Poetry: Whispers by David L O’Nan

photo by Harli Marten (unsplash)

from my book “The Famous Poetry Outlaws are Painting Walls and Whispers” and “Bending Rivers”


Whispers tickling clouds on my lips
I’m here to be the lesser.
Once amazed, now I flutter like butterflies –
Into speckles, Into the wind.
Living like I once knew something.

When I breathe, a sound is birthed out like whispers.
Truth is domination and the fear is overwhelming.
The unknowing is appealing.
A whisper is a suggestion, a whisper is aesthetic
A whisper thirsts, the hunger is parasitic.

What will follow a whisper?
Turmoil, enchantment will follow.
A shadow crawls from the lips of your whispers.
Mourning the death of loneliness, inviting in a hex.
Did I invent this shining, did I invite this shade?

A whisper can lead you into temptation.
A whisper can scar you from the infinity.
A whisper can be holy, live as one with the trinity.

A noose in the vapor,  the man without his mansion, an ideal.
A whisper can take familial eyes to be mistaken to be eyes of the solace.

A whisper can be demonic, a whisper can be unruly.
A whisper can be saddened and polished for the ruined.
A whisper can be formidable in eyes that are everlasting.
A whisper can be sold for thousands of oily pennies.
A whisper can buy you pockets of torn, soiled regrets.

Now you walk around like you’re a legend.
You trip over your ego, see yourself as wrinkled.
Look at you old man, receding!
A mind that no longer has comprehension.
A foolish look into glamour, a reflection of dementia.

Your gaunt, slow, jagged walk
A whisper frozen in the dark.
A spirit stuck inside a foggy vault.
You’re talking to yourself.
Dust collecting on portraits, on bookshelves.

A whisper fills up with collisions between goods and evils.
A whisper dances across a floor, deceitful and gleeful.
A whisper, mesmerized by the robotic hints of pride and peaceful.
Is this what a human wants?
Is that just blind, animal magnetism?

A whisper, to be decayed or be a parade.
To be shared in a tornadic masochism.
A whisper is forever, is only dirt.
A whisper is a dream, a kiss from nature’s flirt.
A whisper is a nightmare, yet a whisper is free.
A whisper is oppressive and constipated with greed.

A whisper is your calling.
A whisper is your past.
A whisper is your present.
Your whisper is yours at last.

A whisper is no longer broken,
A whisper is no longer jailed.
No more are the moments of feeling tame, or unwell.

Can you trust a whisper?
Can you trust a stain?
Can you trust anyone but yourself, when it comes time for someone else to blame?

Whispers until a blink becomes a judgment, forever.
Whispers until your thoughts are jelly, when moments are coiled in a ball.
Striking out like lassos across the desert of these walls.

You can’t fake when you are a belief.
You can’t fake your inner seed.
You can’t peel away at stone when all in it’s core is another sheath.
Now you feel as whispers never evaporate.
Whispers follow you from freedom –
To the march – to the grave.

There are no whispers truly invisible.
Whispers are wisdom, (from where?)
Whispers are what is safe (inside a fold of mind)
When you look at the sky.  A tunnel to heal, a long breath to shame.
Whispers drunk on mortals.
Whispers are tingling through my feels.
Why can’t I digest what a whisper is?
Can it only be air?
Is it simply the simplest idea to grasp? 


 “Before the Bridges Fell” by me David L O’Nan Poetry book is out today on Cajun Mutt Press 

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

Bending Rivers: The Poetry & Stories of David L O’Nan out now! 

Fevers of the Mind founder bio: David L O’Nan (WolfPack Contributor) 

Revised, Renewed version of “The Famous Poetry Outlaws are Painting Walls and Whispers” by David L O’Nan now out

Revised, Renewed version of “The Famous Poetry Outlaws are Painting Walls  and Whispers” by David L O'Nan now out – Fevers of the Mind

Heartbreak by the Seashore by David L O’Nan (inspired by Audrey Hepburn)

