Poetry from David L O’Nan in Fevers of the Mind Issue 3 The Darkness & the Light (Nov 2019)

The Mystery of Mount Sterling

They washed the blood 
From the rocks to the seas
A wall of towers
Crash to the ashes of banging drums 
Still heard in rumbling hungers
Of Mount Sterling
In the orphanages, in the cries of lost land,
We can now march as the spark off the re-energized phantoms.


Say goodbye in hallucinations
Where we saw Heaven in a viewmaster
In the distances, in the hint of the kingdom
But, when do we begin running towards the golden flash?


Captured me, erased me
Severed the ties of cultures and families 
Washed me in the clots
And left me there a mystery
Waiting for the crows to connect the dots.
Your Stare
I climbed out of your watch, your stare 
And stopped time
To erase hours that leave me bare
To age defacing me
To the crippling of the bones
I will be resurrected as the spotted falling leaves.

Sleight of Hand

My blood is an old soul
That should be pumping through a robotic poet from classic times
If I’m breathing, you will hear me
When I’m not, you may hear me more
How else can you see these supposed fast-moving clouds dream –
As slow motion tantras through a heartless sky? 
This current world is too loud for me,
Yet it isn’t nearly loud enough
The art is secluded
The arteries are clogged,
Filled with supernovas and suffering 
And they call this a sleight of hand.

Come Possess Me in the Rain

The conduits all say that I invented myth 
and magic all in one breath.
There is a mist in the cold air
On a Greenwich Village Halloween night 
I can not feel the electricity
Only the forceful druids, and the chanting wish of death


They hold me up and say 
"Come Possess me in the rain" 
Licks the cold steel to my skull 
Possess me, with me
Real and muted by the shame 
In an execution style parade
What is the impression of a concrete stain?


They are practicing Shakespeare
They are faux Warholas and bohemians in sunglasses 
Without a notion of care
And I’m in this shadow that you feel at the river
Cold to the touch, blood like paste
The arrows kill the stars in the nuclear waste 
In the air, decaying the ground

Now I’m expected to love all
As I’m pierced to these skyscrapers
Bound and bullied
My hands shaking off frost
It takes every breath in my lungs to 
Release all my cowardice and all the vapors

Like this militant view of my skewering 
They drop me off like unused flesh 
Love was only the invention
Off the roots of an untimely reptilian dream 
And hate grew in the garden
And shook the city lights to the seas
There isn’t a Picasso left


Digging up from the cracks
I crawl up through Cherry Lane 
And I watch all the faints
And my nerves constantly dance an alarm 
I am rushed in my steps
I am hushed in the slivers of my brain


In my mind that never sleeps
In my possession they fed off for years 
I can only find truth and humanity
And live like I’m the Palomino
Dodging in and out of the hustling of fear



Wolfpack Contributor EIC Bios:  David L O’Nan & HilLesha O’Nan

Short Poems by David L O’Nan

Poems by David L O’Nan : A Prince Was Born on Chartreuse Street & short poems

3 poems from ps pirro from Fevers of the Mind Anthology & Avalanches in Poetry Writings & Art Inspired by Leonard Cohen

(a previous version of this poem was included in The Breakup Poems, a collection ps pirro published in 2017)

Preppers

It took so much longer than anyone expected,
by the time it happened we'd nearly forgotten,
our children are old now, and theirs older still.
I remember that fortune inside that cookie,
be like water it said, and you tore it in two,
because who has that kind of time?
The soles of your boots have worn away
at the place where the weight of the world
meets the road that carried us here.
All those footsteps, all that leather,
all those people we used to be, they cling
like shadows and hide when we turn.
Did you ever think, I ask, and no, you say,
you never did, and we blink like mole people,
emerging from darkness, blind in the light.
Both of us knowing we got it all wrong,
you with your gun, me with my bowl,
you with no bullets, me with no spoon.

Daylight Savings
I spent the night
with Leonard Cohen
we were birds on a wire,
we were drunks
in a midnight choir.
We lost sleep
but saved the daylight,
it was springtime,
we were so high.
We were coins tossed
beneath a concrete bridge,
a fire burning in an oil drum,
we stumbled through
the deep hours,
losing one to foolish whim,
six months will pass
before we find it again,
In the glint of a new-rising sun
we took the uptown train
from Manhattan to Berlin,
there was music
on Clinton Street and you
looked so much older
your raincoat hardly famous
at all, just misty now
like the faded morning sky.
Come home with me Leonard
and I will do unto you what you
have done unto others
I will tie you to my kitchen chair,
and keep for myself a lock
of your hair and feed you
tea and oranges that came
all the way from China,
and pour myself like honey
into this daylight
we have saved, you, and I.

I Was One of Those

I would have fallen for you had the geography been right,
and the decades, even though it took another woman
to sing your song, and others still pierce your heart,
and you had a type and I was not it, the fates would not align,
and (even though) I could not comprehend the tales you told
or the cadence like a missed step in your poetry, still,
I was one of those.

I found you on a shelf in the used bookstore, dark eyes
full of something like soul, or desire, I saw you in the face
of my high school crush who could have been your kin,
so much your image, but he too, loved another, and died
on prom night, a pixilated photograph of his mutilated
automobile on the front page (below the fold, have mercy)
the following day.

