Poetry Online Anthology “The Artist Never Sleeps”

all artwork sent in by Pasithea Chan for these amazing artists.

“i was a thin sea of blue” by Paula Hayes

didn't you know,  love, i was a thin sea of blue
        waiting for you to come along
                       and fill yourself
                               inside my creases
                                      to drink me in between your restless

wade inward
                   i asked you to come closer
                         so i could please you
                                but you ignored my pleas
                                       and left like some tug of gravity
                                                                    was waiting for
                                                                           to carry you

where are the gods, now, to bring the waters back
                up to my lips
                         to give a little salt in return
                                 for all i've lost; is that too much to
                         ask?   just a little salt to take down
                                          even if there is no quenching
                                                               in hapless mornings

there is sky and sea and sun
        all making for soft horizons
              pretending these natural elements
                     are some kind of boundary
                            sealing off what was meant to hurt me
                                            from where i stand now

sucker-punched and drunk in the orange of waves
	light, all light, radiant and forgotten 
while two birds, lovers no less, fly by me
		certain that they are far away 
			from what they once knew
				and even more certain
					they have nowhere left to go 

Bio: Paula Hayes is a poet who lives in Memphis, Tennessee, the same place where rock and roll was birthed and where the ghost of Elvis still hangs around Beale Street. She finds the presence of such a rich musical history in the town she lives in to be right on track with transforming one as a poet into a bard. 

Alice Checks the Queen by Lynn White
in response to Anita Arbidane artwork

‘Your time is up’ said Alice.
She knew it didn’t matter
how big she was
or how small
in the end.
She knew it didn’t matter 
in the end
whether the queen was red or white,
whether time moved backwards or forwards.
In the end
there was still no stopping it, 
still no changing it
however many time-pieces the Queen owned,
however many times she moved the hands
on or back on the clock-face.
It made no difference.
‘You’re just a pawn
on the wheel of time’
said Alice,
‘No wonder you look glum’

Bio: Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud 'War Poetry for Today' competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/

"October Hardcover" by James Schwartz

Shifting season of melancholy, 

                            Dark bark decay,

Lighting of lamps,

In the v




                         Against frosted fog,

Shorn corn stalks,

                         Lost leaden leaves,

Cafe au lait, 

Notes of nutmeg,

                Window seat, 

Victor Hugo hardcover.

Bio: James Schwartz is a poet, slam performer and author of various collections including "The Literary Party: Growing Up Gay & Amish in America" (available on Kindle 2011), PUnatic (Writing Knights Press, 2019) & Motor City Mix (Alien Buddha Press 2022). on twitter James can be found under @queeraspoetry for a follow.

Art inspired by Clive Gresswell

life’s ballet cycle
causes me to pause
in the twinkling of a romantic pose
inherited by nature’s mystique
the floral fauna and reddening leaves
flutter inside my mind’s eye
caught in the season’s harsh mirror
light infernal, light eternal
rays of the insect fanning down
the earth’s delightful eternal gown.

Bio: Clive Gresswell is a 64-year-old innovative writer and poet who has appeared in many mags from BlazeVOX to Poetry Wars and Tears in the Fence. He is the author of five poetry books the last two being ‘Strings’ and ‘Atoms’ from erbacce-press (see their website for more details).

Cursed Houses by David L O’Nan coming out next week!

Here what several important great people have to say about this upcoming book by editor/poet/writer David L O’Nan

Writings by David O’Nan is a special treat to poetry lovers. He often uses prose-style openings to draw in the reader, such as “I met the supernatural near this river by Osage Mint on a wet June day, fertile ground full of footprints” (from “The River Near the Osage Mint”). Then just as we start to get comfortable, O’Nan has a certain knack for dropping in piercing lines such as, “Our moment became shrapnel” (from “Noah and Satchmo”), or “Love like the sad” (from “Cardiac Weekend”), that becomes a sort of push and pull technique, moving the poem and reader along on the evocative journey each of his poemsprovides.      –Samantha Terrell, Author of “Vision, and Other Things We Hide From” and “Keeping Afloat” among other books and creator of the poetic trinitas style of writing.

David O'Nan is an artist, a poet who explores the interesting and sometimes astounding facets of life through his work. In 'Cursed Houses' David writes in a style that is immediately engaging, sometimes humorous, always thought provoking. In his poem 'Utopian Window Blinds', he writes: "Beautify my broken heart. Look into my mind and tell me. I am Magical." That is precisely what David gives us, the reader. – Jay Maria Simpson  is a published Australian Poet out of Perth, Western Australia who loves poetry, art, music, satire and dark comedy.

