A Hallelujah for a Midnight War by David L O’Nan from Avalanches in Poetry Writings & Art Inspired by Leonard Cohen

I can feel your skin breathing in orbs

Kisses that feel like surgeries

And the money dies off when you are greedy

And step right into a Midnight War

Millions of Judases in the wilderness

The sick and the crimson

In torment

So Petrified

One breath, chokes

Hallelujah

 

In chaos

The hammer smashes in the glass

We, are hidden behind these walls

Combustion in bones

And all to become vapors

In this Midnight War

Where glitter turns to ashes

Break from the chains, a howl

Hallelujah

The spectres and the stars

Looking as one

Like in a mirror of night

Forsaken of riches

They loot the diamonds from the heart

And the robbery is simplicity

We feel translucent watching the seas

The Midnight War cripples

And the waves clash together in an

Everlasting

Hallelujah

 

The virgins spin down

With chapped lips

And breeding, hungry eyes

And you are numb to touch

A revolver, an allergy

The flaming of whips to erase your mind

The pearls they fall to the fire

The path is a torrent from fibrous roots –

To the vines of cherries

Angelic songs

Obliterations to my auditory invisibility

In grief, in pain

Praying in puns

Hallelujah

 

So, Midnight Passes

And we are back to 1 a.m.

Time for the blossoms and the honey

Woven into the fabrics of Earth

Tip toes the demons away

White horses begin to gallop

Wildly around the curves

And suddenly your eyelids open

Back to the reds, blues, orange sunlight

And hearses begin to putter

And the gas kills off the energy

Hallelujah

 

@DavidLONan1  on Twitter   @feversof on Twitter   

 

And the Wolf Shakes by David L O’Nan from Avalanches in Poetry: Writings & Art Inspired by Leonard Cohen

In a camera’s view

I am the tortoise

When hidden I am the hare

With whistles, kisses, dangerous fixes

I can be the crushed worm

I feel the hierarchy changes

The tornado rips these castles to rubble

And you dream of the vicious

And you dream of the gentle shelters

To keep you warm when the wolf shakes

Eventually, the Winter will slip through

The cracks

And eternally

We feel the peasant’s meal

The bears begin knocking and

We hide like the scared child

In the storms of war

The bullets, the bombs

Parades of hell

A demon

Tight and abusive

Drinks the rain

And leaves us thirsty

With endless clouds

Still bleeding

Even the devil can be chivalrous

When reflecting from the bottom of a wineglass

Even God can be frightening

When tasting of the bread

And the Holy Bible as a straitjacket

To whisper you back to sanity

These wars were made for men

Certainly not made for love

The damages are painting a death,

For the wash

The Washing away

As the floods finally come

Wipe away our hoax in these torrents

Rebuild our trenches

We can desire living again

When the wolf leaves

The sheep can play

Find me on twitter @davidLONan1 @feversof

feature photo of wolf by Jeroen Bosch on Unsplash.com

rsz_1elo4pnhxsaa-kkx (artwork by Geoffrey Wren for Avalanches in Poetry)

Re-post:Poetry by Neel Trivedi from Fevers of the Mind Press Anthologies

Why the Hate?

I ask a stranger how s/he was born?

From a mother’s womb they say.

Just like I once was.

So why the hate?

I ask a baby what religion is.

To the best of my ability to decipher baby talk,

s/he appears not to know.

Just like when I was a baby,

blissfully unaware of grown-up talk.

So why the hate?

I ask a stranger how s/he communicates?

With a tongue just like mine, they say.

The birthplace of every language, I think.

So why the hate?

I once spilled paint on my arm.

A palette of various colors made habitats on my skin

before leaving during my next shower.

Yet my heart, personality & identity

remained the same throughout.

So why the hate?

I try to form a collective hypothesis of my conversations:

We’re all born the same way & die someday.

Skin color & religion prove to be highly incompetent

to help a heartbeat, lungs breathe & brain cells grow.

So why the hate?

Beauty: A New Definition

For generations the wise ones have said

That beauty is in the eye of the beholder

But time passes, generations evolve

Some simple, some a lot bolder

Some proverbs die

Some new are born

Left to all to choose

Which are progress, which are scorn

Perhaps a similar time has come

To give beauty a new definition

Leaving the beholder out & say

beauty is in the heart of the pious one!

Beyond the Obvious

How the naive think

What abuse means

Perhaps some blue bruises

And a shattered spleen

Such evidence & signs

Are no doubt a fear

But is there no value

Of an isolated tear?

Everyone sees the obvious

Without a look inside

Curse this bloody flesh that makes

The wounded heart hide!

The Invisible Aura

Step into the vortex of my soul

To decode the language

I often speak to myself

Every night when I peel off my mirage

That the sea of gazes around me

surmises to be nonchalance

This is my universe where:

Depression is not a mere mood swing

It’s an actual chemical imbalance

My facial expressions are not always

Gateways to the feelings of my heart

Sometimes they are merely decor

My silence is not a symbol

Of any kind of equanimity

Listen to the aura who’s decibels

Don’t roar like a lion

But squeal like a mouse

Observe the aura that’s the

shy one in the corner

Acknowledge the unfelt emotions

For you may not feel them

But just a moment of your cognizance

Could determine their fate for eons

Soul Whisperer

I come with no ostentation

No glory or cavalcade

For I creep upon this junction

Not to arouse a racket

But to dismember the status quo

I make no proclamations to be

Your knight in shining armor

Or to dry your tears

But to bequeath equity of them

To feast on the salt with thee

I come not to sheath your malformations

But to stand in their gallery

And be a zealot for ages

Of what my heart senses to be

Not wounds but victors of endurance

Think not of me as a paladin

In a quaint fable

But a commoner just to proclaim :

I once bore what you did

 

And hearken the language of your soul

That others have stained as an enigma!

