Collaboration Poetry & Photography from John Winder & Phil Wood

Portents

This morning the portents are ovular.
Her spoon cracks the crown
with a deft tap like Debussy
orchestrating the life of possibilities
over a freckled sea; as light flickers
her painted nails begin to peel the shell,
an act that's delicate and clinical:
the albumen is pure, an oval of white.
Her palette knife slices the top off
and yolk spills towards the rim
with a slow promise quickening
to stains and stickiness,
a Hodgkin splodge of illumination
spreading over the frame
papering walls with a summer's day.

Butterfly

Within the butterfly net
the black and white 
flickered a film of when
I fidgeted in the leather chair,
where granddad wintered
and fought his ire of clocks 
with a spice of briny tales
to ungrind rainy days.

I chew a Black Jack 
in the fossilized light
of my study, the flutter
of childhood escapes.

She Bought Me Coffee

I shiver in my jumper, the skin
I knitted before she moved in.
The path shimmers. Her diva face
pouts and poses - it's getting late.

The zigzag home: a venture rite
of inclines, a puddle theatre of night.
My jumper snags on fate. I comb
the air and fall. She buys me coffee.

Bio Phil Wood

Phil Wood was born and lives in Wales. He studied English Literature at Aberystwyth University. He has worked in statistics, education, shipping, and a biscuit factory. He enjoys watercolour painting, bird watching, and chess. His writing can be found in various publications, including: The Wild Word, Autumn Sky Daily, the Abergavenny Small Press, Ink Pantry, Fevers of the Mind.

Bio John Winder

John Winder is a creative photographer working in both colour and black and white. He began creative photography 40 years ago and enjoys trudging around outdoors, hauling camera gear, and spending time behind the camera. He has art work previously published in The Bangor Literary Journal, The Fly on the Wall Press and The Abergavenny Small Press.

Fevers of the Mind Poetry & Art Blog

Our twitter is @feversof eic @davidLONan1 Facebook Group: http://www.feversofthemind.com Fevers of the Mind Poetry & Arts Group

Submissions e-mail: feversofthemind@gmail.com 

Please send in word doc format and mostly traditional styles for easier translation to the page if possible. If not pdf will work. Google docs don’t always work so well.

Donate to our paypal also at feversofthemind@gmail.com (anything helps to keep the site going)

*WEB SUBMISSIONS ONLY*

We are doing an online anthology on the blog for Langston Hughes. Send poetry submissions inspired by Langston to us by February 10th.

In addition We are open for Poetry Showcases for anyone to send 3-5 poems/prose. If not all pieces are accepted. I will post the 1 or 2 poems but will not be considered a showcase.

We are unable to provide compensation at this time contributors. We have to reach out through the year for donations just to keep the site going. This is for the art of poetry, music, art & other creatives.

Some poetry/art published on this site will periodically be taken down if space is running low. You will be guaranteed at least 6-8 months exposure on our website. No promises after that and don’t take it personal.

Themes we are Looking for Poetry/prose/articles/other styles of writing are for Adhd Awareness, Mental Health, Anxiety, Culture, History, Social Justice, LGBTQ Matters/Pride, Love, Poem series, sonnets, physical health, pandemic themes, Trauma, Retro/pop culture, inspired by music/songwriters, artist, inspired by classic & current writers, frustrations.

Online Submissions could include Poetry, Art, submitted Book Reviews, culture pieces, rants, pre-published poetry from self-published materials, defunct lit mags, pieces from other lit mags/books/blogs with permissions. We prefer 3-5 poems sent unless you are sending for a writing prompt. There could be exceptions to this rule of course. If we take 3-5 or more poems from you will we feature you as a poetry showcase on the website.

We prefer submissions with a bio to help promote your work. Please let us know if something has been previously published, we will make a judgment call on whether able to include. I don’t love the idea of sending rejection letters.  If you don’t receive acceptance assume we passed up this time and send something else. If you have simultaneous submissions out there, please keep this in mind. If not accepted at first, Just try again…We will not accept pieces that we deem racist, sexist, homophobic, or have pornographic themes, photos, or any type of nudity in submissions.

About writer/editor David L O’Nan

Current bio for Fevers of the Mind’s David L O’Nan editor/writing contributor to blog.

My newest book released October 2022 “Cursed Houses”

https://amzn.to/3TPIPAv

Out now the Deluxe Edition of “Before the Bridges Fell”

https://amzn.to/3ftkxNX for a copy on paperback or kindle (U.S.) please check availability in your country. Some countries take awhile for the paperback to be released. It could be a few days to a couple months until available.

