A Super Poetry Showcase from Jeremy Limn


there are snails in my mailbox
probably because they I don't
pay attention to what's in my mailbox
they are massacring the junk mail
and there is a ventriloquist over the road
drinking tequila
I see an old lady
across the road has let her
cats kill some bluebirds
I heard them chirping to death
I am disassociated from the shoreline
as I walk back to have woodfired pizza
I see a young asian nurse pushing around
a shopping cart filled
with beer it seems she was a writer
and that after working her nightshift
at the hospital she wanted to get drunk
Sometimes caring too much
Can make you lose a part of yourself
And as the sun’s melody shapes the shadows
That reflects off the Japanese blossom, and almond trees
Across the road I am
Reminded of how sharp
And elusive my vision of the world is
I want to keep myself distanced from people
When I am away from them
The sun is more real
The water feels more
clear, and fear is no longer near.


Sombre oxycodone sand, I feel the weight of necessary 
regret, purple, and wine-like molluscs shimmering 
in the Bay of Fires, I am here, 
I think about the dolour of a sleepwalking cursed skylark, for there 
is imagery to be found on a hospital bed a tweed Herringbone
coat of oaky displeasure solid and gold, and I see time fold 
I want these thoughts to make sense, 
and to make sense of myself I must believe, 
for to love is to understand the true cost of the imagination 
to believe in love is to reprieve myself from my ulcerative colitis  
for there is a blackwood panther on this hospital bed with me 
I feel it accentuates the composure of lost gods,  
and lost minds there is nothing to regret
but regret itself, for I want to make sense of this dream all those
Jellyfish singing Mariah Carey’s song hero, 
I see that Lord Bryon Is a black swan drinking 
a pipe on a piece of red  gum 
slowly vanishing before my naked eyes? 
on these trepid waters, and to make sense of 
this marvel, this pain I am suffering my thoughts 
have no connection only a seamless melody one 
that exudes the displeasure of myself in myself, 
there is an empty chasm where the poisoned 
vapored orchids of myself corrode in the ocean paper
of the luxurious glee of me. 

St Helens

Bless your shadow
be sauteed in the robust
hymns of St Helens' king tides
where you reach
for the love of Tasmanian
life of spectral tasting of a
 Willie Smith's apple ciders 
and we walk along the shores with
fishing rods hoping for something to
catch, perhaps a gummy shark, 
and we know the art of eye-gazing
nature we take in like
with a Murakami touch
and we talk of Hemingway
and crispness of the divine
eating away at the beauty
of cathedral-like caves
phantasmagoric sands
genuinely genuflected 
with how the sun rises
in the morning, we are moved
and caught in
this stanza drifts onwards
into the sea-lights

Pearl Harbor

Their love lingers on these shores, and the rockpools are coalescing in the memory of a shattered, eternal love. It was nostalgia that brought Melody Atkins back to where the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbour.  It wasn’t the brightness or the beauty of the blue rhapsodic waters that brought Melody Atkins back to where her father faded into the fire.  It was the screaming, scorching memory of her Father’s last moments. 

A naval officer with a bright future his wife gone, and the future of his child in disarray. Peter Atkins got the signal, and call via radio that the Japanese were twenty minutes away from bombing Pearl Harbour into smithereens.  

Peter didn’t know what to do all he could do was evacuate his family, evacuating the love he will never see again. He won’t be able to hold his wife in his hands anymore or see his future daughter born.  But he knew what he had to do was get them out of there. All he could do was send them away the biggest sacrifice he would ever make, and as he directed the other naval officers to take Henrietta Atkins to higher ground. 

He teared up and gave her a kiss that would turn into the shadow of the blue moon that Melody would come to see later when she visited the shoreline where Peter first fell in love with Henrietta under the moon in Honolulu.


Asleep the air is constantly a concoction
of a mirrored deluge
And a splatter of rain on the red bricks,
and the intriguing concussion of love
bubbles oozing sacrosanct a
traumatic slumber and asleep
to the whispered chaos of yesterday,
and all the wordless oceans
are the exsanguination of the
copious melodies of unfounded years
pulsating in my femur,
I am asleep, and this bubbling
bruising Tiredness is fermenting
inside of the abdomen,
a chestnut tree is on fire
and, I see what could’ve been,
I don’t want to awaken and this
cascading image is more pliable
than human relationships more
pliable than the being of love more
pliable than my own sinew and sleep,
I shall be a complexity
drifting upon the nakedness
of river blue tulips that arouse
no suspicion, for I am animated
by nonsense, I am, animated by
own lethargy my own possible
death, a sonnet not.


