So I find myself alone after a night of separation
A Black night lit up over our green chairs.
Now empty, no longer filled by our bodies
and our conversations, sits like ghosts
My God! this night has moon lit on fire.
I was the first to vanish from your anger.
Your white lightning skin wrapped in the moon rays,
as you paddled insults to my heart.
You will never let me feel the honey.
To let my lungs wrap up in the stickiness.
The mosquitoes and the bees begin to sleep with a thirst.
Will a new man let you swim in that undertow?
The Chimes they cling together by the swirling winds.
The clashing waves pour onto your cracked toes from Lake Seneca.
Several hours of dancing some unnamed waltz.
On your hideaway beach that wasn't hours.
That is what the prophet tells me.
Stabbed in waiting while the hymns carry my ghost away from my body.
I listen with dim sleeping eyes. The boats in the distance belt out
tunes. I drain in this loneliness. The weakness, rustic in scowl.
Blood over the beads of rocks. Listened to the wind blow once.
Listened to the wind blow twice. It was a disguise.
Converged pure from my polluted brain. The narcissists was wiry and sudden and overtook my neglected heart. Infested a brain.
The Empath dies in the end.
Current bio for Fevers of the Mind’s David L O’Nan editor/writing contributor to blog.The Tranquil Sun by Vipanjeet Kaur
The sun sits tranquilly
over the western horizon
His charioteer slows down
and pauses for a while
After traversing the whole sky.
While riding the chariot of dusk,
He smiles a last fading smile –
A farewell gesture;
A token of eternal love;
A parting kiss
to the dying day.
While folding millions of his
imponderable arms of rays
that pervade the world
throughout the day,
He draws the blinds of
his effulgence down
Like a mourner,
saluting the passing day.
Beyond the picket fence
of my mansion,
The one-eyed overseer
rings the bell of repose
and looks at me
through crimson windows,
imparting a rosy aureole
to my dormant hopes,
and like a dreamcatcher
promising vernal dreams.
A fervent plea in his closing eye
to release the unrealised dreams of
the dying day: broken, dead and decayed
in the autumn of dusk.
Let them burn
on the pyre of the setting light,
Let the sombre red embers
reduce them softly to ashes
with the deepening darkness of dusk,
Let them dissolve in the darkness of night,
Let the cremains of despair be immersed
in the flowing silver moonlight
before a new dawn begins
a new chariot ride.
Bio: Ms. Vipanjeet Kaur from India is a poet fond of writing poems on various themes like nature, women empowerment, self, spiritualism and life. Her haikus have been featured in the international online journals like Haiku Dialogue of The Haiku Foundation, The Haiku Pond, The Cold Moon Journal and the Scarlet Dragonfly Journal and her micropoetry has been published in the Five Fleas (Itchy Poetry). She has also read research papers on the topics of Literature, Human Rights and Women Empowerment in a few national seminars and international conferences.
She can be followed on Twitter @vjpoeticmusings.
Fevers by Matthew Freeman
And I’ve said there’s no difference
between the streetlamp and the moon.
And that’s still true, but now
in late September as everything wanes
I’m sitting outside my sister’s apartment
with my diet soda and my cigarette and my iPod
watching the crowd get thin at Ted Drewes
and every little thing we believed in fall apart.
Someday when the sun burns out you’ll ask yourself
whether you stayed true, really true, to your
A Poetry Showcase by Matthew FreemanMoonage by Lesley Curwen
Haloed lunacy floats crosshatch beam
through umber cloud and bulrush-crown. Bleak horizon swallows photon-feed
down continents of eyeless waves.
Landward, pines guard empty chairs
against moon's threat, a pump-song
chuckles chlorine, muddles jets
of aquamarine gems.
Poetry based on photography “The Lone Road to Moloka’I” from Maggs ViboPoetry based on photography Challenge from Ankh Spice pt. 1
Ever since I remember as a little boy
my grandmother much younger than I actually thought
She appeared to be lost and looking for the lost sunset all day
Another cloud goes by and she smiles and says "it is about to become really pretty out here."
She would sit in on a knotted wood framed chair and watch her world disappear as the moon came out to remind her for a moment of who she is. As she twisted some twine together hoping to someday make more blankets and sweaters.
The woman with style at the 1950's ballroom halls.