2 new poems from Staci-lee Sherwood : Eagles Landing & Annie and the Legacy of Plastic

Eagle’s Landing

The icon of American freedom
Once soared the skies
In numbers too big to count
But that is all changed now

Much of their land has been taken
Destroyed 
By those claiming ‘progress’
But for the eagle
It just means homelessness

Their food is now scarce
Poisoned by pesticides
Or killed by development
Again because of ‘progress’

How can they survive 
Against the human machine
Of self preservation 
That propels us to build a world of steel
Where little else has value

How can we treat our national symbol
With such disdain
We have lost our connection
To Mother Earth

For the eagle this means a battle
Of life and death
Against an unseen enemy
That hides its true intentions


Who will win in a war of no winners
If we lose the eagle
We lose ourselves as well
We just don’t see
How our fates are intertwined

Every little eaglet
Brings hope for the future
They don’t know how bleak we have made it
Only time will tell
If we all will still have a home on Mother Earth

Annie and the legacy of plastic

She greeted the morning with a yawn
Wings stretched out to catch the wind
As she soared through the air
Her eyes glazed the land for food

Annie the Anhinga was a bird 
Whose story is tragically common
She had a mate
She had a home
She had freedom 
They had their courtship, made their nest
Hoping like all parents 
The best for their chicks 


Life went on daily as planned
The pair tended to their chicks 
Best they could In a hostile world
They did not create 


She went out one morning to find food 
But instead found plastic
She returned to the nest 
But had no food 


The hungry chicks pecked at her beak 
Begging for her to feed them 
They tried to bite the plastic 
hanging from her beak.
We tried in vain to capture and save her
For two long days
We watched her struggle 
To scrap away the danger
She knew laid ahead


Her wings took her far away
And out of our reach 
We never saw her again
But her story does not end there


Her mate could not tend to all three chicks
And made the unbearable choice of letting the youngest go
A slow end came for the little Anhinga
Death was a welcome relief to her pain
Her siblings were fed and survived


This is the legacy of plastic
We have left for others
Her life and death serve as a cautionary tale 
and we need to pay attention.

Bio: Lifelong preservationist, environmentalist and animal advocate. Published writer, blogger and poet. I write poetry for fun and investigative articles to educate and motivate people into action. My travels and passion to make the world a better place inspires my writing. I’m an avid photographer and hiker who calls the east coast home with my rescue kitties.

Poetry Collaboration Carson Pytell and David L O’Nan : On the Edge of Water near Wyngate Mansions

On the Edge of Water near Wyngate Mansions

from the series “The Empath Dies in the End”

1 (Carson Pytell)

How far is far?
Pat your head and rub your stomach,
but do it from the inside of your skin.

Near is never enough,
like Bermuda or the Caribbean
or the houses you pass on your way to work.

Mist your days, if you'd like,
under envy. Motivation leaks
out of you like piss if not.

2 (David L O'Nan)

I was and always that most dangerous jewel box
Slightly cutting colors out with each touch.
I am swinging from your eyelids trying to lift them up to see me.

I will dip in from the edge of the water.
I come up splintered, thorns inside
Punctured me to insecurity.

I don’t have the strength to understand the distance anymore.
I don’t have enough care to understand the smiles that run slim.
Over the Wyngate Mansions on hills full of sad old travelers.

I confess that is where I’ll be
With stories of lost mates
With the chants in my head, promises of endless ruins.

The whistles in the distance run to cold air invitations.
Biting through heat on the way.
Love was given, love was failed at Wyngate on a-
troubled Godless day.

Ashamed, pathetic voices paddled out half-truths.
Was it rain or sun or was it the new flood as fate,
My body near, far, an imitation of a water’s edge.  
Visually vacant.  

Current bio for Fevers of the Mind’s David L O’Nan editor/writing contributor to blog. 

Paperback & Kindle version of Cursed Houses is now available from David L O’Nan on this link below 

Carson Pytell: Best of Poetry Showcase

Collaboration Poem: “Luminol” by Ryan Quinn Flanagan & David L O’Nan

(c) David L O’Nan

from “the Empath Dies in the End” coming out soon

  Luminol

 Part 1 by  Ryan Quinn Flanagan

There is primrose to your pageantry, I assure you!     
That Nureyev of glide-less marionettes,
burial chambers of the once sacrosanct 
now looted of moving treasures.
Advancement through the pay scale,
another sort of dance entirely.

part 2  by David L O'Nan

There are ecosystems decaying under your watch, I assure you!
 I watch you with fire in my eyes, juggling chainsaws again,
You’re determined to derail the freight train.
You’ve smashed your art to the submission, marbled smashings
Francois Millet’s The Gleaners, in wet trash and curly dandelion bits.
A thought that you could become the next Prophet cursing out orders from the bema.
Screaming out Exodus quotes, Disgracing Peleshet, while you’re scrubbing the floors.

The Milk and sugar are becoming more valuable and expensive down these roads.
These roads, once of gold, now of blood, now of clarity once the luminol is glowing 
The sins, the creek snakes seem to have more knowledge than the townsfolk and television hoaxes.
They claimed to meet Jesus during the throwing stones.  When the lightning burnt the sick 
From the grounds, low and holding the curve of the cane, the rainstorm came alive and began
Walking hot lit water all over our skin.  Your skin seemed to light up more than the rest.

Do you have a confession?

The marionettes will not glide, but they do talk. 
Yes, they do talk and they aren’t always that wooden smile and programmed like a dream.
There are some that just dance, dance by the endless dying.
I run my arm under the sun, from blood to the skin that reflects in my dancing, dying pupils.
I carved a few rambling sentences into my muscles, soon to become some new bible.
Heaven comes from the dreams of light and comes from ….

Oh, did you say you have a confession?

They never run out of luminol here. 

 Poetry Showcase for Ryan Quinn Flanagan  

Current bio for Fevers of the Mind’s David L O’Nan editor/writing contributor to blog.