Submissions for Hard Rain Poetry: A Bob Dylan Anthology due end of 5/31

Send anything you have #submissions for the Bob Dylan inspired Anthology #poetrycommunity #WritingCommunity #poetry #prose #essays  #art #sketches  send to feversofthemind@gmail.com with a bio. Due 5/31 to be considered

If selected they will be published in a Print Anthology that’ll be available for order through Amazon under Fevers of the Mind Press. I will send free pdfs to all contributors.

Thanks,

David L O’Nan

Inspired by Bob Dylan poems from Mark Andrew Heathcote

Lucifer’s wife

I’m waiting on my severance pay
And the gallows of the moon
When all you can say is I don’t care
Please, please go away 
What did you think I would do?
Did you think I would swoon?
Or drown in a lake 

Honey, I don’t care for all your cheap-talk
Darling takes a long walk all by your lonesome
Maybe the morning crickets will love you and cry
But-me I wish you would die

Please, please go away 
What did you think I would do?
Did you think I would whisper a fugitive’s-prayer?
Wish-you’d return a changed man 
No longer cruel or mean, please,
Please, please go away stop standing there
I’ve spider’s webs have better fair
With half-broken snare honey, what do I care?

I’m waiting, batting my blue soul-redeeming eyes.
But all my faults are my own faults that’s-no-surprise
And I am listening to all you say 
But have some heart for a yard dog’s bark 
Throw him a bone when he’s whimpering 
And he’s nowhere to steer, and the missed is closing in.

I’m waiting on my severance pay
And the gallows of the moon
But I’m stubborn I’m dogged 
I won’t throw in the towel
I’ll be happy with Lucifer’s wife
And darling evens you.

A thousand-different-ways

I’ll tread these hills a thousand-different-ways 
And catalogue every river and climb every mountain
I’ll turn every boulder and cross every crossroad
A little bit happier now I’m finding my way.

I’ll stop and talk to the gipsy woman and buy her heather
I won’t tread any more fearful than if you entered the room
And the whole of nature held its jealous breath
I’ll wash down my throat with water and bread
And thank the lord that I’m going to your bed.

I’ll burrow down with my beautiful 
My, how beautifully blessed are my eyes 
they’ve never-seen-better days
my, my cup is flowing overflowing 
because there’s an angel at my table 
and, she doesn’t-bark, 
she just-sings-like some heavenly skylark.

I’ll enter the dark because there’s an ember spark
and I’ll map every acre of god’s creation for you 
just to see those fireflies in your eyes looking back at me.

I’ll swim every river, lake and sea
I’ll cross every desert before I pass away
and know I’ve been saved, and I’m second-sighted 
and “prophetic thunder” he can only wonder
what I’ve done to deserve a woman like you.

The Lord of Catchers-Can

In the isles of a gutter
In the dim-lit graveyard of a church
A man must walk forever
With beggar's bowl in hand
And succumb to all the rough bad weather
A man can withhold, understand.

The Lord of Catchers-Can
Is both a shepherd and a man
From a palm of dust; father's the waters of the land.
And hails the wheat & barley to either fall or stand.

Into these storm drains of heaven
A dream is, washed away
Like the rains of yesterday.
A holy man sojourning for a little while came
And then was gone
Where no such earthly vanities belong
And blessed us in one name
In the light of the eternal flame
All sinners are likewise the same.

The Lord of Catchers-Can
Is both a shepherd and a man 
From a palm of dust; father's the waters of the land.
And hails the wheat & barley to either fall or stand.

It's here I've heard it said
We pay for the eyes of the dead
In the living hearts and souls left
To do, our living, to do, our living, when we're dead
So take my hand, 
And-let-us-all-understand, 
The ways of the Lord are yours and mine to command, 
For every child, woman or a man.

The Lord of Catchers-Can
Is both a shepherd and a man
From a palm of dust; father's the waters of the land.
And hails the wheat & barley to fall, and stand.




Bio: Mark Andrew Heathcote is adult learning difficulties support worker, he has 200-plus poems published in journals, magazines, and anthologies both online and in print, he resides in the UK, from Manchester, Mark is the author of “In Perpetuity” and “Back on Earth” two books of poems published by Creative Talents Unleashed.