Cursed Houses by David O’Nan swirls with dynamic imagery at a manic pace. Its long probing lines are propelled by maddening spirals of rhythm and rhyme. These poems bob and weave, teasing dreamscapes out of rich details inhabited by a host of characters and situations earthly and un-. Love, lust, loss, bewilderment – degradation of the human spirit coupled with the uplift of having experienced something wholly holy. Cursed Houses offers room after room of astonishment wrapped in acute observations: standing outside, lonesome and creepy, a piercing inward gaze.
-	Tony Brewer, author of psithurism and Pity for Sale

David O'Nan's poems are beautifully haunting, a landscape of Historical and Pop Culture memories. From death to Sunsets to homes of broken glass and even Andy Warhol, O'Nan's poetry will shake and stir you as the colors of his rhymes will resonate long after you devour each one, with verses like "The Feast" you will be craving a taste for more.  
-	Adrian Ernesto Cepeda, author of La Belle Ajar & We are the Ones Possessed amongst other collections.

The willpower is a long highway.” ~an immortal line, akin to Tom Petty’s But love is along, long, road.” David O’Nan has rock and roll in his soul.
“Spending nights in plastic neon blue and wondering why you didn’t know who’s hand was the knock on your door. Was it Mr. Peasant or Mr. Posh? All that you knew was a new daughter was calling you a mom.”   
Like no other, David understands and exposes the plight of a runaway mother, perhaps a fixture of the 1980’s, the unsung heroines, the debris of the 1970’s 
“I paint pictures for the cages of silence” 
David O’Nan speaks for a disinherited generation left to suffer the sins of parental and cultural disintegration

“Old Satchmo at 49 smells vaguely of gasoline and some extinct cologne from 1989” 
David O’Nan captures the zeitgeist of the crumbling American west, it’s bravado on it’s knees, still trying to please some long lost need.
“The devil has your shoelaces tied to the wrong feet” 
An apt description of a runaway on the streets struggling to find their footing. An epic and strong poem describing what happens to the disinherited, disenfranchised in American society.  Thrown out, as Jim Morrison said “like a dog without a bone.” Better than any other poet living, O’Nan describes the struggle of losing in a pre-apocalyptic America.
“We are powerless and the army has no artillery.”
Reminiscent of Neil Young’s “Helpless” lyrics is O’Nan’s vision of a dystopia left to carry on alone, abandoned and helpless, it’s government having long abandoned the field.
“All You see is the bones rise up when the moon hits the shine of the lake”
O’Nan describes perfectly the perfidy of the illusion of normalcy in what is in fact the toxic waste dump of America’s forsaken landscape.
“Maybe the king lives within the waters to drown your narcissistic glare. The River, the River near Osage Mint” 
O’Nan reflects tangentially on the tortured history of the rivers cutting through the heartland of America, how they meander, the dangers they pose,  the dams that feed them, while soul searching and reflecting on the American dream, much like a latter day Jack Kerouac. One wonders what chain of events drew the poet to leave near this place. The nameless “River near Osage Mint.”
If you were to read only one poem from David O’Nan, I would suggest Mandolins and Shrapnel. I personally find it on a level with Ginsberg’s best exuberant howlings. Mandolins is a tour de force. One feels oneself spinning with the poet down the highways and through the wastelands of post-industrial America  littered with billboards proclaiming hell and damnation, torn through the middle by predatory birds, symbolic of lives shattered and scattered like shrapnel on a battlefield. 

“Oh, those billboards by the way are just a hole for the vultures to fly through. listen to the breaking Mandolins, as our skeletons become shrapnel.” 
-	Elizabeth Cusack -Poetry on the Rocks for Lonely Hearts, a poet/writer traveler from Los Angeles. A recovering actress.

"David’s worlds always open new channels for looking at life. They are so often inventive stories that hold a spilling of truth – like the hull of a ship sloshing about on an unpredictable ocean – a world with a multifaceted cargo, perfect in every detail – in fact, a fusing of all details – making them oil each other to enhance their experience and their free passage. They are a generator of energy for the listening ear. From lyrical and beautifully sung – to hard and colourful poetry, told "like it is" – and that "is" always leaves me thinking I have moved forward in life’s puzzle of experience by reading these poems. So many wonderful lines – so many wonderful characters and their various situations – whatever your interest in poetry, you will need to read these poems to pass go. 
David L O’Nan is without a shadow of a doubt one of the best poets of this moment and due for greatness in the longterm.  – Peter Hague author of Summer With the Gods, Gain of Function,  Hope in the Heart of Hatred & more.

David O’Nan is a poet but he may be a sorcerer in his Cardiac Weekend. Or into a world of dreams in Screams, Tears, Tennessee Voodoo. In Small Deaths and My Burning Bedsheets, he fashions his death and exhorts us to give a reason for him to continue his furtive imaginings in word and paintings. Do you have the power or are incited to provide reason for such as him? In Noah and Satchmo he colorfully tells a story of two grimy men in a way that MUST make you feel better. It is a story of confirmation, to send you on your way of superiority, as you love their place, so much lower than your own. Love Thy Neighbors describes a region of hell… Of voyeurs with horns and long tails being forced into your face. This is the world of O’Nan in fantasy and grime, incitement, and torment. You were minding your own business and this magician named David came along. Watch your step.