We can be selfish in our poems, this I learned from you,
our stories tipping like drunks in search of solace, I clipped
the photograph, tucked it away in a drawer, told myself
(and no one else) that had he taken me to that dance we
would have taken a different road, and he might have lived
to discover how good he looked at 60 in a rakish fedora
and a well-cut suit.

ps pirro lives in a place by the river and blogs with some infrequency at pspirro.com

Poem from Fevers of the Mind Anthologies by Ivan Peledov “Park”

Park

I am tired of midnight wasps
that can't stop counting the roadkill and
the horizons smothered by blabbering mountains.
The bones of cannibal ancestors have been cooling off
in the company of age-old suns. Sunflowers shudder in the dark. 

Wolfpack Contributor Bio: Ivan Peledov

2 poems from Fevers of the Mind Anthologies by J Matthew Waters

Say You'll Haunt Me
Inside this cage I hear you sing
your personal psalms
songs of woe and joy
and everything in between

during your darkest moments
supernovas shine high above

though not in your line of sight
they keep you off guard and hopeful

your face is patterned
vertical lines channeling emotions
streaming from your eyes

out in the yard shadows cast
familiar symmetrical smiles

some nights you are unprepared
to fall asleep in my arms

one day a miracle will open the door
leaving you with new ideas
either spiraling yourself far away
or forever haunting my days

The Wounded Marionette

it was hard to see the strings
stuffed inside his rucksack
as he rode the train from one town
to the next
all slumped over and needing
a miracle or two
to bring him back to his former self

they stopped the bleeding
back on the battlefield
stitched him up as best they could
sending him on his merry way
cross bar and all

staring out at the countryside
he went in and
out of consciousness
the landscape as desolate as his thoughts
leading him to wonder if the good doctor
would be able to save
his most precious possessions



Bio from 2019:
J Matthew Waters was born in Rock Island, Illinois in 1961, and grew up across the Mississippi in Davenport, IA. He graduated from the University of Iowa in 1984 with a B.A. in English. His first collection of poetry "Five Hundred Pieces," was published in 1997. His second collection, "In the Middle of Somewhere," was released as a Kindle edition in 2011. In 2013, he published "101 Chances," in both Kindle and paperback editions. His latest collection entitled "Forty-Five Revolutions per Minute" was released in December, 2015. He currently resides in Cedar Rapids, IA where he works and plays and writes.

Poems from Fevers of the Mind Anthologies by Stephen Sherman

Birds, Tree, Animals, Silhouette, Nature

Tree of Crows

High up along the branches as some fruit in barren tree
the crows have gathered for a quorum sitting silently.
A twist of head the only motion that betrays some stir.
A twist of head, then stillness long, as other crows concur.

They seem like ordinance stocked up high on a shelf displayed
They seem a jury pondering with chin on palm arrayed
They seem to wait for bus or train to travel into night
and patient are those passengers, sun setting on their flight.

The crows they sit and gander at each other's inky mane,
the sun asetting crimson hues on branch, on crow as flame.
And lurch these large and on'rous things foreboding some avail,
and as to where their trek will call one hopes to tell the tale.

All Souls Day Star

A single Star on All Souls Day was brilliant in the night.
The darkness had consumed the sun
and grasped up all the light.
But there it shone just to the north as twinkles went to sleep.
Their eyes were drearily consumed
and awake they could not keep.
"What haughty brilliance brought to us?" the twinkles dreamt soon on.
Our eyes are wrestled with that shine
what "Souls Day Star" bought on
But laughed away the "All Souls Star" that shined too bright to see,
for now that twinkles shine to sleep,
the "All Souls Star" shines free.

The Rustling of the Satin Dress

The beast that bodes accompaniment is silent by her side.
It offs a leer, it's head to sway nose down while plying by,
Not even steps are heard from Beast to Beast and breath collide
and colored doom as darkened room as saunter'd shoulders wye.
But why does Beast, like trusted friend ne'er fail to leave her side?
Her task must e'er be sure fulfilled without a singlest threat
and soleful role and arbiter to dispatch those implied
is Beast forever, Beast anon, and Beast whom Gods ne'er met.
Her fingers long and supple touch with gentlest of care.
Her eyes as deep as star filled nights seek those of last breath bound.
Her divine whisper "Come thee hence" as song from lips in aether,
her downey cheeks can bare no tears as wings angelic found.
Divine ever and tearless hostess to whom all life confess.
Ages keeping ear on guard for Rustling of her Satin Dress.

bio from 2019:
Stephen Sherman was born on the birthday of Walt Whitman. He lives in the Coney Island area of Brooklyn. Stephen Sherman has been writing most of his life including hundreds of poems and several albums of copywritten music. He has been involved in acting, professional singing, production of a video Blog hosted by famed journalist Bill Weinberg and is presently coming to the retirement of a career as a Civil Service Supervisor. For decades he has been a proponent of progressive agendas, civil and woman's rights. Sherman has interests in Hindustani and Carnatic music and dance and Eastern Philosophy.
"Do your work, do it well, have fun doing it"