heavens.

Safe from circumstance
Safe from life
I drink a coffee and let nature's churches,
The forests,
Who choir with the light
Give me their peace.

Poets, whose names never became wonders to overcome,
But whose words were water, and whose stanzas were the dirt,
I plant my poems in between your ribs
So that one day others will do the same to me

A Book Review of Doctor Lazarus by David Hay . A Review by Maid Corbic
2 poems by David Hay in Fevers of the Mind Press Presents the Poets of 2020

drought: a poem by Christina Strigas (from her new book)

this poem is from Christina’s new book “For all the Lonely Hearts Being Pulled Out of the Ground” published by Free Lines Press, 2022


a bouquet of black
and white flowers
stuck in my throat
drawn from your

I am trying to
vomit out
but death
strangles me

it has a way of
my bouquet with
less oxygen

more of what I see
my rhymes live

I don't hate, I'm
too nice
I want to stop

but I have a 

I cry too much
too many days of

I get out of bed
but I have not
written in months.

the link to purchase Christina's new book is below
From a bouquet of black and white flowers to times when the mind can barely hold on to images, this collection looks at all the love-exit signs and refuses to escape. These poems tell stories; about love and intimacy, growth, Greek recipes, heartbreak, family, coffee, wine, spirituality and more. They capture the ethereal that is in our grasp and yet far from reach, as time moves from the present to the past to the enigmatic.

A Poetry Showcase for Christina Strigas -new poetry & republished poetry