 

The Midas Scratch

 

Lay your fingers on the canvas of my flesh

And scratch till what you carve

Becomes the cynosure attire of my body

Never to be removed

Till the mind in its entirety

Is severed from the bones

Take no heed of any provisional brood

Or waterfalls of blood

For the blemishes will eventually mitigate

But the fable your fingers nurture with love

Will give me an immortal prevalence

To any and all around me!

Playing Along 

After Leonard Cohen’s “Waiting for the Miracle”

When the heart drowns in total despair

I soothe it by telling tall tales

Of an intoxication known as hope

A miracle is coming, says the heart

The mind just plays along

I dance in the name off faith

Even when my feet are numb

Lest I reveal the inner abyss

A miracle is coming, says the soul

The body just plays along

Stay in the slaughterhouse

So, my wounds can blend in

Lie in the rain so tears seem small

A miracle is coming, say the tears

The eyes just play along

So far not a sign

Not even a mere shadow

Or the calm before the storm

A miracle is coming, I say

The miracle just plays along

Neel photo(c) Neel Trivedi

Neel Trivedi is a freelance journalist & in the advertising business in Dallas, TX. He writes poetry & fiction. His work has been featured in Rhythm & Bones Magazine, Drabblez Magazine, Paragraph Planet, Dodging The Rain, Mojave Heart Review, Elephants Never, Chronos Anthology, Rising From The Ashes Anthology and Purpose Magazine. As well as Dailywisdomwords.com  He can be reached on Twitter @Neelt2001   

Making Change with Cohen (c) Amy Barnes from Avalanches in Poetry Writings & Art Inspired by Leonard Cohen

 

Notes fell into my fedora in

Too poetic of a way

Too synonymous with a busker I

Once knew

Once was

And his

panhandled songs

Stolen from places

And books and letters and the corners of my mind where music stood at corners

begging

As if there is such a thing as too poetic or too musical or too big of a fedora stuffed with first

notes and last notes and echo notes and silent notes and end-notes

Left behind by no crowd and all crowds and crowded crowds and invisible crowds

Maybe there is and

maybe there is not but the double f alliteration that rhymes with clef and marches next together

in fell and fedora

Almost made me laugh

But I didn’t

Instead

I inhaled

One more time my notes that smelled of music and sadness and grief and crescendos and

whole notes and half notes and

scribbled idea notes on napkins and marble slabs and cocktail umbrellas and gray matter

Not of a million fingerprints on faded dollars left in hats and boxes and musty violin cases

I hummed a dirge

of faded songs

That made no one laugh

And

left my fedora empty

 

Amy Barnes has words at a variety of publications including McSweeney’s, Parabola, Detritus Online, Guideposts, The New Southern Fugitives, Gnashing Teeth Anthology, FlashBack Fiction, Flash Fiction Magazine and Maria at Sampaguitas. She is a reader for CRAFT and Narratively and Associate CNF Editor for Barren Magazine.  

It’s Getting Darker (c) John W Leys from Avalanches in Poetry writings and art inspired by Leonard Cohen

I searched for salvation
I yearned for the light,
Looking for the stars
In the cloud covered night.
I fold my prayer like origami
And stuff it in the crack,
A missive to the almighty
Asking if the Flame is ever coming back.
I close my eyes, reaching out
Caressing the cold aging stone,
Trying to touch the ancient past
My soul has come to call home.
The Temple is in shambles
The Mercy Seat is lost,
2,000 years of homelessness
Trying to tally up the cost.
Looking past Mt. Moriah
To the light of the rising sun,
Warming windblown faces,
Dreams of a suffering undone.
The Messiah isn’t coming,
To save this damsel in distress,
It’s an uncomfortable truth to which
We cannot fail to acquiesce.
The clouds are growing darker,
But the deluge will never come,
The promise made on rainbow light
Will never be undone.
I yearned for salvation,
Searching for the light,
Is there nothing here to greet me –
Save the unending darkness of the night?

 

John W. Leys has been writing poetry since he was 14 years old, inspired by the lyrics of Bob Dylan and the Beatles. In addition to posting poetry on his own blog, he is a frequent guest contributor to poetry-blogs such as Blood Into Ink, Free Verse Revolution, and The GoDogGo Cafe. His first poetry collection The Darkness of His Dreams: Poetry was published in July 2019. He currently lives in Redmond, Oregon with his wife, son, three dogs, and two cats.
Links:
Darkness of His Dreams (Blog) darknessofhisdreams.wordpress.com/ Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/eliyahu5733 FB: facebook.com/darknessofhisdreams/ IG: https://www.instagram.com/johnleys/ GoodReads: https://www.goodreads.com/jwleys Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/author/johnwleys

I currently have one book published that is available on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1733364501