Poem “It’s Getting Darker” by John W. Leys in Avalanches in Poetry Writings & Art Inspired by Leonard Cohen

It's Getting Darker

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?

Bio from 2019:
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

3 Poems by Amanda McLeod from Fevers of the Mind & Avalanches in Poetry Anthologies

Ophelia, Drowned

in madness and sorrow
turn from the depths, child,
and bathe your face in sweet light
let the current be your baptism
instead of your death
emerge clean, shining
know this darkness is not forever
beyond shadow, there is always light
for one does not exist without the other
give the river your sadness
but not your soul
your beauty is needed here
your joy brings joy to others
an ending means a new beginning
but not this kind of end
there is more for you here
than what one man could take away
let another you come forth
stronger
reforged
glistening
make the water your mirror
what do you see,
when you search for yourself there?

Broken 

Broken
Brother night, take me -
Let me feel the coolness
Of your hands on my fevered skin
Sweet darkness -
Drop your midnight veil
The harsh light of the sun
Burns my eyes Sears my lungs Scalds my heart
Pour on me the countless raindrops
That become the flood
Let darkmoon silence
Hum in my ears a mute ritual
Float me womblike in
Comfortable ebony air
My lacquered bones holding
No weight
Glass splinters
Prickle my stomach
Pierce my skin
I pull them out one by one
Careful not to spill my own blood; watch
The glitter spread on towels
Mind my step
Crushed hearts are sharp when
Only stars light the way

Each shard wet with the broken promise
Of an empty vessel

For Leonard; You Freed Me

Someone else brought your words to me,
but I was mesmerized from the start.
Who was this stranger who seemed to know
all my secrets? Where had you been, 
on those endless nights I needed to feel
less alone?
Where were you when everything I wanted
to say was choking me, and the wellspring
threatened to drown the flame
that burned behind the bushel
of my heart?
No matter. A rare gift, pulled
from a shelf with a quiet hallelujah
and my life was never the same again.
The world needed beauty and dignity
and quiet strength, and so did I.
You gave me hope; showed me
the beauty in my cracks and taught me
how to love my damage.

Poems from Amanda McLeod in Fevers of the Mind Issue 1 (2019) “Inclimental Anger” “Day With Perfect Storm” “Anchor” “You Are My Sun, Except When I Am Storm”

Poem from Avalanches in Poetry Writings & Art inspired by Leonard Cohen (2019)by Barney Ashton-Bullock “Yet”

Yet

Just a blurry Instamatic of a beautiful oblivion;
your pulse of molten honeyed cuss splurged
amphet emphatic 'cross empathies so tautly gut
strung; aggressive passivities' midst the berserk
crosswinds of all our jading, estranging, ageing lives.
Yeh! We who'd meanly thrived a while
decrying those who'd run 'empty to depot'
or into sand-drags and cul-de-sacs headlong,
when we were wired and unreasoned,
when we were high and couldn't know
that for every passing night train seen,
there'd be many that ran slow
and yet still made their way to Jesus
on some hallowed old railroad.
Uninvited revenants
can sabotage their deities.
Ad hoc flash-mob choirs gnarl
their by-rote chew of your psalmic 'Hallelujah' as a
latterday laical 'Amazing Grace'
in a virtue-signalled, idolatrous, paean deadpan.
(With a side order of triple fried tears sigh-cried, m'dead dear!)
Their churn of appropriated hosannas amaze me.
Their strewn, flung flumes of approximated levities
that bomb-rush bang the tenderer quietudes of resolve.
It is such we meek and merciful fans are slain whilst
in smulchy meditative mood; our mourn allayed.
As a grazed petal in a wind buffed descent might
skitter its chapped whispers until its end around
the remnants of diminished sonant range, and
gruffer mauls of declarations made, so,
luscious lowing Cohen intoned, stentorian steady,
ethereal as an icicles last twist of gliss,
his proffered profundities so profoundly missed
and, yet,  by most ignored as we, forlorn
satellites, drift half kiss to half kiss within
the interstice of the self-same gyres of
the 'sacred' and 'profane', yet, tardily realise they
said of Madame Thatcher too, 'We will not know
their like again'...
Just a blurry Instamatic of a beautiful oblivion;
we remnant cones of desiccant, we debris of
disciples who burnt, with you, in you, for you,
In the immanent umbra, and in the protective Arc
of your sainted, yet secular, book of sensu-songs
that frond our hubris, our hubris frond.


Meet the Fevers of the Mind WolfPack: Barney Ashton-Bullock

Poetry entry for Avalanches in Poetry 2 by Barney Ashton-Bullock : L’anti-arriviste est parti

Bio: Barney Ashton-Bullock, is the poet/librettist in the ‘Andy Bell is Torsten’ music-theatre-poetry collective and he narrates his own verse on the Downes Braide Association albums. He is the founder of Soho Poetry Nights. He has poetry published, or pending publication, in a wide range of cult poetry journals**, in the ‘Avalanches In Poetry’ tribute anthology to Leonard Cohen, in the Dreich pamphlet ‘Famous’, in the Pilot Press ‘Queer Anthology Of Healing’ and in the 'Soho Nights' anthologies published by The Society Club Press who also published his first collection ‘Schema/Stasis’ in 2017. His latest poetry pamphlet ‘Café Kaput!’ was published by Broken Sleep Books in 2020.<br>(**the Wellington Street Review, the New River Press Yearbook, SPAMzine, Re-Side Magazine, -algia Press, Scab Mag, Pink Plastic House Journal, Lucky Pierre Zine, Poetry Bus, Neuro Logical Magazine and the Babel Tower Notice Board)

Wonderful Artwork from Avalanches in Poetry Writings & Art Inspired by Leonard Cohen by artist/writer Geoffrey Wren

Geoffrey Wren

For more of Geoffrey’s amazing work with not only Leonard Cohen art, but other great art, check out his fb page https://www.facebook.com/GeoffreyWren/media_set?set=a.10214733692329782&type=3

Let it be Cindy’s Pain, Not Yours by David L O’Nan (poetry)

Let it Be Cindy’s Pain, Not Yours

Cindy shall walk in when you are shaking and queasy,
After your fall of Rome
In a blue skirt, she changes out by the torn curtains. Without care from the peeping Toms
She’s got the eyes of a starving tiger.
And finding yourself in that blood orange revenge As you kiss away the letters to stray hands. She never wears red, but today Her dress is for a wet crimson death.

She will leave you in prayer in the frosty room.
In many hours reading the sadness of Hermann Hesse
She will weave in the stream of lies
The waters that drown the appendages of a once muscular tree.

So Cindy wears the chains.
The Silver pistol earrings
The eclipsing sun can’t hide Rodeo Drive
Where she struts around like a dimestore Bettie Page
She often dreams of her last breath
And she just stares at you like a trapped tiger.
Under some madman’s guidance and brainwashing. You are the one with the inheritance.
The diamonds and bangles, God willing.

The dialysis, the time is coming soon Where is the nurse, to the mystery of men? That runs the house like a tattoo parlor
Is tonight your last night as the hunted?
Let it be Cindy’s Pain, Not yours, not the flowers.

It’ll be hers in this curse
I’ve willed her in these Post-traumatic rebound pastures.

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

Photo by Emma Trevisan