Blue grassy hues
and my hospital
window is less than
serene and the vapours
in the air are like a gangrenous
flower tiled in a immaculate
here I breathe before
the diction of empathy and
I euthanise my only hope
of seeing another day
and the rain slumbers
tonight in my toes and
my neck is crucified
by a hydrocortisone show at 3AM
and I'm here
waiting for another breath
another fable to
keep me up at night
rescued by nonsense
rescued by
red sparrows that crawl
into my eyelids
I wake up again idled
swallowing down some apple juice
and all the flowers are veiled
in the garden below
the hospital
the vines are also as lost
as me, I wake up again
and this rhythm
holds me down
in this hue of
a stolen fallible
dream of how I met
God through the frayed
air of myself


Unkept the path is, immutable magnolias
Do not vanish in your sight
the spring filled light forbodes
your every delight, ruinous
and dark despairing for a kiss
you crumble in form unshaped
by the curvature of forgotten streams
in the Hinterland we seek
atonement for our whims
We walk in solace by the sea-stone
Song of sandstone pillars
And titanium rainstorms
That beautify our struggle
In this Hinterland of Wales 
We will take love as it
Is thrusted upon us.

The Doorway to San Francisco
inspired by Jack Kerouac

The doorway is shrouded
in pink daffodils the walk long the journey
astray the swiftness of Kerouac and honeyed boulevards with
the last letters of Ginsberg ringing in your arms,  and wild is the whiskey
in Nashville you of petite legs and lissome hands shadowed, the path
to San Francisco is long and we are wayward I wonder
I ponder The sunset rivets me and I got no dimes left
only the sweetness of your breath
perched on my shoulders and your
marrow glossy and true an acoustic
glue, I got your saliva pressed on
my notebooks, and the ink is still wet
and I don't want it to go dry
and I want to reach the canyons
with enough crayons to forget time
and do you have an Irish coffee with you?
Will we meet somewhere beyond Boulder
or we will bivouac where
the nothingness is ovulating sweetly
like Henry Miller's Sexus, I got you
and we will wonder and ponder
yonder, where naught is my epigraph
and you are candid, and your are carousing
moonlit, and snuff, I can't be defeated
I am breaking all the rules of grammar
and I have conveyed a mirror of plastic
sirens, and none of this is supposed to
make sense since we are waiting  for Godot
I will evaluate your heart soon as I levitate
in the Colorado sun and I remember The
Grampians in Victoria how wonderful are
they, psychedelic and crisp the sweat
that lingering bliss natural rhapsodies
and long is the path to San Francisco
where the leaves of
lost art is slumbering good
and young.

from Hard Rain Poetry: Forever Dylan Anthology from Fevers of the Mind Press

and a peacock
coloured moonlight
and the translucency
of this autumnal bone
of trees that used to
and here I’m waking up
waking up inside
with a dreary
sign of a blood stained
moth flooding my soul
and in winter I’m with 
Bob Dylan
climbing Antarctic snow
climbing a June breeze
and here I’m again
holding my tears aflame
I could be better
I could be a better man
something like steel
someone kind
a sinew of desirable
It feels like I’m drifting
on borrowed time, and I 
be better, better for you 

Bio: Jeremy Limn is a poet in his late twenties who has published three books of poetry, Raining Poems, The Auguries of Lost Lilacs, and The Roses Forget You, his work also appeared in the 2016 July Issue of Infernal Ink Magazine, and the Yearbook for the University of Tasmania 2015, and published twice with Vext Magazine, The Ernest Becker Foundation.

