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

photo by Margaret Viboolsittiseri

The Outlaw of Words

When the wind blows in, 4 a.m. hour
Through the murder prairies he walks.
The traveler, a weary boy.
A true “outlaw of words”
The Godless son who negates the proper.
The loner in his final Omega.
Who’s ignored by the sensationalist.

His outfit, classic hipster fashion funk.
Conversations with tooth-aches at pool halls.
In soiled small cities, he strayed in from Virginia.
The disarray among the safe havens,
Or the security of ill heavens.

He’s thrown in with the images of the city hauntings,
Or the wind the now blows futile fascist dust into the lungs.
He believes he was one of the hoodlums from the “poetry street gangs”
That carved T.S. Eliot in their arms with razorblades,
Brand markings of Hemingway into their souls.
Eyes that melted for Plath and Sexton, wash the sweat from Walt Whitman.

Where does the blood mesh with the art?
Let the blood flow boy, like the Prince you are.
Illustrate your loyalty, show us your words. Can you unleash the words?
Become a minder to your heart,
The “Professed Outlaw of Words”

Travel those circuits of Midwestern cities, you are now Brooklyn.
Like many cornfed poets, the words don’t flow well like a blue blood.
He’ll become smoke and mumble into ashes.
Receiving the looks that creeps get.
The look of being ignored like the “average” looking new-born baby in the nursery.

Old West bowler hats crumbling down in shame
There are no smiles, giggles, and cute burps.
He’ll leave the heavy impression.
And we continue counting our cancer dollars.
We’ll breathe in deep.
Become high off his electricity.

With nowhere to go, we’ll commute through his aura now.
And we will realize that we’re all just looking for an amazing, wild adventure.
Whether it is our own bus stop folklore, or asleep in the puddles of poetry being stepped in.
There is a sense of achievement, just pursuing this adventure.
A nice consolation prize if to ever get caught being a punctuate fool.
Perhaps we’re all just a font for the jealous.

Outlaws Revisited

Creepy eyes walk into a brothel
surrounded by outlaws.
Jumped into your shadow
and discovered all your footsteps.
The happy ones…the nefarious ones…
even the footsteps you tried to cover up –
with mud and sticks.
Your mouth escapes a smile,
and you think life as a joke.

You live in the blood flow of outlaws,
and your creepy eyes just rest in those smutty footsteps.
I saw your shadow disappear,
when the sunlight ripped your cape away,
and you are just a nude bore.

Hero Dilemma

A hero is a beloved jewel
That can be discovered by the sunburns,
That crisp of an old city.
Who was belched out into a bed of rivers,
That lets an old soul sleep.

When hungry, when exhausted
A hero has not left his pastures,
Or even thought to scatter the ashes of a lesser man – across a fine powder of soil.

A hero is a leper discovered in the armour –
of a broken armoured knight.
Traveling miles and miles for his broken bones.
Scattered in winds that had no emotion.
A wind that had no ties between love and drought.

A scar on a star
Can barely see its gleam in a dark pale night.

A hero is not only breath,
But a touch by an angel when a shout –
rips from the mouth of demons into your ear tunnels.

A handshake by an eroding building,
Dictating a new friendship
A blinding vision in a drunk, peeling tree bark
Sap steamed by the decay of the sunlight.

This city is full of heroes.
This day was full of comradery,
Night full of bloodshed.
That is energy puffing steam into static,
as new heroes are born.


We are all bulls ravaging through the gates…
at the masks.
at the clowns…
all is left is the splinters.
We lost our fury
became deprived,
starved, dehydrated…
left to an animal burrowing you –
into some form of temptation.
Are you gold when you’d rather be silver?
You don’t inherit lies, cohesion of truths
and thoughts balancing on bitter.
We are all bulls.
Some of us don’t have the power,
Some of us give up
when challenged by hoods
and bosses that drink up the syrup of secrets.
Skies are stressed and stretched
ready to birth your raindrops.
A day when you can rest your head and become a stone
For a while and less of a manic scramble.

Little Horses

Little horses gallop unafraid
Through meadows in fresh grass.
And why should they feel secluded or feel endangered?

They are a symbol for power, freedom, bravery and even beauty.
They shall not be intimidated by the social robbery of the souls,
The daily exorcisms we do on this Earth, our world, our supposed freedom,
Power, beauty, bravery

Cover-ups in make-up and hideaways.
There is always a claw out, through grounds, meadows that –
Want to shape you into their control, a mind change.

Be strong, be proud, be free, be beautiful.
Like a flowing, graceful horse with freedom away from the fusion of winds.

Empowering self and love for your own run.
Equality without masking.
Not such a novel concept.

https://amzn.to/3JZGuiG for a copy of the book.

Hard Rain Poetry Anthology U.S. Link https://tinyurl.com/2p938cy8 International links on this page. https://feversofthemind.com/2022/06/23/hard-rain-poetry-forever-dylan-anthology-available-today/

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

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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