3 poems by Anna Rozwadowska from Fevers of the Mind Anthologies : Sabotage, Unphased, Harmony


All hearts are trained by purity; the mind wanders in
sabotage, winding rivers coalesced by jagged rocks,
humankind holds expertise in this endeavor,
ego blames ego; the two cannot co-exist, one force shall drag the other,
blood is spilled on the floor, one of confusion the other betrayal,
a blameless victim of apparitions, vision clouded by sand of the
strained apparatus.
Self-sabotage, why?

The being renders itself useless, playing with fire when
already soaked with gasoline.

The inner battle, spewing forth like geysers, this
inner demon comes forth, to cause harm to another?
Is it the competition of middle earth, golden ring  treasured above life,
strife is a compound made human through the Masters of the middle ages,
a blameless heart carries this boulder, for sabotage has a name
and it longs to be experienced; how do you feel as I step into your crevice?

Mine is the longing for the joining of souls, mine is usurped by the mind,
revenge and going forth, stepping over stones where a person's heart remanins,
wading in the water waiting to be free, for personas to dissolve
for the undertaking of the shameless, no confusion no competition,
smooth complexions in water tainted blue,
can we live a free of
meandering minds, sabotage betrayed by love?


Lord, take away this confusion, the
armor I wear from invisible threats
if one is to bequeath; may the perforated light shine
in the cracks beneath my skin,
they stick glue, I cannot scrape them out,

my brain anew my soul free to soar with eagles
in high mountains,
not like this, not like this.
Protect me from my own sabotage, at
life fulfilled it escapes my daily strangle,
panic in the showers, bathe me in oils,
wash away insecurity that has kept me from
everlasting joy, not like this.
Heaven must have an answer for repair, 
Therefore, I summon your beasts aglow
for respite from despair, show your grace
and let me be, in peace, let me be,
not like this

If I am to trust my being, I need to envision
a space of the unfailing, in the bright
traces of the sun, somewhere up in the mountains,
may it teach me and restore my vision from heavy clouds
and nightmares at what no longer chases me,
at what no longer exists, I understand that this ghost
is a presence,
but if you show me the day where I remain unphased,
it is all that I ask,
all that my speech can handle.


Make love to yourself; your divine nature is the essence,
hear thy creation song, you are so beautiful, so beautiful,
sing the harmony of life giving, the selfish armor of the tremors
that terrify your insides; they shall wake, they will awake,
shake it off, shake; you were not meant to be impeded.

Wounded, alive and frightened, as if small grass was,
at your creation, every fiber touches your branch, steel, glass,
emotive expression in your chest cavity, who are you, really?
It is the life perhaps worth living, you seek it only, besides your dream,
your awake cycle sleeps alongside your gravity; behold, hold,
your awakened heart, make love to yourself in formation, divine,
you were not meant to wither away, to sit back and watch victory while weeping,
heaven in rain, droplets are awakened they sit back on your delicate,


When given the second chance to live, once unearthed from the covers,
when the world stops shaking, when you feel secure, when the when becomes
longer, faster, tighter,
softer, leaven, stolen; your life was stolen.
Have you but the chance to awaken, the dream-sleep cycle allows,
the waking is for the dying desperate to live; clenching to bottles,
washing away sorrows, you are that which you are - gold?

Confide in me, confide in the heaven, protrude like the raven,
flying high it is no coincidence, earthen angels watch over you
disguised as diffusion inside your T cells, wake up my darling, live yourself,

off the fusion off the chair from which you devolved, devoured at the sight
of your perpetrator.

It is time to awaken the gentle cycle, startle response returns to bitter ends,
your bitter ends no longer ends, yet your beginning begins with bitter ends,
it is the shallow that keeps you under, trembling at long overdue emotions,
since then you are unable to live; become now, become,
it is essential to take the steps forward, flight is for the birds you are meant
for better, stand on those feet gasp for air and reclaim what you lost;
territory of your being.

Bio from 2019:
Anna is a freelance Writer and editor, poetry editor of Literally Literary. Anna is a writer, photographer, psychic, medium, and spiritual guide, and has an M.A. in Environmental Sociology and over 15 years of professional experience.