We are thankful no heaven can control or manage David O’Nan’s poetry. His work is not designed for the comforts of heaven or the torments of hell. David’s poetry breathes with us, and sustains our present, that we may whisper our lives to one another.  – Giulio Magrini is a longtime writer living out of Pittsburgh and is receiving wonderful reviews on his new book “The Color of Dirt” 

Having elsewhere demonstrated his prowess and capability in shorter forms in this collection prolific poet David L. O’Nan proves definitively he is every bit as skillful and interesting with more substantial, robust constructions, applying his inventive flair for language and provocative willingness to delve deeper into the fecund muck of Americana than the majority dare, exposing our culture's at times less savory underbelly in a manner which is never dull, but rather consistently as thrilling as it is in equal measures illuminating. Through diverse approaches and fearless examinations of subjects deeply personal as well as endemic of societal concerns, rooted in the immediate and timeless both — harkening back occasionally at, paying exciting homage to our era’s most qualified bards and lyric laureates, from Cohen to Dylan to Joni Mitchell, in the most constructive, charged manners — readers will be hard pressed to find a finger more firmly pressed to, descriptive of the stilted, erratic pulse of Western ennui and the dark winter of postmodern societal discontent embroiling contemporary existence than in the pages of Cursed House. In our age of urgency and desperation, David L. O’Nan emerges resolutely from the fetid swamps of struggle with an important viewpoint and mission which our imperiled species would be well served by reviewing and reflecting upon mindfully at length. A rousing book of works appreciative of the gravity to our prevailing crises, by a poet who twigs well there is not a moment to lose. 

 – Jerome Berglund is a writer and has worked in Cinema-Television production and worked in the entertainment industry before moving back to the Midwest. Jerome writes many haiku, senryu and haiga online and in print. He is an established award-winning fine art photographer, whose black and white pictures have been shown in galleries in New York, Minneapolis & Santa Monica.

"When I read a rational, well reasoned, logical, objective argument I laugh and sing and dance through the gaping holes. 
What fools we are to stand pounding our chests preaching to the sun and everyone else that we are right, we have the truth. 
What is truth? Do you know? We move forward by the aid of created symbols and we change those symbols as we move forward. 
What gives you the right to deny the beauty, the honesty of poetry. There is no such thing as an endless straight line. 
The shortest distance between two points is poetic distance. Poetry is the way. No one makes it through any black hole of night
without the morning light of poetry. The debate over whether formal or informal, Latinate or colloquial is best is meaningless. 
Critics and Judges are the greatest fools. Poetry is the journey, the adventure in and through the valley of the shadow of death. 
Poetry is birth, the journey, and death. Poetry is Alpha and Omega. Poetry is life. Life is poetry. The word was the same 
in the beginning as the word is now. Say the word. Be the word. Be poetry. Be the poem you write. What else is there? 
In his brilliant new book, CURSED HOUSES, David O'Nan is the poet of birth, the journey, and death. 
David O'Nan is an original. One of a kind. I can't recommend his work highly enough."

--Ron Whitehead, Lifetime Beat Poet Laureate https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ron_Whitehead

"David L O'Nan's Cursed Houses is a lyrical poetry book that carries so many themes, it's hard to select a few. O'Nan transmits storytelling, narratives, and short story genres within his poems with brilliance. Poems about love, society, death, loss, small town Americana, and loneliness stand out the most. At the heart of these poems is O'Nan's ability to make you feel how the memories of past loves can still be felt in the present time."
 - Christina Strigas, “for all the lonely hearts being pulled out of the ground”

David L O’ Nan’s new book, Cursed Houses, from it’s haunting spooky cover to the end prose-piece,  is a scorcher – a work of narratives and lyrics, an anxious mythic exploration of  landscapes of broken shattered people; some likeable, poignantly portrayed, others monstrous, the walking-living Dead; their political screed like larvae spreading hate, the drunk military fathers, farmers, drifters and grifters, the abject young women and older matriarchs, full of hope and lies. Almost Biblical, its a book of character studies exploring upended toxic glamour, hopelessness, the cracks inside America where people fall. 

The book richly escorts questions and trades in entropy, about the lives lived in adrenaline-fueled fantasy where excess drugs, false promises, hallucinations, and lament intersect. In Sinking Prison the narrator’s pain and violence follows him right into the afterlife:  “You/were found and punished and/ become a nameless gazelle/in a jungle full of hungry/lions on your trail.” Ruminative and ferocious, David exposes families, meditates on life-lessons, draws from the personal, revels in a search for metaphysical meaning.  The lines are alternately clipped and expansive, musical, Intuitive, folk tales told by a raconteur for a lion’s den.