(c) Maggs Vibo

Heartbreak by the Seashore

We met and departed by that same seashore house.
When you first looked at me, and laughed
in a shy, yet very conversational.
A slight flirtatious touch to my shoulder
and I was in love,
the sun reflected blades of energy across
where my heart lit on fire, and my soul dropped to
the sands for you to pickup, and take ownership.
In your ticklish grin, I could do nothing but be mesmerized
by your eyes.
We’d walk the sands, and one Sunday evening
as the glow of the moon shun on the waters
I said “You look just like a movie star from movies I’ve yet seen”
She said “Yeah, they say I look a little like Audrey, you know Audrey Hepburn?” In the most charming demure laugh I’ve ever heard.
I wasn’t quite sure until I researched, and there they were
just like her,
and her eyes were dancing back to me.
just like her,
her voice just swayed me away like a fool,
For some reason I felt if nothing was impossible, is this possible?
For hours and days on end
I could hear her music boxes playing
faeries and ballerinas, music notes in the air for me to grab
Was I living a myth?
Was she the reincarnation of her, sitting by black and white dollhouses aligned by jasmine?
And the Summer faded, and so did the Fall,
the Winter was as gusty as ever, and Spring had its way with the flowers. Creating new universes and felt bloodless, and used by the sins, and used by the lies, and abused by the skies.
In the rain, I picked the apples from the trees nearby
While in thought the lakes I would walk by were suddenly velvet
with rose petals stuffed in fairy tales, inside the polyphenols.
I would drink them in if I must, to make this last.
I began to chant her eyes in magical chants, offering gifts to the Gods to bring her my love, and her love to me.
I wait as she has married, I want to just see the eyes again.
Days later her reflection whips its way back to my soul.
A walk down the city sidewalk, and “I say hey,
do you remember me from my Summer getaway?”
She says “Of course, you’re the one who didn’t know about Audrey”
Suddenly I felt lost, dumb, and obviously not the only shy boy who was in love with her eyes.
I sat in love, by myself in thought.
In my city, lost and wondering if i’d ever see her again.
Will I ever feel that touch to my shoulder, the smile that erased my feeling of failure for just a little while.
I saw her again, after a lover’s spat. She was alone , awaiting a reprieve she felt.
No longer was she full of energy, but more like me
Depressed, confused and like me, lost.
in rain storms she was dressed more like a woman who left a fashion ball than living without a home under thundercracks.
We went back to my sorry 1-bedroom, and talked for the first real time about her, she spoke of a failed love back home, and
she finally took the time to understand me, and I pretended not to understand everything about her that i’ve built up in my mind.
We were spinning jars on the floor, playing Miles Davis as the rain pellets smacked the window.
We were picnics in the park, I’d stare as the strawberry leaves her lips. Entranced by her eyes.
We were hand in hand watching the tiny finches flapping in the puddles.
Leaving soundwaves of songs in the ripples.
Praying hope into our souls.
We were watching the magnolias flatten by the sun rot, as we sat
on stacks of Alfalfa Hay.
I knew she had to get back home after the many days of finally knowing love. She still had this Golden ring on her finger that began to shine like dishwater yellow to her.
How did the narcissism of the highway man, the traveling heart breaker not fall in love with the eyes, the smile, the gentle walks, the woman inside that fully understood the man I would become?
How did he get so lucky to have his fairy tale become true?
I hope to one day be back by that seashore and see her walk back
in a Holly Golightly divorcee cackle, and have arms ready for mine.
Even in the fog of her leaving, her eyes
The wailing of spirits from the ocean, her eyes
Sitting atop a reflection of an empty wineglass, and her eyes…
The secrecy of love note trails that lead to the top of her stairs,
while he was away.
The same trails in which her tears would drop when someone wasn’t looking as she took walks by herself, like I.
I await with the wind chimes.
I await in the milk white flowers that rest in the wind.
I await sitting the lonely mask in the corner of her eyes.
I plant her a garden, and believe in tomorrow.
To share our black and white mirrorball. I’m just a pebble wanting to be picked up to be swept away.
Forever in her palm,
and forever her eyes.

Fevers of the Mind founder bio: David L O’Nan (WolfPack Contributor)

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

“Before the Bridges Fell” by me David L O’Nan Poetry book is out today on Cajun Mutt Press

Bending Rivers: The Poetry & Stories of David L O’Nan out now!

Wolfpack Contributor Bio: Maggs Vibo

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