Hard Rain Poetry Online Anthology inspired by Bob Dylan : poems by Lynn White

Help Me Over

Help me.
Help me over.
Help me cross.
I can see the sky 
framed
by debris,
by rocks,
by wire,
by dereliction.
Framed 
by sharpness and
impenetrable barriers.
I want to see it clear,
clear and unblemished
creamy white
and pink and blue.
Help me see it.
Help me over.
Help me cross.
I want want to see it
framed by trees,
I want to see
the rocks become
flowers 
again.
Help me.
Help me over.
Help me cross 
to the place
where the birds are singing
breaking up the sky with flight.
Does it still exist, this place?
I must think so.
Help me find it. 
Help me.
Help me over.
Help me cross


*First published in Armageddon Issue, Pilcrow and Dagger, February 2017

Nightmare

The sun is standing still for them
Standing still for the streams of dreamers.
Dreamers streaming down the roads to somewhere
else.
From somewhere that has become nowhere
destroyed by the money men,
the vultures who feed on their misery.
Dreaming of escape.
Dreaming of a future, any future.
Dreaming of better things to come.
Dreaming of the life they once had.
Dreaming, dreaming, dreaming.
Dreaming of returning
when the sun comes up again,
hoping it shows more than the vultures
that follow them
circling overhead
waiting patiently
for those left in a nightmare.


*First published in Free Verse Revolution, August 2020


The Hunger of War

They’re piling up
or splayed out
on streets
body after body
civilians
unarmed
or ill advisedly
armed 
in haste
and heroism
their meat is needed
to feed the hunger.

It’s piling up
the rubble of lives
in flames
fed 
by weapons
and more weapons
the tears of the displaced 
are not enough
to douse them
so they leave,
when they can,
a low priority
as there’s no meat on them 
the women, children and elderly.
But the meaty men must stay
to fight like soldiers
to the death
and be spat out
with screaming shells
and fear.

And their screams die with them 
as victory comes closer
it is said
day after day
it is said
as the leaders scream
“no surrender”
victory will be theirs
when the hunger is sated.

More weapons
more bodies
more lives
in flames 
to feed
the insatiable hunger of war.

Bio:

Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality and writes hoping to find an audience for her musings. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud 'War Poetry for Today' competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Apogee, Firewords, Capsule Stories, Light Journal and So It Goes. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/




Bob Dylan Inspired Poem from James Schwartz : Revolution & Rust

Revolution & Rust

The night falls fast,
His kiss grows cold,
Blowing in the wind,
Memories glow gold,
 
So many years, man,
Have kept us apart,
His Bob Dylan records,
My silence as we part,
 
The morning comes quick,
Pray to our lust,
Tonight we will sing,
Of revolution & rust. 
 
 
https://youtu.be/1ST9TZBb9v8 
Wolfpack Contributor: James Schwartz
A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with James Schwartz
3 Poems by James Schwartz

Bio: James Schwartz is a poem, slam performer and author of various poetry collections including The Literary Party: Growing Up Gay and Amish in America (Kindle, 2011), Punatic (Writing Knights Press, 2019) & most recently Motor City mix (Alien Buddha Press, 2022)

Literaryparty.blogspot.com @queeraspoetry

Poetry by John Donley inspired by Dylan “Ripped”

Ripped

Forty years wasn't it
Before he woke up
RIp winked at his van
Got a few pints at the pub
Donald trump was president
And hugh hefner was dead
Chicks had rings in their noses
Rainbow hair on their heads
DJ newbie on the jukebox 
But no slot for his quarter
Bikers at the pool table
That's the same kinda sorta
The kitchen was open 
He could sure use some lunch
The menu was vegan
And the waitress was plump
He just ordered some soup
And some bread on the side
She brought out some scissors 
For which he was gratified
His mustache so thick
And dripping with beer foam
That soup was impossible 
Had she left him alone 
As he slurped up his soup
She asked where he had been
Just back there by the woods
With a bottle of gin
What day is it anyway 
I'm in a bit of a fog
My head hurts like hell
I'll have more hair of the dog
His battery was dead
Could he maybe get a jump
The bikers eyed him over
Did he have any junk
Took him out the back door
Assuming he was drunk
Looking into his eyes
He seemed more like a monk
All my stuff's in the van 
Behind that hill over there
Haven't checked it in a while
All they could do was just stare
A twenty three window
Clean sixty three bus
The bikers turned out to be
Savvy antique roadshow buffs
They pooled all there cash
And wrote a few checks
For a cool fifty thousand 
Rip was a bit perplexed 
Still hung over a bit
But feeling kinda spiffy
He sauntered back to the bar
The waitress was pretty pretty 
They checked in at the ritz
She sheared him like a sheep 
Then they got down and got real busy
Rip knew he was dreaming but no longer asleep 



John Donley 
March 4th 2022

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