A Super Deluxe Poetry Showcase from David L O’Nan (from several books pt 1)

(Zane Lee (unsplash)
A Divorce in the Gut of the Sun

We used to be drawings of lipstick clouds
And Strawberry hearts
We lived in our diaries
We loved, we bled
Atrophied the stems from the flowers
What memories are left?
Imprinted in my scars
Come read them like a palm reader
Do you see the many awakenings?
Blurred out the moon in this desert heat I’m absorbing
Thru this skin, these bones
I’m still to you, no words for you
We’ve said all that we don’t mean
But now it is enough
Your masculinity is waning
Your bravado is short circuiting
You’ll bring your sour breath to the bar
Bite the lips of a midnight sundress and her vodka strut
While I’m in frozen depression
Children away with my mother
As I burn all our old letters
And I burn all of my wardrobe
The clothes I wore during my “trying to impress” years
I just want to swim in these fires across the floor
Shall the universe eat my soul right now, I’d be fine
Eat away the old regimes of barrels, bourbon, and brutes
Now in a shell I am
A dark closet that my soul is weeping behind
I stare into my imagined reflection and my feet become warm by the heat of my tears
Falling and puddling til my badly polished toenails just stand inside
And I don’t care
I am in fear still though,
You’re no longer here
You have the dessert and no entrée
I see all the medications that I’ve been given
Even more recently than before
More medication, less feeling
But no motivation,
and I know you are more worried about getting a fresh cup of coffee
And I’m going to have to settle on the old black & white photos of our marriage
Light that shit to flames
I have to be pushed into my old body, and cradle my mind, and hold me
Til I can shake away the disease of you

The Ballad of Clay Huntley (profile of ego series)

In the smoky Ale House
Let’s call it Murfreesboro
He’s got the swaying hips of a murder machine
Slick backed hair,
a sex appeal predator
Collecting numbers,
spreading diseases,
I’ve known him to be a birdwatcher,
a greaser witch
Stepping up to women like a movie star
In a masochistic leather jacket
He runs up mountains without the fear of the plunge
A wind-up talking crash of dark caramel ale breath –
to a lost soft cheek
You become his stage
For all his radical jokes
Unnerving smiles
You become his surgery,
For all of his dissecting thought
Or so he thinks

A point from going macho to a drunk
Then he’s your neighborhood brute
A traveling circus riot
Wants you to become his scream queen victim
As he challenges all –
to watch his demise to –
being a bar wrestler,
A real Vaudeville bullfrog
And he wants you to be his dancing daisy
While impersonates a Rudolph Valentino
Now he knows to mimic an operatic wind
A gust of bravado to a riverfront
Stuck in a canvas frame,
from the beating heart of Ambroise Vollard
But soon his oil stick is broken in the engine
And the hood is falling off

From the Ale then the pills
Now he’s turning to the surgeon for good
Baiting you to a show, a one-man cult display
Like swarming buffalo gnats –
to a jar of Wild Maine Blueberry Jam

Clay Huntley,
a vivid swerving waterfall
While under his spell,
a master weaver
An electrician pulling all the wires of our bombs together.

In 5 years
He doesn’t breathe free
When lungs are wooden,
Set afire from all the tobacco digesting tumors
– in the Superior Lobe
Guillotining away at the Pleura,
becomes like Mayonnaise
A sick interception from ego back to man
Now as death awaits
Imagination and nature became the object
– of his lamenting eyes
He likes to stray the fields,
giving each bird a personality
Funny, how he never saw that in the women
on his pinup calendars
Time is a fickle demon
So, can we pray in the arms of what is timeless?

Psalm 46 Haze

In mornings when most kings dine
In a sweat of night, the heat clutched
To the skin
In mighty robes
Yet, like a wet mop
A tide of anger
A misguided dreamer
Of thievery, wanted all the treasures
All the lucid wanderings
Gold coin eyeballs
Designed in statuesque build
Shallow, there will not be any crumbling
in my march through civil breakdowns
One king, death on rapid waters
The rocks like the clouds,
depends on powers of the wind
To move us from the heat
Like a Psalm 46 haze
He breaks the bows and shatters the spears
And cartoon kings start to smear
Paint begins to clump, like a clogged artery
Stains through to the canvas,
Blasphemy blankets purity
And in oceans and rivers
There aren't any fresh fish
Smudges of floating ink, like blood
Ships keep moving in the night
The lighthouse light reflects only former royal shadows

You forget false righteousness
And you brand in the tattooed crimson to sea bottoms.