We see ourselves and others, our stories and-our-not-stories in a calm-frenzy of bardic, balladic currency and lyrical leaps. In a poem to a dead brother, the narrator speaks beyond despair, of “Popping firework amphetamine pills, dragons watch the alleys/The abusive and abused in corners and in jars./Oh lonesome traveler, a blood kissed jewel.” Tangled and mournful – this book’s rapid-fire pulse is a circling, uniquely crafted, blistering collection. Bite down hard, get one, roam through its outlaw pages. – 
-	Robert Frede Kenter, author, visual artist, publisher of Ice Floe Press. 

I assume no impartiality as I sit to write this acknowledgement and blurb for David. Having known David the editor, the poet, and the human has been the best creative gift of creative brotherhood I’ve grown to treasure and proudly parade. Cursed Houses is a world on its own folded neatly into a book cover waiting for you to unfold like a handkerchief concealing delicacies. Forget what you know about titles foreshadowing content and even casuistic usage of natural elements to convey sentiments as metaphors or similes because David layers natural elements to give you poetic suspense in every piece and theme. He is the magician’s tarot card of allure and demure – yes because poetic talent is in strategically controlling your subject’s emotional experience. Clarity is nice but with David, heavy and surreal is the vogue because Cursed Houses is a hex that will keep your mind spellbound as your lips pitter patter with magic, nature, love, mentality, and life’s other themes on duality. Cursed Houses is a book of personal causes for both the empath and the introvert as well as the curious and the bratty. In this book, his styles vary in tone and emphasis in a manner that gives symbolism and personification another dimension one that is holistic not elemental. The power of his imageries are not localized in a stanza or a part but throughout the whole piece. Have you seen a mood unfold like a jalousie window controlled with two lines to control shadow and light? David’s poems give out this effect because the first time you read a piece, you read it to take in the meaning trying to coin the aesthetics with what you’ve seen previously. However, upon reading his work for the second time, you will realize your heart and mind are the ones controlling what you are seeing whether they be extremes of light and shadow or even pain and beauty. For instance, in his piece “Womanizers”; David allows the reader to explore his subject’s cares and sentiments by showing how their antagonists envision or deal with them. By doing so he reveals his subjects’ points of strengths, advocates for them and showcases them in the light of humanity. Meanwhile in his piece “The Whole Mythology is Collapsing” David’s musings of spirituality are inclusive of dallying in engaging activities whilst touching base on the struggles of finding balance between the material world’s circumstances, the people’s expectations and prejudice and his desire to find peace and clarity. In this vein, the piece “If Masterpieces Were Bloodshed”, has left me in awe because If brushes had hurricane categories for thickness and aftermaths for handles; this piece is the epitome of the creative mind’s agony. He is able to take elements of magic and nature to project anguish and struggle for perfection. And last but not least in “A Botched Sunset”, David’s piece offers a lover’s despair as a palette of experiences in shades of confusion, denial, and unrequited love. Elements of nature speak in this poem for the poet’s lack of visibility and his reluctant bitter surrender to accepting the fate of being forever invisible and rejected like a sunset that was botched. My only wish is that everyone who stumbles upon Cursed Houses gets cursed with awe from David’s work. So, there you have it, Cursed Houses, your new poetic dopamine. Now go and get yourself a copy because you deserve it. With my Utmost Poetic Respect

Pasithea Chan (poet, contributor, artist)

David O’Nan creates mesmerizing imagery throughout Cursed Houses with lines like “You popped bubbles in the hot flames,/in flamenco streets with bleeding trains that lead you/from the whistles to the cheating rainfalls.”  It’s easy to want to savor the poem 10 Years “We Are Hummingbirds in the South Wind” with its haunting stanzas that contain potent prose “Through Winter roses and the bleeding Spring flowers,/the Summer storms and the Autumn leaves rustling/Each with a threatening torch in our blessed hearts.” This collection is a must read.

Marisa Silva-Dunbar, author of Allison, and When Goddesses Wake

Bio: David L O’Nan is a poet, short story writer, editor living in Southern Indiana. He is the editor for the Poetry & Art Anthologies “Fevers of the Mind Poetry and Art. and has also edited & curated other Anthologies including 2 inspired by Leonard Cohen (Avalanches in Poetry & Before I Turn Into Gold) and Hard Rain Poetry: Forever Dylan Inspired by Bob Dylan. He runs the http://www.feversofthemind.com website. A wordpress site that helps promote many poets, musicians, actors/actresses, other writers. He has self-published works under the Fevers of the Mind Press “The Famous Poetry Outlaws are Painting Walls and Whispers” “The Cartoon Diaries” & “New Disease Streets” (2020).”Taking Pictures in the Dark” “Our Fears in Tunnels” (2021) a collection of poetry called “Bending Rivers” a micro poem collection “Lost Reflections” and new book “Before the Bridges Fell” & “His Poetic Last Whispers” (2022) David has had work published in Icefloe Press, Dark Marrow, Truly U, 3 Moon Magazine, Elephants Never, Royal Rose Magazine, Spillwords, Anti-Heroin Chic, Cajun Mutt Press, Punk Noir Magazine, Voices From the Fire among several other litmags. He doesn’t enjoy the process of submitting constantly however. Twitter is @davidLONan1 @feversof for all things Fevers of the Mind. Join Facebook Group: Fevers of the Mind Poetry & Arts Group .

