Our footprints, the tracks of our play,
going all ways, ran deep along the shore.
All our lives we laughed along the stretch,
we laughed at simple games, splashing
through pools of silver, across sands of
burnished gold. We laughed against the sky
and you listened to young voices,
spellbound, time out of mind.
That day, the wind whipped the waves,
the swell surged, we were beaten
by torrents, caught in the rising storm,
the crash, deafening.
We floundered, soaked to the bone.
The light was cold, so very cold
and we shouted as we saw you,
separate, tides encircling,
gazing out in silence.
We saw your still, bowed head,
as if in prayer. The rip took your feet,
and you were taken, consumed,
the falling man.
We took your arms, hands,
searched in eyes of ages blue,
taking that curve of jaw, seeing your soul
as a burning ship and still your head was bowed.
As the tide slipped, you were so white, so white,
kissed by time's silent lips.
No cry, nor whisper, a cross shape near
crested roar and the people you love
carry you from the shore
For more on Matthew check the link below
Honorary Wolfpack Contributor: Matthew M C Smithhttps://feversofthemind.com/2021/02/23/poetry-interview-with-matthew-m-c-smith-black-bough-poetry/
where morning light highlights dark brown dining table
And varnished coffee table both polished
with Pledge until you see yourself. Later
chemo will make her petite fingers fat,
Fur Elise break into fragments as disease progresses
and piano sold as her hands come to rest.
A Black Bead
I was given in Fifties by an Indian guru
in Madras with advice “Keep this
and you’ll be alright.” Correctly guessed
I had two girlfriends.
Eighty one now with asbestosis
a cough that hacks
at his body more each time we meet.
-You’re so thin dad?
-He said I’d be dead at eighty two.
-Where is it?
-I can’t find it.
-I’d best start preparing now.
-It’s a joke,
he says and spits
into his half full spitbag.
I find the blue paper
he wrote the prophecy on
dated 1962
the year I was conceived,
and take a photo of it with my mobile.
I give it to him
in the hope he’ll notice
it says he’ll die at 84.
He died at 83.
BIO: Paul Brookes is a shop asst. His chapbooks include The Fabulous Invention Of Barnsley, (Dearne Community Arts, 1993). The Headpoke and Firewedding (Alien Buddha Press, 2017), A World Where and She Needs That Edge (Nixes Mate Press, 2017, 2018) The Spermbot Blues (OpPRESS, 2017), Port Of Souls (Alien Buddha Press, 2018),Please Take Change (Cyberwit.net, 2018)
Forthcoming Stubborn Sod, (Alien Buddha Press, 2019), As Folk Over Yonder ( Afterworld Books, 2019). He edits The Wombwell Rainbow Interviews
A Change of Focus
They were being herded now
bleating pleas
like the blind sheep
of past times.
Herded
by those they'd lionised
those they'd cultivated
as heroes
or victims
now metamorphosed
into triffids in khaki
and all it took was a change
of focus.
Triffids in khaki
poking
and prodding.
They could see them now
in focus
as they stumbled
supported
squatted
sometimes
bleating
their pleas
to the deafened.
They could see now
see themselves
see that they're victims of
them
them and
their old blind sheep
selves
all it took was a change of focus
and in a flash
they're
blinded
by the light.
*First published in Blognostics August 2019*
Bits and Pieces
I loved Auntie Mary's bits and pieces drawer.
Loved the metal box full of buttons
I laid out carefully
to admire the different colours,
the different shapes and sizes.
Some were very old
cut from outfits long gone.
I thought she should remember them
but she would never say,
only that she cut them from clothes discarded
in case she needed to replace those lost,
buttons were expensive back then.
I found a silvery chain
with a broken clasp
that glistened and gleamed
as it wrapped round my fingers.
She said she couldn't remember where she wore it.
I didn't believe her, it was too beautiful to forget.
Then there were the discarded ornaments
that had once been on show,
presents from seaside places, so they said,
but it was the photographs I liked best.
Pictures of family I'd never met,
pictures of family I never would meet.
Now, I only remember the one of three young women,
my auntie and her sisters.
They were sitting on a wall with the sea behind them,
perhaps they had just bought one of the ornaments.
My auntie told me that people had said:
"just look at our Mary, showing her ankles!"
"I was very, daring", she told me smiling.
I couldn't imagine the prim lady
in her always blue dresses
had ever been daring,
but she had hidden the picture away
because she thought it revealed too much.