2 poems by David L O’Nan about my father’s battle with ALS in 2016

The Courage Rhapsody (for my Father)

A cold breath mantra
Holidays voided by the entrapment of the body
Can't escape the seizing
The brittle bites
My bones palpitate
Lost my nerves,
And the Winter took my shield
My energy, 
my guiding hand,
My memories,
I can only feel with my dream fog.
In my  mind, 
I still have that
I still have my love
Through all the night sweats,
Reminiscing when I was a stronger man,
A man with bravery,
Or the facade of
A man who could fight
Through the fires with the strength of tangled jungle wires.
I was easily scared, 
but nobody knew
Because it was safer to hide a heart of scars
Inside this chest,
I gave my soul to be caressed by the hope that is God's word
Now I am a man,
Not just your past
But your future and in your cognizance.
Remember me as a man, a father,
And your laughter and tears.
We will not struggle with the tugging of life's heavy rock
We will lift it high, with our drums pounding.
Staring into black eyes.

Some Season Like Christmas

It was some season like Christmas
I was driving down Highway 41
Past unbalanced bridges,
Wanting to become one with the Ohio River.
To see my dying dad for the last time
I'm listening to "On a Faraway Beach" by Brian Eno.

As I drive by a blue brassiere in the middle of the street.
The drunk woman's last hurrah,
Before settling for frat guy factory dreams,
And having 6 children that hate them both -
despite having a good home design.

I am driving,
Even the farm cattle are under the mistletoe
Can't wait for the presents most think of
Honeybaked hams and peach pies
With their family drawn straight out of a 1960's J.C. Penney -
Christmas catalog for a new oven advertisement.

Well, for my drive is different
The snow that slightly comes down isn't pure white.
More grayish, almost Olive Green death.
Enough to slick a tire, 
But not enough to shake you from reality.
This is the drive of mania
A mania of tears, a depression, a stoic coolness,
a hate for the holidays.

All these icicles just look like razors
And then you get there,
V.A. Clinic in Onton, Kentucky.
He's barely there.
He has recent birthday gifts from 2 weeks prior.
An "early" Christmas gift or 2 as well.
A baseball cap he'll never get to wear,
and he can barely see you,
barely can hear you,
barely can talk beyond his disease to say
"I Love You Son"
An unfamiliar whispering
To a once deep voice.

I'm flashing back to myself watching him,
Play to his father (my grandfather) as he was passing
The old country music of Ernest Tubb.
Now, I am playing my father Wichita Lineman 
Glen Campbell, and then some Ol' Waylon too.
And we talk about the memories,
as I watch his eyes fade away.
We talk about our love of Kentucky basketball,
And he looks at me
Pale as pure snow
And barely muffles another

"I Love You Son"

Christmas Eve 2016. He went into a deep sleep soon after I left,
the next Christmas evening around 5 p.m. he passed.
And all I could hear about on social media was people's shock 
that George Michael passed.   It barely phased me at all that night.
I lost my father.  
I was left with many questions about this disease.
Peter L. O'Nan  (December 10, 1942 - December 25, 2016)
Dad in Air Force pictures in the 60’s

3 Poems from Anthologies by Norb Aikin

No and No

This is the noise that keeps me awake,
the tie-dyed sentiments flung
from dirt that can’t be un-dug,
and this is me saying no
to a wish that “no” isn’t an answer to.
The curl, pulled straight.
The antidote, failed.

Nothing good can come of this
and that’s why I’m here.

This is the lookalike and this is the duplicate
and I am the difference
that goes unnoticed
until it’s too late.
There’s something, and nothing,
and something from nothing,
but I walk on the outline of the void-
I won’t fall in from the push;
my recoil does all the work for me.

Let’s not and say we did
before we have to pretend,
or at least until we get caught.

This is the noise that keeps me awake
and this is the escape I can’t seem to make
when I least expect it
but that’s what I’m doing now
and no one’s gonna tell me otherwise
even if they wanted to.
Like a joke not worth explaining
to people who don’t understand laughter,
I can’t help myself from myself.