A Super Deluxe Poetry Showcase from David L O’Nan (from several books pt 1)

(Zane Lee (unsplash)
A Divorce in the Gut of the Sun

We used to be drawings of lipstick clouds
And Strawberry hearts
We lived in our diaries
We loved, we bled
Atrophied the stems from the flowers
What memories are left?
Imprinted in my scars
Come read them like a palm reader
Do you see the many awakenings?
Blurred out the moon in this desert heat I’m absorbing
Thru this skin, these bones
I’m still to you, no words for you
We’ve said all that we don’t mean
But now it is enough
Your masculinity is waning
Your bravado is short circuiting
You’ll bring your sour breath to the bar
Bite the lips of a midnight sundress and her vodka strut
While I’m in frozen depression
Children away with my mother
As I burn all our old letters
And I burn all of my wardrobe
The clothes I wore during my “trying to impress” years
I just want to swim in these fires across the floor
Shall the universe eat my soul right now, I’d be fine
Eat away the old regimes of barrels, bourbon, and brutes
Now in a shell I am
A dark closet that my soul is weeping behind
I stare into my imagined reflection and my feet become warm by the heat of my tears
Falling and puddling til my badly polished toenails just stand inside
And I don’t care
I am in fear still though,
You’re no longer here
You have the dessert and no entrée
I see all the medications that I’ve been given
Even more recently than before
More medication, less feeling
But no motivation,
and I know you are more worried about getting a fresh cup of coffee
And I’m going to have to settle on the old black & white photos of our marriage
Light that shit to flames
I have to be pushed into my old body, and cradle my mind, and hold me
Til I can shake away the disease of you

The Ballad of Clay Huntley (profile of ego series)

In the smoky Ale House
Let’s call it Murfreesboro
He’s got the swaying hips of a murder machine
Slick backed hair,
a sex appeal predator
Collecting numbers,
spreading diseases,
I’ve known him to be a birdwatcher,
a greaser witch
Stepping up to women like a movie star
In a masochistic leather jacket
He runs up mountains without the fear of the plunge
A wind-up talking crash of dark caramel ale breath –
to a lost soft cheek
You become his stage
For all his radical jokes
Unnerving smiles
You become his surgery,
For all of his dissecting thought
Or so he thinks

A point from going macho to a drunk
Then he’s your neighborhood brute
A traveling circus riot
Wants you to become his scream queen victim
As he challenges all –
to watch his demise to –
being a bar wrestler,
A real Vaudeville bullfrog
And he wants you to be his dancing daisy
While impersonates a Rudolph Valentino
Now he knows to mimic an operatic wind
A gust of bravado to a riverfront
Stuck in a canvas frame,
from the beating heart of Ambroise Vollard
But soon his oil stick is broken in the engine
And the hood is falling off

From the Ale then the pills
Now he’s turning to the surgeon for good
Baiting you to a show, a one-man cult display
Like swarming buffalo gnats –
to a jar of Wild Maine Blueberry Jam

Clay Huntley,
a vivid swerving waterfall
While under his spell,
a master weaver
An electrician pulling all the wires of our bombs together.

In 5 years
He doesn’t breathe free
When lungs are wooden,
Set afire from all the tobacco digesting tumors
– in the Superior Lobe
Guillotining away at the Pleura,
becomes like Mayonnaise
A sick interception from ego back to man
Now as death awaits
Imagination and nature became the object
– of his lamenting eyes
He likes to stray the fields,
giving each bird a personality
Funny, how he never saw that in the women
on his pinup calendars
Time is a fickle demon
So, can we pray in the arms of what is timeless?

Psalm 46 Haze

In mornings when most kings dine
In a sweat of night, the heat clutched
To the skin
In mighty robes
Yet, like a wet mop
A tide of anger
A misguided dreamer
Of thievery, wanted all the treasures
All the lucid wanderings
Gold coin eyeballs
Designed in statuesque build
Shallow, there will not be any crumbling
in my march through civil breakdowns
One king, death on rapid waters
The rocks like the clouds,
depends on powers of the wind
To move us from the heat
Like a Psalm 46 haze
He breaks the bows and shatters the spears
And cartoon kings start to smear
Paint begins to clump, like a clogged artery
Stains through to the canvas,
Blasphemy blankets purity
And in oceans and rivers
There aren't any fresh fish
Smudges of floating ink, like blood
Ships keep moving in the night
The lighthouse light reflects only former royal shadows

You forget false righteousness
And you brand in the tattooed crimson to sea bottoms.

Stone Walls in Trailer Parks

I can really feel the Geodon today.
And my head is bashed in like a stone wall.
Underneath the sickle of the trailer park.
My heart just wants to crash.
As firm as an old peach.