On later visits I would always ask
to look in the 'bits an pieces' drawer
but it was never allowed again.
Perhaps it had already revealed too much.
*First published in Blognostics, September 2019*
I Believe in Magic
I stood there
barely
naked
a naked tree in winter,
no leaves
no buds
no blossom
nothing
to relieve the bare branches
not even for Christmas
when so many trees gleamed and glittered
with berries
and baubles
sparkled with magic
I stood there
barely
waiting for the magic.
I waited
and waited.
And then
I woke
to find myself clothed,
a green leafy garland
snaking
all around me
leaving empty shoes
Now I believe in magic.
I hope it hasn't walked
away.
*First published in Blognostics, August 2018*
Reflection
I look into the river
and see how my reflection
moves helplessly in its flow.
It's moved and changed,
but left stationary,
not moved along
like the fishes
and pebbles
and floating leaves
but fading and breaking
with the images beyond me.
I feel in danger of being broken up
and washed away
piece by piece.
Such sweet watery sounds should ease my spirit,
should shut out the babbling inside me.
But even though spring is on its way
I know that winter
will find a way
inside
my broken ears,
in any case.
The Gardener
I was well equipped
to wade through mud
to prune and snip,
ready to water. when dry
and this year has been dry,
too dry
also too wet
and windy
so the harvest was scant
and now it's over,
now it's the golden time,
time to celebrate the work
time to celebrate the light
before the long dark rest
to come
to make ready
for the new light.
In Memoriam
She thought her large hands and feet
were due to her hard labour
one summer vacation
on an archaeological dig
in Germany.
It was there she met Max,
an Art student
a sculptor
who also had trouble finding shoes
large enough for his big feet.
Afterwards
he cycled to Florence to view 'David'
in all his marbled flesh
and later
on his return
he slept on the sofa
in our shared student house.
In return
he carved a large number '14'
in our sandstone gatepost
with a rusty spike
and a half brick
that he found
lying around.
Where are they now?
I don't know
but still
the gatepost stands
in memoriam
a small footfall
to their passing by
that way
and still
there is no gate.
*From our Fevers of the Mind Issue 2: In Memoriam Print Anthology*
Deathday
Many can name the day when
he died.
Each year
a deathday
like a birthday but
an ironic celebration.
On the day he died
we were making holly wreaths
ready for Christmas.
A petrol stop on the way to work
an overheard conversation
at the local garage.
When he told us
Lennon was dead
we pricked our fingers
in shock.
Now each year we remember
his falling
his dying
symbolised for ever
by those fallen empty glasses
*From Fevers of the Mind Issue 2: In Memoriam Print Anthology*
A Poetry Showcase by Lynn WhiteHard Rain Poetry Online Anthology inspired by Bob Dylan : poems by Lynn White
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/
Q1: When did you start writing and first influences?
David: I believe I began writing after having my older brother read his poetry to me. I would constantly read his stuff. He was always obsessed with song lyrics (Prince, U2, The Cure, The Smiths, The Beatles, etc) I really got into the Beatles around 12 years old, and began to write bad love songs & songs against war that were pretty cheesy. I’ve always had a storytelling imagination. I began reading Anne Sexton as a teenager and always have been a big song lyric absorber. With A.D.D. I wasn’t always the most patient with reading.
Q2: Who are your biggest influences today? Well once I started writing & reading aloud more at coffeehouses, I began learning & reading more poetry & writers. Burroughs, Kerouac, Sylvia Plath, Tom Waits, Townes Van Zandt, Phil Ochs, Bob Dylan, my favorite Leonard Cohen, Ilya Kaminsky, so many contemporaries I interact with in the Poetry & Writing Community.
Q3: Any pivotal moment when you knew you wanted to be a writer?
David: I still want to be a writer/poet. I am still learning at 41 years old the ins and outs. I guess I had that inkling around 12, then again at 20 writing angsty stuff (mad about women letting me down) and then 24/25 when I began frequenting a coffeehouse in Evansville. I began writing a scrapped up novel “The Bible Belt Bachelor” in the same vain as “On the Road” I had a break in writing through most of my 30s and then when my dad got sick with ALS I began writing more & more. Self published some stuff & began Fevers of the Mind.
Q4: Who has helped you most with writing?
David: My brother, my wife, the Penny Lane Coffeehouse, Reading aloud for several years (not so much anymore), Jean Kizer, Jerry Masterson, Heidi Krause, Twitter vss 365 getting me motivated again, Poetry Community, Leonard Cohen
Q5: Where did you grow up and how did that influence your writing & did any travels away from home influence your work?
