Bio: Raegen Pietrucha writes, edits, and consults creatively and professionally. Her chapbook, An Animal I Can’t Name, won the 2015 Two of Cups Press competition; her debut poetry collection, Head of a Gorgon, is forthcoming with Vegetarian Alcoholic Press in May; and she has a memoir in progress. She received her MFA from Bowling Green State University, where she was an assistant editor for Mid-American Review. Her work has been published in Cimarron Review, Puerto del Sol, and other journals. Connect with her at raegenmp.wordpress.com and on Twitter @freeradicalrp.
My Brother (Lays dead under the Hickory Tree) Inspired by Anne Sexton by David L O’Nan
My Brother (Lays Dead Under the Hickory Tree)
There he is I see him under pelts of hailstones A riddled mind and diseased by doctors the icy rain pulsing little cuts All over and over again. I'm still in a quiet thought We always felt the ending. Or at least I have seen this ending. In nightmares every night The men festive from the jail. Mother, a stereotype. Needing an exorcism. There he is My brother, a little hushed baby of 25. Shoes as split as a peeled banana. His coloring of blue, like the river nearby. Like the breeze that blows through his long haired, daredevil boy. He was hideous in his battle Popping firework amphetamine pills, dragons watch the alleys. The abusive and abused in corners and in jars. Oh, lonesome traveler a blood kissed jewel. Some crows sing in their broken voices, they sit atop the bells. They fly in the air, they congregate in the tree above. The sick hickory I watch with no blink as they rescue him from the cold ground. For only a few long hours and then they just return him back to give him a comfortable dirty sack. Underground, where they'll whisper out your sins to each other. We can't escape the gossip. Gossip clumsily falls like a slinky missing a step along the way. The steps that are missed however, are remembered for coming up with the best stories. Your best demise. Current bio for Fevers of the Mind’s David L O’Nan editor/writing contributor to blog.
Poetry Inspired by Photography by Kevin DeLaney @kpdela Poetry by Matthew Freeman, Vipanjeet Kaur, Lesley Curwen and David L O’Nan “The Empath Dies in the End”
The Empath Dies in the End
So I find myself alone after a night of separation A Black night lit up over our green chairs. Now empty, no longer filled by our bodies and our conversations, sits like ghosts My God! this night has moon lit on fire. I was the first to vanish from your anger. Your white lightning skin wrapped in the moon rays, as you paddled insults to my heart. You will never let me feel the honey. To let my lungs wrap up in the stickiness. The mosquitoes and the bees begin to sleep with a thirst. Will a new man let you swim in that undertow? The Chimes they cling together by the swirling winds. The clashing waves pour onto your cracked toes from Lake Seneca. Several hours of dancing some unnamed waltz. On your hideaway beach that wasn't hours. That is what the prophet tells me. Stabbed in waiting while the hymns carry my ghost away from my body. I listen with dim sleeping eyes. The boats in the distance belt out tunes. I drain in this loneliness. The weakness, rustic in scowl. Blood over the beads of rocks. Listened to the wind blow once. Listened to the wind blow twice. It was a disguise. Converged pure from my polluted brain. The narcissists was wiry and sudden and overtook my neglected heart. Infested a brain. The Empath dies in the end. Current bio for Fevers of the Mind’s David L O’Nan editor/writing contributor to blog. The Tranquil Sun by Vipanjeet Kaur The sun sits tranquilly over the western horizon at dusk, His charioteer slows down and pauses for a while After traversing the whole sky. While riding the chariot of dusk, He smiles a last fading smile – A farewell gesture; A token of eternal love; A parting kiss to the dying day. While folding millions of his imponderable arms of rays that pervade the world throughout the day, He draws the blinds of his effulgence down before night, Like a mourner, saluting the passing day. Beyond the picket fence of my mansion, The one-eyed overseer rings the bell of repose and looks at me through crimson windows, imparting a rosy aureole to my dormant hopes, and like a dreamcatcher promising vernal dreams. A fervent plea in his closing eye to release the unrealised dreams of the dying day: broken, dead and decayed in the autumn of dusk. Let them burn on the pyre of the setting light, Let the sombre red embers reduce them softly to ashes with the deepening darkness of