Bare Bones Writings Issue 1 is out on Paperback and Kindle

Cover photo by Paul Brookes of Wombwell

Bare Bones Writings is an extension of http://www.Feversofthemind.com . Themes we are Looking for Poetry/prose/articles/other styles of writing are for Adhd Awareness, Mental Health, Anxiety, Culture, History, Social Justice, LGBTQ Matters/Pride, Love, Poem series, sonnets, physical health, pandemic themes, Trauma, Retro/pop culture, inspired by music/songwriters, inspired by classic & current writers, frustrations. Artwork. Music, Poetry, Book reviews.

Issue 1 includes tributes to poets/writers that contributed to Fevers of the Mind in the past including Kari Ann Flickinger, Scott Christopher Beebe & Dai Fry.

A Fevers of the Mind Musician Spotlight on the albums of Marissa Nadler.

Short Interviews from the Quick-9 interview series with Khalisa Rae, Ron Sexsmith, & Shaindel Beers.

Poetry/Writings from Kari Ann Flickinger, Dai Fry, Scott Christopher Beebe, Paul Brookes, Bill Abney, Ankh Spice, David L O’Nan, Robert Frede Kenter (with poems about Lou Reed), Glenn Barker, Rc deWinter, K Weber, Robin McNamara, Elizabeth Cusack, an art/poetry collaboration between Lia Brooks & Phil Wood, the first 5 poems from Hiraeth Series by Kushal Poddar, Barney Ashton-Bullock, Spriha Kant, Jennifer Patino (with a poem inspired by Audrey Hepburn) and artwork by Maggs Vibo, Matthew M C Smith, HilLesha O’Nan, Lily Maureen O’Nan, Ken Benes, Jessica Weyer Bentley, R.D. Johnson, Ojo Victoria Ilemobayo, Norb Aikin, Andrew Darlington, Liam Flanagan, Christina Strigas, Lorraine Caputo, Conny Borgelioen, Adrian Ernesto Cepeda, Colin Dardis, Petar Penda, Helen Openshaw, Matthew Freeman, Christian Garduno, Eileen Carney Hulme, Colin James, Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal, Marisa Silva-Dunbar, Kate Garrett, A.R. Salandy, John Chinaka Onyeche.

Links:

https://tinyurl.com/ypax2vte United States

https://tinyurl.com/54datkad Canada

https://tinyurl.com/mt2h72aj Australia

https://tinyurl.com/ye5mvrfh India

https://tinyurl.com/mvcuxe8c U.K.

https://tinyurl.com/54sjsnxv Spain

https://tinyurl.com/zesshx9a France

https://tinyurl.com/28h47hdd Italy

https://tinyurl.com/4a8ta8f5 Mexico

https://tinyurl.com/mrya4uww Japan

https://tinyurl.com/yvuz8thd Netherlands

https://tinyurl.com/y65mt5c3 Poland

https://tinyurl.com/5ee9dh3b Turkey

https://tinyurl.com/2v26mwuj Sweden

Poems by Peach Delphine: Every Cloud Has Life of Its Own & Speaking of Home, Beyond the Wind, Flat

Photo by HilLesha O’Nan (with blue orb)

Every Cloud Has a Life of Its Own

Knife dreams of stone and wire
of edge, curling upon itself,
wire, once burnished away, reveals
the sinuous and bright word of cutting,
the long tongue of scar tasting bitter orange,
laceration stained hibiscus flowering,
rain sluiced into the bay, sweltering cauldron,
broth of migrations.

We did not dwell, ephemeral precludes
habitation, residency is the privilege
of those less soluble, less phosphorescent ,
we left no trace, no photographs, not even ash,
mouthfuls of sunset and the shimmy
of gossamer night unfolding  every horizon.

Room could not contain, windows
being more than apertures, points
of egress where we vanished into the breathing
  of sea, iron bellied clouds concealed  as weather,
tide of carrying, tide of shell calling us   by name,
   those once lost, those who could not remain.