David: I grew up in a small town in Kentucky called Sebree.
So, I do have many poems based on small town living in a Southern/Midwestern town. I carry over some personality (ies) from the town and interact them into new characters and situations at times. I have lived in Evansville, Indiana most of my adult life & now in Henderson, KY and I still write the same way. Perspectives from where i’m writing from doesn’t necessarily come from where i’m living. I have visited & lived for a short time in New Orleans, so much of my big city themed poetry comes from time living there, or visiting Nashville, Louisville, Lexington, St. Louis, Indianapolis, Bloomington and other Midwestern cities/towns.
Q6: What do you consider your most meaningful work you’ve done creatively so far to you?
David: This will be a slightly weird answer. I helped contribute poems to an anthology about ALS “Voices for the Cure” ran by Paul Rowe and the late Eric Valor. I am unsure if it ever came out, but the poems I placed in there are about my father and his battle with ALS. Some of these poems have seen the light of day in my self published work or also on this site. 2 poems by David L O’Nan about my father’s battle with ALS in 2016
I’m very proud of the community I’ve helped shape together with many writers for this site with active contributors, interviews, the Fevers of the Mind Poetry Digest Issues/Anthologies.
Q7: Favorite activities to relax?
David: General Anxiety/ADD/OCD/parenthood…relax? I try to read some, I watch wrestling, basketball, listen to music like crazy, taking walks with my wife, play in the park with my kids. Youtube wormholes, research/history.
Q8: What is a favorite line/stanza from a poem of yours or others?
David: From Leonard Cohen’s “Stories From the Street”
We are so small between the stars So large against the sky And lost among the subway crowds I try to catch your eye
Q9: Any recent or forthcoming projects that you’d like to promote?
David: Why Sure! Thanks for asking…ummm Fevers of the Mind Anthology Issue 5: Overcome will be coming out soon (currently editing) I have 6 self-published books that i’m revising (added pics to the poems, changing them up some, some revised poems) “The Famous Poetry Outlaws are Painting Walls and Whispers” “Our Fears in Tunnels” “Taking Pictures in the Dark” “New Disease Streets” “The Cartoon Diaries” “Lost Reflections” still on Amazon currently…will be replaced by new versions when announced. Stay tuned. Raw forms of these books are still out there for now. There are several past issues of Fevers of the Mind Poetry Digest: Issue 1 (June 2019) under Fevers of the Mind Poetry & Art Digest, Fevers of the Mind Issue 2 In Memoriam, Fevers of the Mind Issue 3: The Darkness & the Light, Fevers of the Mind Press Presents the Poets of 2020, the aforementioned Leonard Cohen inspired Avalanches in Poetry Writings & Art Inspired by Leonard Cohen with artwork from Geoffrey Wren Wonderful Artwork from Avalanches in Poetry Writings & Art Inspired by Leonard Cohen by artist/writer Geoffrey Wren
The 2nd Leonard Cohen Anthology will be worked on in the next month “Before I Turn Into Gold” and also Fevers of the Mind Anthologies will be coming out at least every other month as far as I can keep it going.
Personally, I have more poems/stories coming out soon with Icefloe Press. A project on facebook “Curved Air” edited by Theresa Haffner. Possibly something with the Midwest Writers Guild. I’ve recently had work in Anti-Heroin Chic, Punk Noir Magazine. In the past I’ve had stuff in 3 Moon, Nymphs Publishing, Royal Rose Magazine, Elephants Never, Headline Poetry & Press, Dark Marrow, Voices for the Cure ALS Anthology, Spillwords, Ghost City Press, a feature in Cajun Mutt Press, I’ve had some stuff of mine read by Damien Donnelly on his podcast “Eat the Storms” https://eatthestorms.com/ and will have more read by Damien in a couple of weeks. Stay tuned!
I don’t send too much out due to RSD and I put tons of time in editing, writing, my brain scrambling in and out of exhaustion. Follow us on twitter @feversof @davidLONan1 Facebook Author Page is DavidLONan1 (I don’t use it much) I don’t have Instagram…sorry.
Here are some links:
There are a million I think on this site… just search my name if interested in my poems.
Sabotage
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?
Unphased
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.
Harmony
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,
skin,
drop,
drop.
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.
Fevers of the Mind 