dusk, Let them dissolve in the darkness of night, Let the cremains of despair be immersed in the flowing silver moonlight before a new dawn begins a new chariot ride. Bio: Ms. Vipanjeet Kaur from India is a poet fond of writing poems on various themes like nature, women empowerment, self, spiritualism and life. Her haikus have been featured in the international online journals like Haiku Dialogue of The Haiku Foundation, The Haiku Pond, The Cold Moon Journal and the Scarlet Dragonfly Journal and her micropoetry has been published in the Five Fleas (Itchy Poetry). She has also read research papers on the topics of Literature, Human Rights and Women Empowerment in a few national seminars and international conferences. She can be followed on Twitter @vjpoeticmusings. Fevers by Matthew Freeman And I’ve said there’s no difference between the streetlamp and the moon. And that’s still true, but now in late September as everything wanes I’m sitting outside my sister’s apartment with my diet soda and my cigarette and my iPod watching the crowd get thin at Ted Drewes and every little thing we believed in fall apart. Someday when the sun burns out you’ll ask yourself whether you stayed true, really true, to your feverish desire. A Poetry Showcase by Matthew Freeman Moonage by Lesley Curwen Haloed lunacy floats crosshatch beam through umber cloud and bulrush-crown. Bleak horizon swallows photon-feed down continents of eyeless waves. Landward, pines guard empty chairs against moon's threat, a pump-song chuckles chlorine, muddles jets of aquamarine gems. Poetry based on photography “The Lone Road to Moloka’I” from Maggs Vibo Poetry based on photography Challenge from Ankh Spice pt. 1
Another poem by Clive Gresswell inspired by Leonard Cohen
another glory poem or untitled by Clive Gresswell
another glory poem along the glory road the golden sun is rising the golden tongue explodes. & in your rising daydreams the dreaming of your past the golden gate of conscience where golden memories pass i see your twinkling presence in the holy time of spirit i hear your uplifting songs in the presence of the minute. & long may you glimpse over this bejewelled landscape of green the highlands & the byways the golden beauties theme. A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Clive Gresswell More Poetry Inspired by Leonard Cohen from R.G. Evans & Clive Gresswell Poetry Showcase: Poems DNA by Clive Gresswell
2 Poems from Ethan O’Nan : Dysphoria & Lake
Cognitive of the day We tumble ran to the lake Tripped off pants Slipped down dress Frantic laughing to the water Control lost, no play cool Wet lips pressed, slick Summer hot skin, steam Dripping lake from strands Pushed from our eyes Lure me under again Dysphoria originally published in Fevers of the Mind Presents the Poets of 2020 I was told this is what I had to do So my eyes seek a shape, pattern – fixation Numb the mind Climb inside the dark circle of the paneling Twist into the loops & swirls of the curtain Trace the maze of the tiles on the floor It will all be done soon This is what I was told I should do That body isn’t mine But I lug it around And with it a persona to puppet Who was I with her? How did I behave around them? No one really knew…me I can’t say hello to you of five years ago. I took this skin out & we spoke words that had meaning then, maybe I don’t remember them now How forgetful, unthoughtful, you’ll think Who was I? How much of me did you really see? Better to burn the past than pick through splinters I suppose this life is akin to living in a suitcase Taking out this being, this flesh to engage A misfit to the mind Desperate to love, but moments of love felt like terror as well Numb the mind Find a shape And if I were to change this skin Receive stitches and sutures to be a more fitting form You might be perplexed You might think it a joke Those who felt closest May just deny, grow angry, grow sad Call on the name of ghosts now gone But a puppeteer’s arms grow heavy & sore After half a lifetime of shows And once the rubble of the mind is cleared The choice must be made to live life’s remainder In a performance for others Or to stop staring at patterns Ethan O’Nan is a trans man living in North Carolina, he has a wife and 2 children. Ethan only dabbles in writing these days. His whole life has led to the last few years fully understanding what to do to make him feel on the outside like he has always been on the inside. The older brother of EIC David L O’Nan, Ethan is a business owner along with his wife Kristi. Ethan enjoys 80’s music, art, crafting, making soap, & comedy.