Stone Walls in Trailer Parks

I can really feel the Geodon today.
And my head is bashed in like a stone wall.
Underneath the sickle of the trailer park.
My heart just wants to crash.
As firm as an old peach.

Leave me alone in this black room.
I've been trying to paint White Angels 
while in the mouths of all these dragons.

Although my head is on fire,
It is too cold to paint.
Quivering birdbone hands.
My hands tremble in overdose.

I rest in the mutiny of the day.
I can only wrap myself in a scratchy blanket.
And listen to all the screaming arguments from mothers to children.
And my walls remain the lunatic.
Stressed and cracking the foundation downward.

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.


Links:
Poetry: They Had Sadness in their Eyes ( Like in Littleton) from David L O’Nan

Collaboration poem from Merritt Waldon & David L O’Nan

A Quicksilver Trilling by David L O’Nan    : Poetry & Writing style lyrics inspired by Dylan 

In 1961…In 1961 by David L O’Nan (from Before I Turn Into Gold Anthology)

Collaboration Poem “Bleeding Summer City Sidewalks” by David L O’Nan & R.D. Johnson

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

The return & revised version of “New Disease Streets” by David L O’Nan Poetry and stories

Poetry : A Castle Melts by David L O’Nan

Poetry: The Parody King’s Castle by David L O’Nan

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

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

Bare Bones Writings Issue 1 is out on Paperback and Kindle



In 1961…In 1961 by David L O’Nan (from Before I Turn Into Gold Anthology)

(c) Geoffrey Wren

In 1961…In 1961

In response to “Seems So Long Ago, Nancy” by Leonard Cohen

The Parallels began when she was born in the House of Mystery.
Just like our Nancy dear, back in 1961. Which was very long ago.
Freedom left her bones, with the quickest slice of a razorblade.
I believe she cried to herself, while sitting on the opal stone.
Wishing she was forever, or forever in someone’s heart.
She had been waiting for the necromancer, to put a spell on her ideal imagery.

When the parties began at night, by morning guilt had overcome.
Strangers would become forgotten, and her anger would build the mirror.
The prescription for her pain, was castaway in the pebbles of mysteries.
And medicine to distort her beauty, and mind-bending remedies to blush away her gems.

There are clouds looming over the big-top, does your circus dare?
Maybe not in danger, the world is just an Emerald Green.  The clock burns another tick-tock.

Born in ’81. Though retro in her fame.
She’d dress like Edie Sedgwick and Natalie Wood sharing the same brain.
The hoodwinks would use her, they’d mind read her away from her pearls and jewels.

The prosaic alleyways would rob her of her strut, and she would be left in the palms of her hands.
Planning suicides in privacy. Planning suicides in the shores of a billiards room.
Planning suicides outside of gentlemen’s clubs, or a bastard’s hideaway.
A tiny spider hiding in a web spun a million miles, hoping to never face the shame.
The viral night ripe to the taboo thoughts. That suicide was the light on a beaming beach.
From the numbness in her feet, to the fingers, to the bosom, to the neck.
From the mouth to the deadening eyes, to the mind with freedom on the brink.
She was a Capricorn. She was inside the constellation, in prayer that night.
Her labor was trying to find faith through long pages of a dusty diary. As songs begin to outro.
Surviving another day.  At peace for a moment in tears staring at a cupid-arrow weathervane.
For a while feeling the stress strip away her identity.  Sitting in her mystery.
In the welcoming arms of the Noctilucent clouds of the Baltic Sea.
Calling out to Geneva from the salons to the brawn of a whipping post.
The evening begins to creep in with many masks to beset her surface.
Lacerating herself over the waters, ocean sips back into the vacuums in her house of mystery.

In 1961…In 1961
To now. In a new twilight. We still fade away. To a hideaway. That we only know of. 

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

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: Forever Dylan Anthology available today! 

Bare Bones Writings Issue 1 is out on Paperback and Kindle


 

An Ode To Tessa While in New York by David L O’Nan (From Before I Turn Into Gold)

The juveniles gathered around your blinds
They studied your silhouette to memory
Dancing like Ann-Margret around the room
The candles burning around a 1985 waterbed.

On New York city nights
one of the college boys in the alley
Looking for a clue and a view
You'd walk out slightly drunk,
smiling at crowds of boys
with eyes that were up to no good.

Riding a green bicycle to the Jackson Hole
your scent of sweet cigarette smoke and perfume,
leads the path to a perfect follow
Maybe I will come down and have a drink
While you chat about the news to some hipster folks
I see you flirting with them all. 

