from my book “The Famous Poetry Outlaws are Painting Walls and Whispers” and “Bending Rivers”
Whispers tickling clouds on my lips
I’m here to be the lesser.
Once amazed, now I flutter like butterflies –
Into speckles, Into the wind.
Living like I once knew something.
When I breathe, a sound is birthed out like whispers.
Truth is domination and the fear is overwhelming.
The unknowing is appealing.
A whisper is a suggestion, a whisper is aesthetic
A whisper thirsts, the hunger is parasitic.
What will follow a whisper?
Turmoil, enchantment will follow.
A shadow crawls from the lips of your whispers.
Mourning the death of loneliness, inviting in a hex.
Did I invent this shining, did I invite this shade?
A whisper can lead you into temptation.
A whisper can scar you from the infinity.
A whisper can be holy, live as one with the trinity.
A noose in the vapor, the man without his mansion, an ideal.
A whisper can take familial eyes to be mistaken to be eyes of the solace.
A whisper can be demonic, a whisper can be unruly.
A whisper can be saddened and polished for the ruined.
A whisper can be formidable in eyes that are everlasting.
A whisper can be sold for thousands of oily pennies.
A whisper can buy you pockets of torn, soiled regrets.
Now you walk around like you’re a legend.
You trip over your ego, see yourself as wrinkled.
Look at you old man, receding!
A mind that no longer has comprehension.
A foolish look into glamour, a reflection of dementia.
Your gaunt, slow, jagged walk
A whisper frozen in the dark.
A spirit stuck inside a foggy vault.
You’re talking to yourself.
Dust collecting on portraits, on bookshelves.
A whisper fills up with collisions between goods and evils.
A whisper dances across a floor, deceitful and gleeful.
A whisper, mesmerized by the robotic hints of pride and peaceful.
Is this what a human wants?
Is that just blind, animal magnetism?
A whisper, to be decayed or be a parade.
To be shared in a tornadic masochism.
A whisper is forever, is only dirt.
A whisper is a dream, a kiss from nature’s flirt.
A whisper is a nightmare, yet a whisper is free.
A whisper is oppressive and constipated with greed.
A whisper is your calling.
A whisper is your past.
A whisper is your present.
Your whisper is yours at last.
A whisper is no longer broken,
A whisper is no longer jailed.
No more are the moments of feeling tame, or unwell.
Can you trust a whisper?
Can you trust a stain?
Can you trust anyone but yourself, when it comes time for someone else to blame?
Whispers until a blink becomes a judgment, forever.
Whispers until your thoughts are jelly, when moments are coiled in a ball.
Striking out like lassos across the desert of these walls.
You can’t fake when you are a belief.
You can’t fake your inner seed.
You can’t peel away at stone when all in it’s core is another sheath.
Now you feel as whispers never evaporate.
Whispers follow you from freedom –
To the march – to the grave.
There are no whispers truly invisible.
Whispers are wisdom, (from where?)
Whispers are what is safe (inside a fold of mind)
When you look at the sky. A tunnel to heal, a long breath to shame.
Whispers drunk on mortals.
Whispers are tingling through my feels.
Why can’t I digest what a whisper is?
Can it only be air?
Is it simply the simplest idea to grasp?
https://amzn.to/3ByLyVQPoetry from David L O’Nan in the Famous Poetry Outlaws are Painting Walls and WhispersThe return & revised version of “New Disease Streets” by David L O’Nan Poetry and storiesAvailable Now: Before I Turn Into Gold Inspired by Leonard Cohen Anthology by David L O’Nan & Contributors w/art by Geoffrey WrenBending Rivers: The Poetry & Stories of David L O’Nan out now!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.
the album “Sings the Truth” by Malvina Reynolds (filtered photo)
All of the gypsies danced in the graveyards,
and sung protest songs to the daisies.
The petals chanting Malvina
“Revolt in Folk, Malvina”
Your White hair has lived many seasons,
a woman of many wars, seen many deaths
Like the Winter warning the evils of March.
To a street you sing to the homeless, to the sad
You run out the ruin of brainwash propaganda
send the pimps crying over their lost moneys
you sing sweetly to a hobo’s heart.
to all the broken spirits drowning in the strangers of night.
in infected light.
May the blessed be in this pine box of feathers.
In these cyanide apples we reach for you, Malvina.
Tell us which trenches we can hide, to crawl away from the soot.
In the dynasty of coalmines.
Our clothes of rosy mud with breath of the crawdaddies,
whispering in army camouflage.
They love their kisses of the bullet winds,
that blow through this Vietnam.
We are all digging in the dirt,
and can’t wash the death from our fingernails.
Clouds that grow inside of them,
and sing one of your famous canary hymns.
Watch the snow pepper down,
and burn at our tear ducts
Our clarity whips and watch –
these devils preside in the caves
And they talk like a symphonic Nazi
Dragging freedom on the skin of his calloused feet.
In the cocaine webs pricking at the veins in his eyes.
they will hemorrhage at the stroke of your violin.
Let’s wash out this internal sepsis.
These war crime Valentine’s days.
Watching hippies falling to the sun.
Our heroes are the songs in your voice.
Washed out our glory…
They washed out our glory.
Can we grow as humans while crackling in the campfires?
the hums of your wonder
the hums of the caged birds
Many years sitting in depression’s wings
You finally learned to fly,
as you taught the progressions of Eve.
We discovered each raindrop could be your own.
Malvina, we failed your years
You were misplaced in a world that needed your transitions.