One Week Away from 40 (written June 2020)poetry by David L O’Nan

One Week Away from 40

As I feel the drums are silent
I want the drums to be pounding
As voices have become silent
I want the voices to sound human
All I see is the suicide villages.

The bloody ink smiles with corporate glamour
With loneliness of fear –
Trying to sever the flash from my being.

One week from turning 40
The mind is jaded
The body feels the breaking
The moonlight is not swimming in the veins
Society is translucent
Imaginary is much safer
The corners aren’t as closed in as reality

Enchant me with clouds NOT full of dysfunction
Paste my paper doll body into security
And out of this demonic-wet unknown
Where I’m the fish,
The temptation is the hook
And the bait is hollow and not fulfilling.

Wolfpack Contributor EIC Bios: David L O’Nan & HilLesha O’Nan

photo by David Monje (unsplash)

2 poems from A.R. Salandy in Fevers of the Mind Press Presents the Poets of 2020 : “An Ocean” & “Ephemeral Realities”

An Ocean

Rage through the mighty current
Of the darkened blue of an ocean so vast
Yet just as intriguing for in it swirl
The tides of destruction & reclamation-

So powerful in their innate prowess,
But above these waves
Sit a sky that trembles and howls-

At the sight of the angered ocean-
For it is much like the varied sea-
A tempered power beyond the mortal
Concepts of time and place-

For an ocean rages
As we fight to hold on to all we claim
So viciously from what it always had-

Whether through levee or canal
We try in vain to reclaim all we can
Against the rage of an ocean immortal,

But as it consumes the coastal towns
We fought so hard to preserve-
One can only bear witness to destruction
Which we can only mourn as our own betrayal.


Ephemeral Realities

Some cold days bring a sense of longing
That spills over into empty weeks
That fill the calendar of an isolated life-

So strongly stained
By the self-conscious worries
That derive from years of fighting-

To look all the more like the ideal
Of the society that exists so ephemeral
That its remnants only survive in the void

That is the empty web
That does little to subtract
From the ever growing reality-

That although the notion of living
Is as perpetual as the time
Created by our complicated mind

The slow movement of the clock
That exists to give order
To our mundane lives-

Will stop promptly before we will it.

Bio: A.R. Salandy is a mixed-race poet & writer whose work tends to focus on social inequality throughout late-modern society. Anthony travels frequently and has spent most of his life in Kuwait jostling between the UK & America. Anthony’s work has been published 150 times. Anthony has 1 published chapbook titled ‘The Great Northern Journey’ 2020(Lazy Adventurer Publishing ) & 1 upcoming Chapbook ‘Vultures’ 2021 (Roaring Junior Press). Twitter/Instagram: @anthony64120 https://arsalandywriter.com/  Anthony is the Co-Eic of Fahmidan Journal

photo by Jesper Brouwers (unsplash)

Poem by David L O’Nan : “Lipstick Sunset”

Lipstick Sunset
The acoustics of the guns pop
Against the Ivy and the prayers.
A breath frozen emotionless
Stinging to the skyline.

We love like mannequins
Staring at the sunset
And we watch the red rouge jetline
Across the domineering solar shivers.

We are the weeping fools
All of our memories clutched –
In the lines of our held hands.
All the knots in our bruising –
Begins to bleed the hurt away
As we sleep and wish away –
The hurt from past demons
The lingering spit of revitalized demons.

Beautiful and madly, babe
We fell madly into the flowers
The itching, biting blades of grass
The apples begin to fall
The white clouds are imprisoned
Sing the song of release
To the freedom of night

The guns don’t even phase us anymore

Wolfpack Contributor EIC Bios: David L O’Nan & HilLesha O’Nan

Reyna Elenita by Karlo Sevilla (poetry)

Reyna Elenita

Our little Maleeha raises both arms,
pirouettes and a bejeweled crown
springs up from the orbit outlined by her fingers,
which rises and shrinks until it settles upon her tiny head.
She slows to a standstill,
then extends her arms overhead, palms together.
She parts and gently lowers her straightened arms
and a halo of iridescent hues cascades.


For our quarantined Flores de Mayo, our little queen is crowned
and aureoled by a rainbow for her unmanned arch
right in our living room.

Bio: Karlo Sevilla from Quezon City, Philippines is the author of the full-length poetry collection, “Metro Manila Mammal” (Soma Publishing, 2018), and two chapbooks. Recognized among The Best of Kitaab 2018 and nominated twice for the Best of the Net, his poems appear or are forthcoming in Philippines Graphic, Revolt Magazine, DIAGRAM, Eclectica, Better Than Starbucks, Radius, Matter, Small Orange, and elsewhere.

photo by Ethan Schut

3 poems by Lawrence Moore : “Battle-Hardened” “Ghost #2”, “I am a Tightrope Walker”

Battle-Hardened
Cold and battle-hardened,
cast the drawbridge from my heart,
may the waters never part.
The border spare and sterile,
let no creeper bear its fruit,
make me barren at the root.
A world within my chamber
painted vivid and opaque.
Soak in dreams, all else forsake.
The bold knight probes the fortress,
courts a torrent of abuse,
keep it in but what’s the use
when the music he belongs to
is a song from whence they came?
Same fresh face, a different name.
Hurt but not defeated,
he retreats beyond the moat,
picking daisies, writing notes.
Alone and battle-hardened,
past the point of nothing lost,
how I long for peacetime-soft.

I Am a Tightrope Walker
alone in a crowd,
balancing on a thread so thin,
sometimes I forget it’s there.
I try my best,
two half shoes on either side,
s t e a d y a n d s a f e
u n t i l
the lurch
when the crowd snaps to attention,
baying for blood,
yet afraid to bleed,
four laser beams of unspoken will
imploring me to make their world
my final destination,
but I am a tightrope walker,
stalwart of obstinacy,
comfortable in solitude
and try as they might,
it’s hard to break the constancy
of a man with his head in the clouds.

Ghost #2
The gentle hum of distant traffic curls
the dormancy within him, till it swirls
and blends into the background, loses hold.
He peers into the restaurant from the cold.
His jealousy no good to man or beast,
he leaves the happy couple at the feast,
heads early for the theatre’s gaping doors –
romantic fiction Saturday’s reward.
The teenage boy who works behind the till
distracted, doesn’t notice (no one will).
Two hours pass before him in a blur.
The critics weren’t impressed, he might concur
if only he could hide his joyful grin.
The night-time crowd are slowly traipsing in
and he should limber up and head for home
to work upon a fiction of his own.

Bio: Lawrence Moore has been writing poems – some silly, some serious – since childhood. He lives in Portsmouth, England with his husband Matt and nine mostly well behaved cats. He has poetry published at, among others, Dreich, Pink Plastic House, Fevers of the Mind, Quince Magazine and Green Ink Poetry. @LawrenceMooreUK

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is 0wk8hsuy_400x400.jpg

featured photo by Sean Benesh