Blurbs for my (David L O’Nan) upcoming book “Before the Bridges Fell” from Ron Whitehead

*Announcements for October including release of Deluxe Edition of Before the Bridges Fell (Fevers of the Mind Press)*

A Review of “Before the Bridges Fell” by David L O’Nan (review by Ivor Daniel)

Poetry: They Had Sadness in their Eyes ( Like in Littleton) from David L O’Nan

An October 2022 Poetry Showcase Part 2 for Pasithea Chan

Masks Off

She stood there, huddled in the center
a sun stripped naked amidst clouds.
Her make up had melted like cares
that faded into a wound facing crowds.
Suddenly hurt was someone right there
with the loudest sounds and fastest hounds.

It chased her down the hills with quills
spilling bills like fair jills coming from mills.
And as all things began to settle,
reality cooled its kettle
like all the mettle
had left its warriors in a battle.

She was a knight in shining armor
a soul with great ardor
a feat for those who seek valor
and a treat for those who savor
love above all things one should favor.

To many she was just a player
with too many strings.
And so she drowned in lies
from loved ones who knew better.
Little did she knew they came for her
to make her pay for things
she’d done to put fear in those eyes
of hers for thinking she was someone.

And so she fell to her knees
muttering oh please but those bees
had nothing but honey on their minds.
No money no honey, no maybes.
First they took away her armor
then they stripped her of her dignity
And finally stabbed her heart
with her soul to remind her no one can be your all.

Loyalty is a sun for those who endeavor
to uphold love and trust, with fervor
Yet it dies when lies pull the trigger
in the name of gain, a bitter
grain sheathed in pride’s splendor
to crush souls with trust’s clamor
and kick gratitude like a meek vole
leaving those who stole
victorious and glorious.

There is no one who can be someone
when hurt is everyone and love is no one.
There is no one who can be your one
when loyalty is dead because of someone.
The masks are off but there’s no one
behind those masks just everyone else.

Author’s Notes:

In a world where betrayal and treachery are the banners of the winners while loyalty is the coat of arms of losers; the need to drop masks or unmask people is so urgent. We can live for years giving our backs to so called loved ones and friends, until the time comes and their interests no longer intersect with ours and that’s the time we see where we truly stand and who they truly are. This piece is a saga about loyalty’s sad martyrdom. Thank you for reading.

Extremes & Balance

From a distance, we hover over life’s water
zigzagging between dark & light lanes
traced in laughs & complaints.

We bathe in closeness’ lights
and play with no cares until time runs
out as our laughs do, so we switch lanes
and lurk in shadows where only our eyes
glisten with tears as our silhouettes
fumble the dark like tumbling dice.

Finding one’s path shows closeness’ fading light
but makes loneliness’ darkness a real fight.
Both paths’ blocks vary in gradation & grain
but ingrain choice like a viral strain
overcoming a body’s immune system.

In the end choice is a graduation
from light & darkness’ gradation
to forsake extremes for balance
to stream one’s path for a chance
in life across blues, hues, and cues.

inspired by: Theory of a Deadman’s Angel: https://youtu.be/thfpVOAC-y0

Tears of Sand

When you have nothing at hand
you have no home or land.
You lose your stand
in life to time’s sand.

Peace leaves you in pieces
worry gives you creases.
Your self worth decreases
as your sorrow increases.

When you have nothing at hand
loved ones disband
failing to understand
that you need their helping hand.

Destiny spits in your face
leaving you to wipe your disgrace.
Dignity rests its case
as chance looses its place.

When you have nothing at hand
dreams hang from hope’s strand
crushing everything grand
as trouble makes its first demand.

Happiness is a game of catch and release
where catch is a lease
that makes you please
and release is a pain that takes away peace.

When you have nothing at hand
you cry tears of sand as you are panned
with life’s brutal hand
to obey circumstances’ command.

Raging Bees

Right and wrong are two queens
dividing a hive upon a spring of lies.
They send swarms of raging bees
out of their hives to build new lives.

Filled with rage, these bees
sting in spite until each bee dies.
Rage is a wild flame that burns lives
with hurtful words to break hearts.

No smoke can ward these angry bees
for their rage burns with lies and maybes.
Instead of flying away from the flames
they fall into them burning with lies.

Pride makes them fall without cries
for presumed rights in wrong ways.
Alas now there are two beehives
but there are no bees just goodbyes.

Rage easily starts wars with maybes
but ends such wars in real tragedies.
Rage knows no age or sage
just blame’s mage taking the stage.

Moving Forward

You have two choices they said:
read one page at a time
or put the book down.
I tried both and found
each hurt differently.

Take a chance they said;
Give yourself time
Everyone is a clown
when they hit the ground.
So I waited patiently.