Everything is Terrible and I Think You Know Why 

a drum that whispers
riddling death sentences
backwards pointing fingers
fragmented pretenses
march prudishly fluid
pretending like it's nothin'
still raises your voice to it
master of survival           cunning
noise calls to rise and fall
crusted mistrusted bloated trap set
eyes of blistered 8-balls
change your habits

big bucket of double oh-no
emptied over your broken skin
burnt premise           shame so
indignant                 do it again
shut down but can't be stopped
government secrecy forgot
time hops drug shops crooked cops
the land's name the photographer cropped
what happened you don't claim to know
slim chance fat circumstance
eyes like bullet holes
act your age not your relevance

take count of what's left
mental calendar            rubber-stamped
courting slow death
at a right-to-life camp
train the robots to clean up
mice can freshen the environment
you signed your god's pre-nup
it's coming to collect past rent
unfolding stomach sweating churns
life showing reruns beyond overtures
eyes made of cigarette burns
watching the world              spurned

To the Love(s) I Lost
(via Leonard Cohen)

Everyone knows it as my fault,
not yours and mine;
your voice carries louder
over my interpretations and lesser designs.
I can't name your names because
there's too many,
and when I drink to forget
you remind me of memories I
know better than to hold on to.
I can't, but I can,
even when they're more the enemy
that I wish to comprehend.
You vested my suit and lies;
tied up my goodbyes.
We could say nothing and let's
just; rather than we tried.

Norb Aikin has been published by Eliezer Tristan Publishing and uses his time wisely on Twitter (@aikinNorb). His first poetry collection, 100, has been positively reviewed widely and his second, Mutants, recently was released for Kindles with a paperback  It’s a slim follow-up to 100 and features some older material along with his current WIP. Look for the full release of Also Mutants in the Spring of 2020.

BOOKS to Read in 2021: Mutants by Norb Aikin

Poem by JDG in Fevers of the Mind Anthology (2019) “Finale”



When a friend vacuums up the pills off the floor
From a death by suicide
While unceasing tears flow
From faces you barely remember
When a stranger who claims she's your mom asks -
If you're okay
And you choke on vomit while you hold a dead man's hand
Don't come in here if you're going to cry, the little boy says.
But there are no words loud enough
to drown out the voice of a 6 year old girl -
asking why her dad is white
when he is supposed to be brown.
He's white because he's dead, honey
My sadness is a lipstick stain -
use the right trick and it'll come right out.
But you'll always see the little mark it left
And maybe wonder how it got there.

Bio from 2019
JDG is a queer, fledgling poet from Canada. She owns and operates 3 Moon Independent publishing. She has been writing poetry for many years and minored in English in university.  You can follow her projects on twitter, insta or facebook by following 3 Moon Independent Publishing @3moonpublishing .  JDG has work that has appeared in publications for Ayaskala and Burning House Press.

3 poems from Neel Trivedi in Fevers of the Mind Issue 2(2019) “the Invisible Aura” “Soul Whisperer” & “the Midas Scratch”

(c)Neel Trivedi
The Invisible Aura

Step into the vortex of my soul
To decode the language
I often speak to myself

Every night when I peel off my mirage
That the sea of gazes around me
surmises to be nonchalance

This is my universe where:
Depression is not a mere mood swing
It's an actual chemical imbalance

My facial expressions are not always
Gateways to the feelings of my heart
Sometimes they are merely decor

My silence is not a symbol
Of any kind of equanimity

Listen to the aura who's decibels
Don't roar like a lion
But squeal like a mouse

Observe the aura that's the
shy one in the corner
Acknowledge the unfelt emotions

For you may not feel them
But just a moment of your cognizance
Could determine their fate for eons

Soul Whisperer

I come with no ostentation
No glory or cavalcade
For I creep upon this junction
Not to arouse a racket
But to dismember the status quo
I make no proclamations to be 
Your knight in shining armor
Or to dry your tears
But to bequeath equity of them
To feast on the salt with thee
I come not to sheath your malformations

But to stand in their gallery
And be a zealot for ages
Of what my heart senses to be
Not wounds but victors of endurance
Think not of me as a paladin
In a quaint fable

But a commoner just to proclaim:
I once bore what you did

And hearken the language of your soul
That others have stained as an enigma!

The Midas Scratch

Lay your fingers on the canvas of my flesh
And scratch till what you carve
Becomes the cynosure attire of my body

Never to be removed
Till the mind in its entirety
Is severed from the bones

Take no heed of any provisional brood
Or waterfalls of blood
For the blemishes will eventually mitigate

But the fable your fingers nurture with love
Will give me an immoral prevalance
To any and all around me!

Neel's bio below:
Wolfpack Contributor Bio: Neel Trivedi