Leave me alone in this black room.
I've been trying to paint White Angels 
while in the mouths of all these dragons.

Although my head is on fire,
It is too cold to paint.
Quivering birdbone hands.
My hands tremble in overdose.

I rest in the mutiny of the day.
I can only wrap myself in a scratchy blanket.
And listen to all the screaming arguments from mothers to children.
And my walls remain the lunatic.
Stressed and cracking the foundation downward.

Trippin’ Crawlin’ Learning to Fly

Crawling out of his crooked shoe
His mission is to fly
He swallows one raindrop
From storm cloud after storm cloud
He shadows his face and hides.

In his ears, the harmonious peasants sing of love
He disappears,
A fading tumble into seclusion
Why does the wind play tricks on the brain?
Acting as though the whispering is real.

It is another game
We laugh at the fool
"Look at him stumbling out of his shoe"
Trap him, corner him
Into submission
Bury his dreams in with the oblivious
Pull apart the blue sky to devalue his freedom.
"What is behind those blue curtains"?

Just air, smoke, unbreathable distance?

Whistling echoes from the well
He has fallen into his long unwinding spell
Now lord help me, all that is mighty!
Give me a hand, let me stop the blind crawl
I can't see or hear the visuals, the auditory bleeding missions.

Searching for guidance
The hand that cradles you into thought
To no longer fear the frightening.

We are not a puppet controlled by the flirtatious mind of mercy
Flames become invisible
If you want to fly,
You must first run into walls.

The skin, the heart must thicken when struck by the whip of evil.

Time and time again.

Poetry: They Had Sadness in their Eyes ( Like in Littleton) from David L O’Nan

Collaboration poem from Merritt Waldon & David L O’Nan

A Quicksilver Trilling by David L O’Nan    : Poetry & Writing style lyrics inspired by Dylan 

In 1961…In 1961 by David L O’Nan (from Before I Turn Into Gold Anthology)

Collaboration Poem “Bleeding Summer City Sidewalks” by David L O’Nan & R.D. Johnson

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

Poetry : A Castle Melts by David L O’Nan

Poetry: The Parody King’s Castle by David L O’Nan

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

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

Bare Bones Writings Issue 1 is out on Paperback and Kindle

2 poems by Spriha Kant from Hard Rain Poetry Forever Dylan Anthology

The Answer is blowing in the wind

Your promise to
paint the miserable night phase with a
jovial light phase in your
stump speech took all of us on a flight
and then we all in delight
cast our votes for you
We all are now fumbling in a squint and you
claim publicly that you shined our lives with lights.
We are all now sweating
Our mouths – now barren lands are
exhausted by the 
constant begs for water.
Then your beseeching voice again reached out
to all of us for casting our votes for you
on the pretext of bringing back the oasis into our deserted lives.

How many times will we all get a passionless scorching sun in 
return for our hope of getting our scintillating sun?
The answer is blowing in the wind.

Bob Dylan - the Glowing Avalanche till eternity 

When I thought to pen down a beautiful panegyric about Bob 
then all the words firstly became statues in surprise, then 
somehow quivered on my constant calling, poking and pinching,
and then flew away in flocks like prey escaping from a predator.
On searching for all of them,
I got none but just a note that read to me,
“We all the words are not enough to describe his
However, I dragged a few greatly magnificent words 
but then got a note that read to me,
“We all the inks are not that colorfully beautiful enough to 
 decorate his greatness by our letter strokes.”
I beseeched all of the inks to come out of their respective refills 
but none came out.
Then I repeatedly knocked all of the refills 
forcing all the inks to come out
and then I suddenly listened to the explosion and the howls of 
all the blank papers burnt severely by hot molten lava. “But how 
did this happen all of a sudden?”— whirled my head in the 
eddies of wondering till I did not get to see all the refills
emptied with many voids and crevices.

All blank papers burned though,
All refills emptied with many voids and crevices though,
But I saw and felt what Bob Dylan is —
“Bob Dylan” — the “Glowing Avalanche” till eternity…

Bio: Spriha Kant is born in Indore, India, and resides there with her family. She is pursuing M. Tech. in Structural Engineering. She developed an interest in reading and writing poetries at a very tender age. Apart from reading and writing poetries, she is also fond of calligraphy, embroidery, stitching, abstract paintings, acrylic paintings, and crochet. She is also an intense music lover. She has been a part of Stuart Matthew’s Anthology “Sing, Do the birds of Spring” in the fourth series of books from #InstantEternal Poetry prompts. 