I waited to see what I read
fade away like every dime
I’ve spent and only found
fear roaming around
haunting me eternally.

I tried writing instead
of moping, a crime
that made my family a crowd
that was too loud;
I guess am used to being lonely.

Take the journey they said
it won’t buy you back the time
you’ve lost but you wont be bound
to the past but don’t stay down
cause only you understands you fully.

So I laid pages I’ve read
on my bed hoping to mine
hope from sorrow like a cloud
masking the sun like a shroud.
And so I roam aimlessly.

Hurt is a book that can’t be closed
in time because it’s just a dime
that hits the ground
so hard when you are down
that moving forward is costly.

When Daffodils Crash Lily Weddings

When daffodils act silly
defying a member of their family
living in the valley under the name lily;
nature shakes its belly with hybrids for glory!
That’s when lilies put on their scaly
bulby slippers to show off their dainty
stems for feet sporting twenty two jolly
skirts in colors fit for a spring baby
wedding his betrothed Lily beauty!

They rock designer brands like a galley
swerving over waters in a windy valley.
There you will see Reverend Lily of the Valley
lead the prayer in the valley as Tiger Lily
holds hands with stargazer lily and Backhouse Lily
walks down the aisle showing off Casablanca Lily
his lovely bride, followed by Tinybee Lily
and Lollipop Lily their flower girls and Easter Lily with Regal Lily
as ring bearers ushered by Acapulco Lily and Elodie Lily
as bride’s maids walking next to Robert Swanson Lily
and Luxor Lily as best men chosen by the Lily
couple while Tiny Double You Lily,
Matrix Lily, Candidum Lily, Madonna Lily Sunray Lily,
Dreamland Lily, sing in a choir lead by Turk Cap Lily
while Symphony Lily, Orange Pixie, Nellie White Lily,
dance for the young couple lead by Panther Lily.

All is well as every single Lily
takes a seat on one side of the valley.
Just then the daffodils clan arrives
with their big mama sporting her
singular stem bulb surrounded
by her twenty seven Narcissus sons
along with her Plumeria daughters in law
To crash her Lily cousin’s kids’ wedding

Jetfire walked in holding hands with Aztec Gold
followed by Sentinel smiling at Candy Stripe.
Thaleo was still kissing Celadine when
Narcissus Quail whistled at Pudica.
Hungry as always, Sorbet dripped some
ice cream on Singapore Obtusa who lost her cool
left his arm and stood next to Barret Browning
who was starry eyed with Dwarf Pink Obtusa.
Jack Snipe wore a smokey suit to impress
Vera Cruze Rose who had eyes for
Narcissus Tahiti who was with Vishanu Gold then.
Sovereign was head over heels for Intense
Rainbow who seemed to favor Narcissus Romance
over him who was sadly seeing Riviera Rainbow.
Canaliculatus felt proud walking illustrious Kaneohe Sunburst.
Petit Four found balance with Rubra Confetti
whose little sister Duvauchelle Special tiptoed
gracefully next to Cheerfulness who was right
behind Hawera & his partner Penang Peach.
Merlin on the other hand had an issue showing up
with Daisy Wilcox, he called her condescending
but that was because she wanted to make White
Lion jealous but the lad had eyes only for Thailand Red.
Meanwhile February Gold found warmth in the arms
of Toba’s Fire and Large cup found
his fill of wine with Lucky Star!
Trumpet was always loud and being deaf,
Stenopetala had no issues listening to him all day,
after all, she’s safe from the noise pollution!
Jonquilla saw in Mele Pa Bowman his world
and that’s why he got his younger brother Poeticus
to go out with her younger sister Barbados Showgirl!
Miniature on the other hand found his other half
with Dwarf Watermelon who was so grateful.
Narcissus Tazetta however was still not over B052
Rubra who accepted to give them a second chance.
Split Corona was calm and was at home with poise
Makaha Sunn just as Triandrus found
meaning with Elizabeth Thornton.
Cyclamineus thought Stenophylla
was phenomenal in her duet with her
sister Carcasana who was seeing Bulbocodium.

You could feel the tension rise in the winds
as the daffodil, Narcissus boys & Plumeria girls
waltzed into the valley, but luckily both families
had two wise boys and a generous hostess.
Within a split of a second, Narcissus Einstein
began to do an entertaining Futterwacken
followed by his male cousin Black Lily
who was serving the guests Rice Root pudding
while his generous hostess sister Grape Lily
poured the finest wine grown in that valley.

At last the wedding went on, Lily Bride & groom
were made to bloom in a kiss watched by both
daffodil and lily in colors brought down from shrubs
with Plumerian girls bearing hybrid babies
that will forever offer shade to their daffodil beaus
and Lily foes, and the story goes
that everyone is still on their toes!

Author’s Notes:
I love Lilies, Daffodils & Plumerias and not many people can tell the difference between both or have heard about Plumerias, so I thought to myself I will write a tale that will showcase their types and I hope I succeeded. thanks for reading!