Voice at the ear, voice of the cloud,
   swirling through palms as wet prairie
opens itself in a supplication of frog singing
lit by lightning, sleepless wet season,
irrigation ditches filling with water
not yet dark, not yet caramelized,
our names flow through creeks, cypress
knees, long plumes of moss licking
the surface as we make our way
out to the flashing jacks, silvered
mullet, tangle of mangrove, leaves
salt frosted and blazing verdure.

Accompanied by gifts, shelf clouds
piling on shore, white feathered egrets,
slivers of lightning, the low glide of pelicans,
we receive more than we can make in return,
   we name more than we can remember, endless
recitation against erosion,   we are bound to voice
of tide, of wind, raucous calls of rookeries
where our dreams slowly feather, singing
their way into flight, drawing us from roof
and door, returning us to a world without habitation,
without the naming of place, tides of giving
washing our bones smooth as wave, moon bright,
curling in the  mouth of conch, relentlessly.


Speaking of Home, Beyond the Wind

All thaw and sweltering, not yet
season of moonflower or sphinx moth,
sleeping by day, dreaming of manatees,
buoyant in the spring, blue flow silvered
with schooling jacks, jumping mullet,
boiling white sand, living  by the light of a cold flame,
speaking to the mirrored burning,
lost as we are, on the margins, talking
  to the moon in less dangerous
than conversations with men,  which is more
dangerous  than swimming with alligators,
shadows treading water, elegant logs
with shining eyes, the weather here
  is affectionate full of heat and damp,
thunderstorms brewed up for the taste of coldness.

Lightning licking its way through cypress
and pine, the dog wedges herself
under the table as the cracking approaches,
 sizzling despite the rain, gouging out
long strands of bark from the pine next door,
waiting for this, bursts of illumination
wind straining at the oak,  a song
out of darkness, an answering voices,
a defiance of what would deny us
the everyday gentleness and motion
of tide, nightgown soaked, shiver
in my voice, the dog is not amused
at any venturing out in the rain.

Some can't abide tangle and clutter
of thicket, slash of straight line wind
and deadfall, shaggy cabbage palms
or the wicker woven arms and knees
of mangrove, some can't abide
that their god has not yet struck us down,
or caust us from the precipice,
or that we are not afraid, having known
the song of the blade for so long
we have become the flowering
no edge will part from the earth,
the vine that will not fail, the fox
sleeping in the shade of oak and cedar,
a wave rolling out of the Gulf no fence
will restrain, no hand will push down,
no prayer will deny that we are such as we are,
wind in our hair, sea in our eyes,
fragmented and worn, we too will add our shells
to this shore, to the constant arrival of tide and star
  of moon and sun, to the constant repetition
of the litany of belonging.

Flat

Water, not anguish, lifts oaks
the first steps of flight, yet leaves
cannot overcome the heaviness
of memory, so much despair soaked
into the aquifier drawn forth, hydraulics
of root, trunk and limb, beyond the trees
blanket flower, railroad vine, gulls
facing windward, waves stacked
on sandbar

Brittle is how the tooth cracks,
blade chips on bone, the self shatters,
shards pooling on the floor, resolve
to endure vanishing as cold sets in,
warmth flowing out, body anticipating
  the glide into quietude.

Arc flows through a line
in the sand, it is a far shore, sea
flowing from here to there, a woman
inscribes glyphs in the sand,
what is mending, the cup once broken
becomes new, the shell remade speaks
of a ghost, without hymn or prayer
we are without, unattached against sun and rain.

When you're small
and want to vanish but don't know how,
 there's no way to see how you'll learn
 to turn the pain inside out and eat it
 like an orange or how fifty years will pass,
the hard cold breath of morning cracking
 sternum, memory will come, as stealthy
 as wind as the taste of the sea ever on the tongue
 salt and the swell of wave, tide washing
   through lacerations, scars forming a text,
a chart of what horizon long ago swallowed,
submerged lands.