The men would look and she'd flash her ring
A quick look at her military man in a picture frame. Smiling in the dust that buries the room. Her yellow wedding dress sits in the attic.
She remembers the walks in the park with her lost friends.
She remembers the children as they were children.
She remembers the kicking and jumping, the twirls of immortality.
By the beach she would splash for hours with a wagging tail dog.
She remembers the endless fashions she would help mature a town from rags to class.
She looks blank and cries to a mass of blanket that she has been working on for weeks.
Was that military man remembered for his drunkened slams of fists against the walls?
The accusations he'd proclaim as he ran with the mice in packs to the whores and sweating out Sunday mornings. Dripping, stained and stinking in a plaid jackets.
I have to calm her down. I play the "The Nutcracker" on a record player, as she masks herself back into a ballet. She begins to sway arms slowly but surely. I feel she is on that endless dancefloor again.
Or was she ever? Was she just imagining a time when she was free again?
About 6 months later I had lost this Angel to the dance away. The sunsets would always come. Even in the darkest of storms.
She'd say on her last days " I want to Remember You, but I can't" " I want to know all children and tell them not to be afraid"
Now i'm in my 40's I see another older woman. Struggling to remember most days. Does she mimic this dance? The mother I
always depend on. Will I finally have to learn to be myself? I wait for the sunset for hours by the river. Always curious if she is also looking for that same spinning sunset that seems endless and impeccable and immovable. Has it moved all these years?
Fidgeting with the jute twine. Where can I go hide?
Current bio for Fevers of the Mind’s David L O’Nan editor/writing contributor to blog.I Am Here Veronica by Pasithea ChanI went to see you yesterday like I do every weekend, but like
Always we’ve just met over lunch, and I have to introduce
Myself to you and tell you all about me once again.
Hell is when you look at me doubtfully
Even though I know you feel me trying to
Reach out to you and reassure you that
Even if you forget me I will never forget you.
Vivid fails to describe how witty and colorful you are in
Everything you do from how you show me your hairpins to how you
Reminisce the good days when you used to paint
Out in the backyard and talk about how you met the love of your life.
Never did I imagine I would have to explain why he can’t come and see you
I have to find the strength to not grab you and tell you I miss you
Cause it hurts so much to remind you that I love you with
All my heart and give you back some of the pieces you’ve lost.
Author’s Notes: Acrostic spelling I Am Here Veronica, inspired by the song “ Veronica” by Elvis Costello.
Cognitive of the day
We tumble ran to the lake
Tripped off pants
Slipped down dress
Frantic laughing to the water
Control lost, no play cool
Wet lips pressed, slick
Summer hot skin, steam
Dripping lake from strands
Pushed from our eyes
Lure me under again
Dysphoriaoriginally published in Fevers of the Mind Presents the Poets of 2020
I was told this is what I had to do
So my eyes seek a shape, pattern – fixation
Numb the mind
Climb inside the dark circle of the paneling
Twist into the loops & swirls of the curtain
Trace the maze of the tiles on the floor
It will all be done soon
This is what I was told I should do
That body isn’t mine
But I lug it around
And with it a persona to puppet
Who was I with her?
How did I behave around them?
No one really knew…me
I can’t say hello to you of five years ago.
I took this skin out & we spoke words that had meaning then, maybe
I don’t remember them now
How forgetful, unthoughtful, you’ll think
Who was I? How much of me did you really see?
Better to burn the past than pick through splinters
I suppose this life is akin to living in a suitcase
Taking out this being, this flesh to engage
A misfit to the mind
Desperate to love, but moments of love felt like terror as well
Numb the mind
Find a shape
And if I were to change this skin
Receive stitches and sutures to be a more fitting form
You might be perplexed
You might think it a joke
Those who felt closest
May just deny, grow angry, grow sad
Call on the name of ghosts now gone
But a puppeteer’s arms grow heavy & sore
After half a lifetime of shows
And once the rubble of the mind is cleared
The choice must be made to live life’s remainder
In a performance for others
Or to stop staring at patterns
Ethan O’Nan is a trans man living in North Carolina, he has a wife and 2 children. Ethan only
dabbles in writing these days. His whole life has led to the last few years fully understanding what to do
to make him feel on the outside like he has always been on the inside. The older brother of EIC David L
O’Nan, Ethan is a business owner along with his wife Kristi. Ethan enjoys 80’s music, art, crafting,
making soap, & comedy.