Submerged in doubt one floats carefree
in aimless waters without hope of touching land.

Tethered with guilt and regrets one tows
his/her soul to a destiny of penance.

Overt or clandestine, pain is no one’s gain
if one can grasp what it means to be humane.

Nipped with the present’s pressing matters
leave one to drown in what one can’t take back.

Encroached with advances to redress damage
only to be rejected, leaves one distraught.

Wailing hearts are as silent as wailing babies in
the womb only heard with the right probe.

Amadou from souls yearning for forgiveness
is the best torch one ignites in tragedy’s darkness.

Leveling up in the hurt game for victims
or doers is the first step to total destruction.

Lauding indifference and isolation
instead of forgiveness is pure malice.

Ignoring a wailing heart happens when one
allocates blame in the name of being fair.

Neverland is a place where sorrow is the fairy dust
by which lost souls take a flight into oblivion.

Gone are the days when to err was humane
and to forgive is divine.. such is our sad world.

Author’s Note: Acrostic Couplet spelling Stonewalling.

Bio: Pasithea is an impressionist poet who dabbles in art and poetry. She enjoys writing about life and her experiences from different perspectives. She believes in art in poetry as in exploring art to emphasize its role in juicing creativity out of a quill. She enjoys writing poetry in symbolism laced with philosophy and psychology.  Combined with varied styles and topics, her motto will always be: poetry is a passionate expression kindled by an impression unlimited by public conviction. To catch more of her work follow her on Instagram @pasitheachan or twitter @pasitheachan and on Ello @ello.co/pasitheaanimalibera where you can find more of her historical fiction and mythological or cultural short stories.

Poetry Inspired by Art from Alexander Bolotov (Mo Schoenfeld, James Penha, Ivor Daniel, Pasithea Chan)

(c)Alexander Bolotov

art photo sent by Pasithea Chan for writing prompt

Untitled by Mo Schoenfeld

memory, dry, cracked.
silent shivering, slick streets,
puddles like mirage.

Twitter @MoSchoenfeld 
A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Mo Schoenfeld

Promenade by James Penha

The rain drizzles like paint on a canvas 
but I am safe under cover of night when
lamplit colors melt this great city I own
on my way.

Expat New Yorker James Penha  (he/him🌈) has lived for the past three decades in Indonesia. Nominated for Pushcart Prizes in fiction and poetry, his work is widely published in journals and anthologies. His newest chapbook of poems, American Daguerreotypes, is available for Kindle. His essays have appeared in The New York Daily News and The New York Times. Penha edits The New Verse News, an online journal of current-events poetry. Twitter: @JamesPenha

Light by Ivor Daniel

(And then the lighting of the lamps. T S Eliot - Prelude).
We shall overcome. (Pete Seeger et al)

And then the lighting of the lamps
And then the lighting of the
And then the lighting
And then the
And then

We shall
We shall overcome
We shall overcome, some
We shall overcome, some day

A Poetry Showcase for Ivor Daniel *Updated 9/23/22* with Plath haiku

A Painter's Umbrella by Pasithea Chan

I set my canvas in swirly wrinkles
hoping my brush makes ripples 
in my lover's heart for all onlookers
etching my pain in colorful grain
to relieve longing's strain & stay sane.

I'm neither a cane for her to lean on nor a window pane
to entertain an agonized soul sedating his pain.
I am an umbrella held for shelter from weather.
Never a stage for soulful blues under red hues.
To me you are both the same:
hiding your agony in a canvas colorfully
as she hides under me indifferently.

All I have is a love story that's now a memory
captured in a silhouette of her figure.
Blue is all the affection left behind love's rapture.
I am a picture hanging on by a fixture 
trying to mend my heart's fracture.

Like rain's pitter patter hearts often scatter 
taking apart lives that were once together.
Take it from me, there's no  warmth in being of use.
Sometimes the end can be your muse
even when your hues become forgotten clues.

Pain is my eye and hope my sky
Blue is my welcome made to qualm
A broken heart looking for a fresh start
Raindrops my fingertips turning colorful drips
into benches to sit through a goodbye.
Author's Notes: 
The piece is inspired by Alexander  Bolotov's  painting of a girl walking holding an umbrella under the rain fading into the blue evening sky and red street lamps. The poem is an imaginary conversation between a painter and an umbrella he painted. 

An October 2022 Poetry Showcase Pt. 1 from Pasithea Chan

What’s What

When right is wrong’s end of the straw
it mixes interests like colors for show.
It doesn’t matter what you intend
because it’s so easy to contend
right isn’t right without a fight

wrong isn’t wrong if you go with the flow.

After all, they are one straw
but each on an opposite end
And so it will all depend
on which end you choose to contend.
No need to pretend it will all end
but the question is will you bend?

Will you bend

When right gets a blow
from wrong having a go
because easy is ego’s trend
humanity’s best friend
that lets us forgo
what we choose not to know.