A drowning that returned you, moon pale,
a form  that cannot leave the sea, facing
oaks and pine, palms open in supplication,
beyond the treeline an orange burning,
a brighter flame filling the sky, a wind darker
than crow, the only tongue between us
being glyphs inscribed in sand, lifted
from the body, unlaced from skin, visible
  only to sea and moon, tide erasing
each word before barnacled memory
solidifies the text of departure,
form dissolving into wave.
Bio links:
Bio: Peach Delphine is a queer poet from Tampa, Florida. Infatuated with what remains of the undeveloped Gulf coast.

Poem by Peach Delphine: wave is a circular motion (poetry repost)

Meet the Fevers of the Mind WolfPack Pt 1: David L O’Nan & HilLesha O’Nan

Patience of egrets (c) Peach Delphine

1968 by HilLesha O’Nan

1968

It is 1968
and
Tammy Wynette is somewhere crooning -
on the jukebox
"Stand by your man"
I stood by man
and all I got was a fat lip
and a broken jaw
I served him his bacon and eggs
for one last time in a frying pan -
to the back of the head! one morning.

I stood by him
and watched as he fell
into an endless slumber.
Like most fairytales,
mine comes with a happy ending.

My chariot awaits at last -
to whisk me off to my own
6x8 fortress at the IWP.
When the clock strikes 12,
I'll be standing by my man
through heaven or hell.

Bio: HilLesha O’Nan is a blogger, writer, photographer & marketer. She is co-editor/founder of Fevers of the Mind Poetry & Art. She runs the blog tothemotherhood.com for over 15 years

Disco King of the Appalachian Mountains by HilLesha O’Nan

Disco King of the Appalachian Mountains

Bouncing
up and down
like the old station wagon
the night my cousin 
Lily was conceived. 9 months later, my Aunt Pam would have her in the parking lot
at the disco where Uncle Buck would
try to make a point to her that he still got it. High from hillbilly coke and the euphoria from the ladies swirling around him, he swirled for one last time and pointed up at the fading disco ball at the tavern. Disco reached its peak, but you couldn’t tell this to Buck Williams. He was the Disco king of the Appalachian mountains! He made a swift exit to take a puff on a Pall Mall. When he opened up the door to the station wagon, he was in for a surprise. There was Aunt Pam holding baby Lily in her arms.  

Bouncing
up and down
5 years later
Lily was spry as a creek in spring. With her gutter mouth and venomous tongue, her words could slap the taste out of your mouth and shoot any ‘old man down - just like her daddy. No one ever dared to mess with Lily Williams. Where was Aunt Pam? No one knew except for Uncle Buck. He’d always say that she was sleeping underneath a blanket of stars. Whatever that meant! There was always a twinkle in his eyes whenever he said it. No one ever dared to ask for further details. They could find her if they wanted to - at an abandoned junk yard in a 1974 Ford Country Squire.  



Bio:HilLesha O’Nan is a blogger, writer, photographer & marketer. She is co-editor/founder of Fevers of the Mind Poetry & Art. She runs the blog tothemotherhood.com for over 15 years

A Fevers of the Mind Poetry Showcase with HilLesha O’Nan 

Poem/lyrics by HilLesha O’Nan: “The Preacher’s Wife”

A Fevers of the Mind Poetry Showcase with HilLesha O’Nan

photo by Danica Stradecke (unsplash)
The Rose Garden

 I was the rose garden
that you left unattended.
 I still bloomed despite the weeds
Wild and free,
 I had to find my way through -
the wilderness

Every now and then, a passerby
would stop to admire my beauty.
It was the thorns that
kept others from getting too close-
even to give me water, I thirsted for.
 I suppose I don't mind wailing for the rain
as I have weathered plenty of life's storms.

