3 poems from Ulane Vuorio from Fevers of the Mind Issue 2 “Choices” “Darkness”

lit candle in hand
photo by Eyasu Etsub from Unsplash.com


you chose him
but he did not choose
all of you
he slapped the girl
from your past
godmother's magic
made her sofa
a happy place
for the girl
not wanted
talking the tears
and hiding her hurt
but she came back
others judgment
made her say
that we all
big happy family
girl wanted to stay
but girls
are not asked
and they do not
get to ask why
why did you not
choose me
I was only


In your darkness
you crave me
because of my light

and in your loneliness
you hate me
because of my light

in your greediness
you want it all
all my light

not to shine
just to have it
alone in your darkness

Does Anybody See

my head is full of words
your words of anger
that break me

into million pieces
slowly down

I am nowhere
lonely silence

I take the pieces
and put together
a new me

leave the pieces
that were yours
lying there

this new me
so fragile
and transparent

does anybody see
this new me
does anybody see

Ulane Vuorio is a poetess and amateur photographer who finds inspiration spending time outdoors in her beautiful homeland of Finland. Her passion is nature and macro photography, finding beauty in small things that often go unnoticed.  Being a foodie and a lover of cooking and baking also stirs her creativity. Ulane started reading and writing at age five. Books and words are still at the center of her life today. Working as a freelance translator made her pay particular attention to the meaning of words and how to craft better sentences. She enjoys flash fiction and dreams of publishing her own book of poetry & photography. You can find her on twitter at @ulanevuorio 

Poetry for his father: Footprints by Matthew M C Smith from Fevers of the Mind Issue 2

Michael CAF Smith (1948-2012)

Footprints (for my father)

Our footprints, the tracks of our play,
going all ways, ran deep along the shore.
All our lives we laughed along the stretch,
we laughed at simple games, splashing
through pools of silver, across sands of 
burnished gold. We laughed against the sky
and you listened to young voices,
spellbound, time out of mind.
That day, the wind whipped the waves,
the swell surged, we were beaten
by torrents, caught in the rising storm,
the crash, deafening.
We floundered, soaked to the bone.
The light was cold, so very cold
and we shouted as we saw you,
separate, tides encircling,
gazing out in silence.
We saw your still, bowed head,
as if in prayer. The rip took your feet,
and you were taken, consumed,
the falling man.
We took your arms, hands,
searched in eyes of ages blue,
taking that curve of jaw, seeing your soul
as a burning ship and still your head was bowed.
As the tide slipped, you were so white, so white,
kissed by time's silent lips.
No cry, nor whisper, a cross shape near
crested roar and the people you love
carry you from the shore

For more on Matthew check the link below

3 poems from Shiksha Dheda

Is the door locked?

Checking the locked doors once.
Washing the dirty dishes.
Checking the locked doors once again.
Washing the linen.
Washing the linen once again.
Washing the dishes once again.

Checking to see if the windows are shut.
Checking to see if the taps are closed.
Checking to see if the windows are shut.
Checking to see if the taps are closed.
Checking the locked doors.

Counting the steps from one room to the next.
Is the door locked?
Oh no! I must count again.
2. 3. Are the windows shut closed? Completely closed?
I am sure that I locked the door.
Let me check once more.

Checking the locked doors once.
Checking the locked doors once again.

Also appeared in Brave Voices Magazine January 2021 link: https://bravevoicesmagazine.org/2021/01/12/a-poem-by-shiksha-dheda/amp/?


I hide from the darkness of the world,
trying to find some comfort between the
letters that I memorize.
Words of affirmation.
Words that make me feel normal.
Less strange at the least.

I embrace the sterility of the walls inside.
Sheltering myself from the rainbow of outside.

I tune into the white noise inside,
Having grown tired of their sensationalistic music.

I lay covered by my cold,
hiding from their warmth.

I am struggling to breathe now.
My own air suffocating me.
My own coldness burning me.
My own noise bleeding through my ears.
My own letters mocking me for my strangeness.

I open the doors.
I open my doors.
To the outside.
To their outside.
To them.
I have been rejected
-left desolate-
-rendered homeless-
by myself.
I am now their refugee.

Also published in Visual Verse January 2021: https://visualverse.org/submissions/refugee-dheda/

The find

I do not know how it started.

On Monday, the glass just seemed a little dirtier than usual.

On Tuesday, the speck of dust on the carpet appeared to be
slightly larger than the day before.

On Wednesday, the photographs hanging on the hall in the
drawing room seemed a little less straight than it had on Tuesday.

On Thursday, all the curtains that had any red colour had to be altered because everyone knows that red equals blood and blood is always bad.

On Friday, I steamed and bleached down all the cutlery and crockery at home before I could use those filthy things again.

On Saturday, all my laundry was washed thrice at 95 degrees and were made to dry indoors, as the air outside must be unhealthy and dangerous.

And on Sunday, well Sunday was peaceful, a conventional day for rest-
but wait…what is this I see?

All the days of the week have been engraved on my hands in the
form of tiny red cracks and spots: guess I just have to wash them out now.
And who knows? Maybe I will wash so hard and for so long a time that
I might just find some relief.
Some peace.

Also published in Ghost Heart Literary Magazine March 2021 here is the link: https://www.ghostheartliteraryjournal.com/the-find-by-shiksha-s-dheda

New WolfPack Team Contributors: Chris L. Butler & Anneka Chambers

Anneka Chambers

Anneka Chambers (she/her) is a Black British Born Londoner. She is a Poet & Social Justice advocate, currently campaigning for the rights of the Windrush Generation in the UK. Anneka’s poetry can be found in South Bank Poetry Magazine, Isa Magazine, Brave Voices and Dwelling Literary amongst forthcoming publications. Insta: @22poetrystreet   Twitter: @annekachambers

Chris L. Butler

Chris L. Butler (he/him) is an African American and Dutch poet/essayist from Philadelphia, PA living in Canada. His debut micro chapbook, BLERD: ’80s BABY, ’90s KID (Daily Drunk Press) is set to be released in August 2021. He is the Associate Poetry Editor at Bending Genres and a feedback Editor for Versification Zine. You can read his work in Flypaper LitTrampsetPerhappened MagThe Bayou Review, and others.

Poems by Tim Heerdink: Us Motherless Men & Maybe This Will Be the Last Time

Us Motherless Men

I woke up just before 8 on a Sunday
without a voice singing Happy Birthday
at that time where I entered this existence.

Everyone in their beds while I scooched
past the pooch to stare at the older man
staring back at me in that dim night light.

There’s a growing list of acquaintances
who find this celebration hard for grins
as we travel along, us motherless men.

Maybe This Will Be the Last Time

after James Benger

The rain’s still falling
even on the inside.

Each clock’s hands gone dead
like maybe it’s time to unwind.

My pockets are filled with empty promises
I use when dead presidents aren’t found.

Come & give me your mind if I’m still around,
but knowing you through verse, I think you understand.

We’re all trying to find a place to sleep
& a little bit of that lost sunshine.

Some of us hope not to wake,
but maybe this will be the last time.

Tim Heerdink is the author of Somniloquy & Trauma in the Knottseau Well, The Human Remains, Red Flag and Other Poems, Razed Monuments, Checking Tickets on Oumaumua, Sailing the Edge of Time, I Hear a Siren’s Call, Ghost Map, A Cacophony of Birds in the House of Dread, and short stories, The Tithing of Man and HEA-VEN2. His poems appear in various journals and anthologies. He is the President of Midwest Writers Guild of Evansville, Indiana.