Will you try to comprehend:

When what’s what is squat
because tragedy is a sour tart
baked by greed’s cunning thwart
thrown as good for pretend
and mastered in the art
of condescend to defend
those we choose to know.

Will you dare to offend:

When tragedy becomes a show
and injustice its common law;
because death is a premium blend
humanity chooses to recommend
when saving lives, is a default
we all learned to stow.

Will you choose to portend:

When why and why not
define a not from a nut;
When care becomes a bile spat
on truth’s vile scat
to comprehend lies and expend
lives of crowds that wend
victory from humanity’s new low.

Will you commend those who chose:

When care became a bow
and hurt its sharpest arrow;
because truth became a dividend
that shoved us to fend
insignificance and indignity by law.

My good friend,

How do we tell what’s what?
Why are why and why not
out of the question when we are in a rut?
Do we know when to stop using but
or do we have to wait for our butt
to be where all is lost?
I don’t know what’s next
or how to live on the pretext
of low is the new law.
But I do know am not okay with that
because I still want to know what’s what!

*Author’s Notes:

It’s hard to think when your mind is screaming what’s going on, what’s happening with humans, I don’t understand. On one end you see suffering, on the other you see people marketing this suffering as a demise of their own devise. So you stick around trying to know what’s what and think hard with your heart and mind but in the end you shove your opinion and your findings in a corner with a tight lid. It’s easy to think right and think you can say what’s right but thinking, saying and doing are three different stages in an age where sages are long gone mages because we are just pages in another’s agenda put on display in stages. What’s What is a shout out for those who dare to think, speak, and take a stand for humanity. Thank you for reading.

Into You

If profound were a pair of eyes
distance would be a guise
concealing your eyes.
If depth wore mellow
and allure were to tiptoe
your voice would make souls hollow.
If mystery were a pair of lips
yours would be a honey that drips
from a spoon twirling like pulsating hips.
If cahoot were a tribute
your nose would define cute
in astute wrinkles for a salute.
If gin were a sin
your chin would be a jinn
enticing with a grin.
If chocolate were a linen
your skin would be a bodkin
piercing red tones deeply within.
If wit were to wear a slit
your mind would fit
sexy like gloves on a bandit.
If souls were a cresol
yours would be a fireball
burning every eyeball.
If attraction were a hue
made in love to hew
a heart with a look at you
then I’m into you.

*Author's Note: Dedicated to E.E.

Rainbow Souls

I live under a golden sky
covering berry hills.
Though my shores are pale
I doll up in a palette of waves.

From a distance you can see
my smoky hood like a turban.
So tilt your head slightly to see
my curves swirling in azul blues.

I can be a calm sea on a stormy day;
a calamity for those who isolate me.
I am your shelter and shrine.
I am both divine and humane.

I am the rainbow that strikes you
with truth flowing and ebbing in you.
Never grey or laid in black & white.
I am you in colors beneath the horizon.

I am you in motion consecrated in devotion.
I bear your reflection and consideration.
I am your soul I dwell on imperfection
to carry you through changes with conviction.

Be the change but don’t try to change me
for a rainbow needs both the sun and rain
to shine & over-arch all that is above and beneath.
Treasure me, and life will be your prize.

Bream Lines

In the dark a pair of lips draw
a smoky line marking a dream
gone dark and no longer divine.
Love had broken its final straw
on hope’s back waiting for steam
to blow diverging stars to align.

There a pen drops lines from a
soul that pines to recall images
once sublime now tumbling in a
darkness like fallen leaves
stuck in a whirlwind dancing a
hurtful decline on open grounds.

Love is a light shining like a halo
beaming two souls upstream
like breams sporting lights that shine
beneath a stream as they grow.
Sadly circumstances always scheme
to fish them out and drown them in brine.

Hello and goodbye are a
straight line broken into ups
and downs that get caught in a
spiral of good and bad moments
building or breaking dreams in a
matter of seconds, losing lives to lines.

Snagged with hooks with nowhere to go
the breams fade to loss’s bleak theme.
Their lives drain on a line, blood for wine.
But the stream continues to flow.
There, reality stitches truth to tragedy’s seam
to fasten the breams to death’s neckline.

Author's Notes:
Bream: A kind of fish. Breams here are a metaphor of two lovers facing life's mishaps on circumstances' various lines.

Bio: Pasithea is an impressionist poet who dabbles in art and poetry. She enjoys writing about life and her experiences from different perspectives. She believes in art in poetry as in exploring art to emphasize its role in juicing creativity out of a quill. She enjoys writing poetry in symbolism laced with philosophy and psychology.  Combined with varied styles and topics, her motto will always be: poetry is a passionate expression kindled by an impression unlimited by public conviction.   To catch more of her work follow her on Instagram @pasitheachan or twitter @pasitheachan and on Ello @ello.co/pasitheaanimalibera where you can find more of her historical fiction and mythological or cultural short stories.