Everyone laughs until we bruise
my heart just jumps like a petrified fish.
I have to walk by and say a hello
Although, there were more handsome faces in the shadows.

I hope to at least be more hypnotic than the stained spoons -
in this diner.

You say "I am Tessa, but I believe you already know that"
I introduced myself, she said "I've always liked your artsy hat"
We drank coffee 'til our stomachs bled.
And I was as shy as a detached bubble.

You carried the conversations, lead my hand
Picking flowers out of the cracked sidewalks near Brooklyn
Lead my hand, as we joined silhouettes
As the other jealous hustlers sat in the rain.
Lead my hand, through other diners with scent of burnt coffee.
Drinking our time away we would be catty, flirty & bitchy
Tessa, you really enhanced my greed and need 


In nights I swayed with you
Nights we cried into each other's chest
Nights we drugged ourselves to nightmares
Nights we laughed until the extra strangers left
Now, in New York here I am
Long distances between the walks in all the boroughs
All the pigeons, drink at cold waters
the Statue of Liberty looks plagued.

Since my needs are old
When you lead my hand, to the bars
You lead my hand, by all the Harlem diamondbacks
You lead my hand, to you breathing your last breath -
on the back of my neck.
You lived your life for many,
but to yourself you hid away all your suicides. 

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 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.




Poem “Heart, Felt” by Shane Schick for Before I Turn Into Gold

(c) Geoffrey Wren
Heart, Felt

You were full of answers about 
what happens to the heart,

as though you’d spent a lifetime
breaking the end off a question mark 

and using it to punctuate 
all the sad stories you would sing,

or letting it fall on a roulette wheel
that never bounced on the black.

But can’t we at least agree on this:
that the heart is led by nothing 

except itself, that it kept taking you
by the hand and setting off

to the heat of Hydra, to a home,
giving you the permission 

you needed to put down your pen
and pick up your guitar, to speak

in a timbre so low you sounded 
like your heart was in your throat,

yet never letting life happen to it, 
beating but never bystanding?

The heart kept occurring to you,
even when you tried to forget it

those late nights in Montreal,
or amid monastery meditations.

Even if the heart was acted upon,
it was you who felt what ensued

time and again, you whose music
allowed us perceive what transpired

every time we listened, and listen 
to this day, limited by the distance

between any artist and the audience
that experiences the art. Who knows

what really took place, what love 
you gained and lost. What happened 

is secondary to the song — so long 
as we feel close to the heart of it. 

Bio: : Shane Schick is the founder of a customer experience design publication called 360 Magazine, His poetry has appeared in literary journals across the U.S., Canada, The U.K. and Africa. He lives in Toronto. More: shaneschick.com/poetry. Twitter: @shaneschick Subscribe to my 360 Magazine newsletter

Shenandoah Tramps by David L O’Nan (Before I Turn Into Gold)

This is the revised version from Before I Turn Into Gold: Inspired by Leonard Cohen Anthology.

https://tinyurl.com/26a6pd3n

Shenandoah Tramps

You walk the streets like you are still in Tabriz
You miss the Iranian Summers
While fumbling full of wine
you feel the prickly goosebumps from the breeze.

And we begin to walk with a squint
as the sun masks the city
eyelids bouncing,
and quivering drunk lips.

You desire the kiss when the night stirs
dressed in scarlet red

looking for that efficacious effect
We are like the stars in the sky
celebrities in meteoric flash

We are just lost
from the waste to the lakes
trying to unlock the code
to flee us from the beams of Heaven's Gate


We can wish on these wine bottles
throw in the pennies for a little luck
we can invent beauty
out of the contagious Shenandoah muck.

Our city is just a bullet town
Our love will fall like tramps in the rain
with our hands becoming umbrellas
trying to protect us from the downpour
awake our celestial shine with this oncoming train.

And here come the dollies 
and all of the sheepmen
who gather ours fossils
and they use them for swanky chaotic sin
our rose is a misery 
burn the shell right off this redolent city.
The streetlamps are as dim as a yellow puddle
with a hint of chickweeds growing around the blacktop tumors.
And all we can talk about all of the music,
and hum until poetry rifles through our brains.
Studying the fallen art stuck to the limbs of trees
On the edge of what was Calliope.

When all was tame and flowery,
The strong was not frail without a care
Our frames were not broken, just skeletal grey


And we would dine on evening air
and dance to the melody of church bells 
the hymns were our parade. 

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

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

 Bare Bones Writings Issue 1 is out on Paperback and Kindle 

The return & revised version of “New Disease Streets” by David L O’Nan Poetry and stories 

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