The Rose Garden II

My dear,
desolated rose
You can't understand this world -
without pain,
but just know
that not everyone abandoned you.

You often let the thorns stand in your way. I tried
reaching out, but I got so tired of standing there -
hoping that you'd see your beauty.
You always said Father Time waited for no one, but I'm not
going to either. Don't let irony get the best of you.
You were always wild and free
So why are you here

Weeping
in your rose garden?

lollipop Dream

It was a lollipop dream. There
were monsters in their tiny 
castles made of sand and
rattlesnakes with diamond eyes.
The paper tigers chased playfully
while the bears frolicked in the 
daisy fields. It was a lollipop 
dream. Where the sour hid behind a
        sweet facade.

The Funeral Man

No one knows his real name,
but they called him the Funeral Man.
Tall and slender,
with a dead stare, he'd appear
in dreams out of nowhere, in a hearse.
His skin was 
almost shadow-like 
Was he a shadow of his former self?
He kidnapped unsuspecting victims
and then would disappear,
as fast as he had appeared,
leaving a trail of smokey fog -
that didn't lead anywhere.
Who was this creepy -
strange dream drifter
While those who dreamed of
him didn't know who he was,
it was said that his 
arrival meant trouble
was to come.

Unknown #1

Take me back
to that night
on a cold October
I would have held your hand
I would have listened
I would have loved you
I would have danced
with you under the moonlight
and the blanket of stars
would have kept us warm

The Rotten Apple

She had an ugliness
      about her
yet many
  couldn't see it right away -
like a slowly rotting apple.
Bright and wholesome
  on the surface -
you didn't know what was 
 lurking
underneath her facade
Until it broke down
and she had wormed her way -
to your core.

Unknown # 2

I drank
the delirium
danced with the moon
 and slept
with the wolves.

Unknown # 3

She stares at her reflection in the mirror
Barely recognizing the woman staring back at her.
    Thinning hair
  Time worn skin
Her beauty has faded gradually over the years
like a faded rose petal
dried and pressed -
in the pages of a book long forgotten.

Her memories are no different
Shattered fragments
  sharp and dull
Scattered like broken glass
She then hears music playing at a distance.

"On a dark desert highway
Cool wind in my hair
Warm small of colitas
Rising up through the air"    

A faint smile crosses her lips
To a memory that croons inside her soul
She sways to the music 
and drifts to a time lost 
Yet, not completely forgotten.

 Young, naive, and in love with love
and a childish notion that time was limitless.

The Drunken Ballerina of the Night

The pine trees swayed
     and danced
Whispering a song
     to the night

 A chorus of animals
      sung along
as I drunkenly walked
deeper into the forst
with the moonlight
   being my only guide.

I swayed
I danced
like a drunk ballerina
Singing my own song
       and the crickets
       chirped along.

Past Parades Fade Through All Your Egos

You marched up and down 
the Kentucky roads in your own narcissistic
parade. You waved the red flags,
but no one seemed to notice as they 
caught up your broken boy charm.
No matter how many times I tried
to save you from drowning in your
thought, I always ended up being
the one to blame. You let your folks
talk about me as I was nothing.
Every time there was a problem,
You'd waltz right to your mom's apron 
strings. My feeling was invalid when I 
tried to turn to you.  You turned the
cards around and I was the crazy one.
I always stood alone whenever I stood up
for myself. You let me drown in despair, 
and the one that ended saving me was myself.

2 new poems/writings by HilLesha O’Nan : “In Patagonia” & “These Walls”

Poem/lyrics by HilLesha O’Nan: “The Preacher’s Wife”

Poetry by HilLesha O’Nan : “Small Town Hearts” “Two Wolves” & “Living with the Mirrors”

Bio:HilLesha O’Nan is a blogger, writer, photographer & marketer. She is co-editor/founder of Fevers of the Mind Poetry & Art. She runs the blog tothemotherhood.com for over 15 years