Poetry by Katrina Kaye : “Danea” “Dulcinea” “Continuance”

Photo by Elizabeth York Dickinson in Fevers of the Mind Poetry Digest Issue 1

Danea

You are the drops of summer
rain shimmered gold on skin.

You are the child too young
for my bitter heart,
my yellow bird,
the last bloom of August.

I knew I was in love with you
after the first time
I heard you laugh in your sleep.

Every song is a melody
shaped by your lips.

The same lips that
brush my forehead
when I curl to by side.

The same lips that shot
an arrow at my back
as I walked away.  I was too
proud to turn around.

Your laugh will always be
one of my favorite things.


Dulcinea
                                                    "Those who have been told the truth
                                                             should not be taken for those
                                                                  who have been scorned."

The sound of my name
fell from your crooked lips.

Seemingly foreign,
yet easily interwoven into
ringlets framing my perception.

You speak each syllable sunshine
mixed with the awkwardness of the moon
reflecting brilliance no matter the cadence.

For a fleeting moment,
in the melody of the occasion,
I too am fooled.           I see myself
birthed from clam shell,
goddess gripping bow and arrow,
my words woven into golden strings.

You tricked me.

It isn't just your sycophantic
words and slips of tongue.
It is in the way I see my reflection,
the shine of myself mirrored
in your clouded eyes,
a strange smile readily returned.

The name you give me,            a gift,
more beautiful than I can ever be.

Continuance

You didn't leave a note, but
two days before you killed
yourself you gave me your
grandmother's watch, told me
you never wore the dented heirloom
and it didn't fit your slim wrists,
said, it would look better on me.

When I pointed out that it no
longer worked, you shrugged and
said simply, "time is a silly thing."

You looked in the mirror
before you did it. You cut
off all your hair in misshapen
awkward chunks, some spots
clean to your scalp.  Your mother
decided on the closed casket.

At your funeral I stand
consumed by the list of things I
didn't know about you, overwhelmed
by the uselessness of words and the
futility of remorse, devastated by
the continuance of the ordinary.

Wolfpack Contributor: Katrina Kaye

Poetry from Katrina Kaye aka Iron & Sulfur

Poem by Margaret Royall : “Communing with Monet”

Communing with Monet

Today we happened upon a house in Giverny
huddled contentedly by fields where Monet's Muse
strolled daily through the gently swaying poppy throng,
past teeming birdsong hedgerows, where bold notes were fused
in perfect synchronicity with Nature's mood
We paused, imbibing watercolour splendour there,
Inspired, I took my paintbox, harvested the scene...
Voilà, the virtual scent of lilies fills the air. 


Bio: 
Margaret is a Laurel Prize nominated poet. She has been shortlisted for several poetry prizes and won the Hedgehog Press’ collection competition 2020. She has two poetry collections:
Fording The Stream and Where Flora Sings, a memoir in prose and verse, The Road To Cleethorpes Pier and a new pamphlet, Earth Magicke out April 2021. She has been widely published online and in print, most recently: Hedgehog Press, The Blue Nib, Impspired &
forthcoming in Sarasvati and Dreich.
She performs regularly at open mic events and facilitates a women’s poetry group in Nottinghamshire.
Website: https://margaretroyall.com
Twitter: RoyallMargaret
Instagram : meggiepoet
Facebook Author Page: Facebook.com/margaretbrowningroyall



3 poems from Neel Trivedi in Fevers of the Mind Issue 2(2019) “the Invisible Aura” “Soul Whisperer” & “the Midas Scratch”

(c)Neel Trivedi
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 immoral prevalance
To any and all around me!


Bio: Neel Trivedi is a writer, editor and artist and in the advertising business in Dallas, TX. He was a Pushcart Nominee for 2020 and has been published in several online magazines as well as several print anthologies. He can be reached on Twitter @Neelt2001.