Poetry: Black Jackets and Boneless by David L O’Nan

Black Jackets and Boneless

from Before the Bridges Fell and also in Hard Rain Poetry Anthology

Baby, we can keep running from this city. We can leave all the devils behind. We can watch as our denim leaves our black jackets and become boneless. Bareless, watching our shoes turn to rubber and dust.

We can drip the oil from our hands from broken cars. From hopes of stolen motorcycles that lay dead in the ditch. We can try to escape those devils behind. Once again, baby. Do you remember the words you said to me? You told me to jump from the bridges and just end it in a moment of anger, of sadness? Do you remember the way you felt when I said you were hopeless?

Do we remember the horrid things lovers say to each other when scared? When angry? When feeling like God isn't watching. Do you still want to run away with me? Do you want to throw our silver rings in the river and watch them float under?

Run with me, let's watch the light reflect off the rocks on a partly cloudy day. Find new life wherever that may be.

I know I can feel blind. And I can't hear your scream when they are whispers. I'm Van Gogh. I feel dead like him too. Maybe I can't see past the fields of flowers of imperfections. I need you to run with me. To find new angels that don't fail us and fall to feathers by our cold feet. The angels that failed me, failed you, but first failed God.

Let's run because we can't stay here. This is where the bridges will fall. This is where the witches cook up recipes in the cauldrons. This is where we will never see each other in the way we once saw each other. 

Black jackets full and run like a rogue, or boneless and bleached out like the skeletons giving up to be buried in shared dirt.

Hard Rain Poetry Anthology U.S. Link https://tinyurl.com/2p938cy8
International links on this page. 

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

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

Poetry from David L O’Nan in the Famous Poetry Outlaws are Painting Walls and Whispers


Hard Rain Poetry: Forever Dylan Anthology available today!

Kindle & Paperback Links:

U.S. : https://tinyurl.com/2p938cy8

Canada: https://tinyurl.com/2p9cnc2c

India: https://tinyurl.com/5ebda55a kindle only for now. Paperback should be there soon

U.K. : https://tinyurl.com/yc7sk3n8

France: https://tinyurl.com/2kahcd9v

Germany (Deutschland): https://tinyurl.com/fj24ed4s

Japan: https://tinyurl.com/33unzy8y Kindle only for now. Hopefully paperback sometime soon

Australia: https://tinyurl.com/3c6kdhxe Kindle only for now. Not sure on paperback here

Brazil: https://tinyurl.com/2p98w62w Kindle only for now. Not sure on paperback status

Italy: https://tinyurl.com/mryn59us

Netherlands: https://tinyurl.com/yrvzekh8

Mexico: https://tinyurl.com/6pf5jnc6

Poland: https://tinyurl.com/2p8h5b5p possibly kindle only so far

Sweden: https://tinyurl.com/yckjd7jn possibly kindle only so far

Spain: https://tinyurl.com/4pe777f2

United Arab Emirates: https://tinyurl.com/ne6m3j73 Paperback

Featuring the following:

Art/photos by Geoffrey Wren, David L O’Nan

Featured Poetry from Elizabeth Cusack
several pieces from me David L O'Nan (including debut poetry)
Ron Whitehead  (U.S. Beat Poet Laureate)
John Guzlowski
Ivor Daniel
Lynn White
James Schwartz
Robert Frede Kenter
Thasia Anne Lunger
Christian Garduno
R.M. Engelhardt
Peter Hague
Spriha Kant
Beth Mulcahy
Matthew Freeman
Kushal Poddar
Carrie Anne Golden
Joe Kidd
Troy Jackson
Mark Andrew Heathcote
w v sutra
Owen Bullock
F.E. Clark
Ethan McGuire
Ian Richardson
Doreen Stock
Peter Lilly
Dan Carpenter
Jude Neale
Clive Gresswell
Derek Smith
Tim Troglen
Billy Watson
Maid Corbic
Brenda E. Nwafor
Kathryn Sadakierski
Sadie Maskery
Jeremy Limn

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

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

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

Poetry from David L O’Nan in the Famous Poetry Outlaws are Painting Walls and Whispers