Poetry: Whispers by David L O’Nan

photo by Harli Marten (unsplash)

from my book “The Famous Poetry Outlaws are Painting Walls and Whispers” and “Bending Rivers”

Whispers

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/3ByLyVQ  

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

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

Bending 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. 






Revised, Renewed version of “The Famous Poetry Outlaws are Painting Walls  and Whispers” by David L O'Nan now out – Fevers of the Mind

There Have Been Strange Men Coming Down Here: poetry by David L O’Nan

from pixabay

There Have Been Strange Men Coming Down Here

The bugs on windowsills
like a little camera,
the skirts lay dirty across the basement
loose chess pieces
after madness ended the game.

I wear this glove of a ghost over my skin
The soul still preaches out cynical waves
the bars on the windows
as cold as the haughty icing that caresses its pane.
while the pain is grenades during a beautiful hymn.

Play bashful to the soul takers
bless me with the blankets
not the smothering ones
bless me with the cradling 
and visions of the temple.

Don't leave me prone to the majestic
I want the sour to be removed
and the spell crippled away by Jesus Christ

and Violas playing for me forever
let me forget that there have been

Strange Men coming down here.

Minutes after my shadows dissolved with the night. 

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

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

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

Poetry: A Centipede in a Blizzard by David L O’Nan

A Centipede in a Blizzard

 
Paralyzing tracks in the stacks of snow
A centipede in a blizzard
Dragging broken legs, frozen and falling off
As the wind is full of laughter
These shadows have sucked up the kill,
my venom
Now, the picnics are a funeral
My dreamscape is now a graveyard
In which you stare to the heavens
Sitting by my tombstone
You watched me wither like melting butter
I am not a saint, but I was washed into purity
Yet, you sit as an eternal witch
Can you take the falling of the black rubies?
Can you drink the toxins from the fruit?
Do you feel the long breaths begin to putt… putt…putter?
Are friends beginning to suspect you of all these fires, baby?
You wake up to a crawling, cold spider dragging to the floor
The phone keeps ringing
like a haunting stain of air
In ways I have always been your skeleton
A Strong, calcified soul
that you could always see thru
Forget your infamous night
The prayer for a rebirth
A limping leg and a heartbreak of whistling wind
The clearing is nearby
Forgiveness to pale fires
Is rebirth the cure?
Evict the liars bell-toll
No soul, a rebirth of a savage
Watch for the tumbleweed 

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



Poetry: An Old Dancer’s Memories of Youth by David L O’Nan

Ballet Dancer, Ballet, Old-Fashioned

An Old Dancer’s Memories of Youth

In a melting synthetic glow
Eyes shallow, following shadows 
Crying in the underbelly of the circus 
Dancing on top of a burning cloud
Dancing over the feet of fools, 
clinging to their sticky bodies with your clammy hands. 
Your smooth swaying hands
You old, dancing spirit
Born several years after the year of desire

Remember those top hat daddies and the beer stench cigars Tattered clothes that rip from the dance
In the mornings you would awake nude in the arms of a hairy giant
Those nights before you went to sleep held tightly in the drunk arms of a dwarf.
You poked your head out of the bathroom
Then you smiled, your short red curly hair popping around your head
Dancing scantily  in  a  plaid  swimsuit, 
talking  like  Ann-
Margret
“Who wants a classy lady?”
“Who dares to want the R-rated femme?”

Remember all the phone calls from the gentlemen, 
the doo- hickeys, the born out of the trash bins
The bruised greasers with the cologne smells?
Oh, now remember then the tire swing, 
tied  around a 
weathered tree in your grandparent’s yard?
You rolled around in the clover, 
looked eye to eye with a monarch butterfly.
You asked if it had ever met Cinderella before 
You tried to kiss it when the dinner bell rang

Mmmm…cold cuts, mashed potatoes, chug-a-lug milk, 
Corn beef hash & hot muffins
Grandpa has outdone himself again
Scrappy and toasty he was in his chicken feather kitchen 
Grandma singing Bessie Smith to an owl magnet -
on the
 fridge
Remember all those circus clown Uncles 
who used to eat the peanut butter straight from the mason jars, drank all the whiskey?

That one who told you that you were sprouting a hint of a mustache even though you were pre-pubescent.
You rushed to your ghost filled room, 
and smoked your 4th ever cigarette
Flicking ashes at the dog you hated You put on your ballerina shoes
And there you are again, you dancer, you movie star 
Dancing into the toyboxes filled with teddy bears with
cheese stained hair.

Bruising your knees even more
Tap into the kitchen, breathing maple syrup air, 
burnt pancakes on the kitchen counter.
You’re too busy drawing freckles on the ugly baby dolls and hiding from the chattering echoes surrounding the kitchen table.
You borrowed your cousin’s little red wagon to push around
the dog that you liked
The golden retriever pup you named Baryshnikov.

That same red wagon you pushed your little boyfriends in,
sharing M&M’s
The same red wagon you procured from the cellar on a drunken night or two in the teenage years
Pushed hormone driven pimp wannabes in, calling them assholes.

Remember telling stories to the rest of the crowds in the bars?
Telling them how much you hate life after 30
But, then how much you loved beating the infancy, 
the illnesses of an earlier mind
That belched out maturity and left only a toothless smile with knowledge.
And how much you enjoyed each Summertime tan despite how much your skin became leather.

How you rediscovered your gift of dancing as you began dropping your credit cards into the laps of thieves.
They made sure they took you home on those nights,
To take advantage of a liquored dream.
Meanwhile the dancing was more like a scene from Grey Gardens.
A truck driver would chew on a peppered steak stick 
and hoot and holler.

But, they were just a heart juggler
Played with fire while you dreamt in gold.
So, was it worth it?
Dropping tears into the stale cotton candy 
As the curtain closes
All the rings will fade to black 
The spotlight is on you
Dance away or act shy, it’s your final call.

 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

Bending Rivers: The Poetry & Stories of David L O’Nan out now! 

Poem “Alone In My Car” by David L O’Nan









2009: A Recovery From Her Spiderweb by David L O’Nan

2009 A Recovery From Her Spiderweb

It had been 10 years 
A cold February Kentucky wind
Through a panic call
I guess united by fears
Silence, on a dark night drive
Clarity, lost through the wires
Arrivals to the death of Indigo.

A foolish man falls prey
To a Jekyll and Hyde constellation
Her screams, her pills, her knives & blades threatening
I have to be bare like the roses
Or else,
And now throw me to the pond,
Leave me a fish wanting to die.
In obscurity, floating with a manic dead mind.

You tried to weaken me, with words, with threats
Used me,
Driven me away to a trail of trauma
Like a long walk into a viewless forest.
Planted seeds of fire to my heart.

Trust comes on like impulsivity now
In a fright,
For what is real
And what is a monster with soft skin
I blister to my hands from a false touch.

That spreads like a virus. 

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! 

Bare Bones Writings Issue 1 is out on Paperback and Kindle

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

Bending Rivers: The Poetry & Stories of David L O’Nan out now!