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.


















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

U.S. Links to paperback & kindle. Please check availability in your Country. Sometimes it takes a few weeks to a couple months to show up in paperback in certain countries. I know in India this is the case. The deluxe edition includes all my poems from the Leonard Cohen anthologies & my poem “Malvina” as well.

https://amzn.to/3ftkxNX

Coming in October

*More writing prompts from artwork/photography gathered by Pasithea Chan

*Inspired by Tom Waits poetry will begin

*Inspired by Joni Mitchell poetry will begin

*Inspired by Harlem Renaissance Poetry will begin

*Inspired by Pablo Neruda Poetry will begin

* Inspired by Tom Petty poetry will begin

*I’m going to try and get my book “Cursed Houses” out between mid month and Halloween.

*Working on my wife HilLesha’s book

*Writing new poetry for “The Empath Dies in the End” a themed book collaborated with other writers. When I write something I will send to only the other poet/writer involved. Looking to hopefully put book out in Winter.

*If you still have poetry inspired by any of the following please still send

  • Bob Dylan
  • Leonard Cohen
  • Prince
  • Nick Cave
  • Chris Cornell
  • PJ Harvey
  • Sylvia Plath
  • Anne Sexton
  • Claude Monet (any artwork by him)
  • Andy Warhol & the Factory including The Velvet Underground & Lou Reed
  • Instrumental music from Harold Budd
  • Warren Ellis & the Dirty Three
  • Audrey Hepburn

Plus on our front page you can find our normal everyday topics to send in for poetry showcases, Quick-9 Interviews for writers/poets/musicians, some book reviews although i’m understaffed on this and can’t take all of them. Fevers of the Mind Poetry & Art Blog

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

My Brother (Lays dead under the Hickory Tree) Inspired by Anne Sexton by David L O’Nan

My Brother (Lays Dead Under the Hickory Tree)

There he is 
I see him under pelts of hailstones
A riddled mind and diseased by doctors
the icy rain pulsing little cuts 
All over and over again.
I'm still in a quiet thought
We always felt the ending.
Or at least I have seen this ending.
In nightmares every night
The men festive from the jail.
Mother, a stereotype. Needing an exorcism.

There he is
My brother, a little hushed baby of 25.
Shoes as split as a peeled banana.
His coloring of blue, like the river nearby.
Like the breeze that blows through his long haired, daredevil boy.
He was hideous in his battle
Popping firework amphetamine pills, dragons watch the alleys.
The abusive and abused in corners and in jars.
Oh, lonesome traveler
a blood kissed jewel.

Some crows sing in their broken voices, they sit atop the bells.
They fly in the air, they congregate in the tree above. The sick hickory
I watch with no blink as they rescue him from the cold ground.
For only a few long hours and then they just return him back
to give him a comfortable dirty sack.  
Underground, where they'll whisper out your sins to each other.
We can't escape the gossip.  
Gossip clumsily falls like a slinky missing a step along the way.
The steps that are missed however, are remembered for coming up with the best stories.
Your best demise. 

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

Poetry Inspired by Photography by Kevin DeLaney @kpdela Poetry by Matthew Freeman, Vipanjeet Kaur, Lesley Curwen and David L O’Nan “The Empath Dies in the End”

The Empath Dies in the End

So I find myself alone after a night of separation
A Black night lit up over our green chairs.
Now empty, no longer filled by our bodies
and our conversations, sits like ghosts
My God! this night has moon lit on fire.

I was the first to vanish from your anger.
Your white lightning skin wrapped in the moon rays,
as you paddled insults to my heart.
You will never let me feel the honey.
To let my lungs wrap up in the stickiness.
The mosquitoes and the bees begin to sleep with a thirst.

Will a new man let you swim in that undertow?
The Chimes they cling together by the swirling winds.
The clashing waves pour onto your cracked toes from Lake Seneca.
Several hours of dancing some unnamed waltz.  
On your hideaway beach that wasn't hours. 
That is what the prophet tells me.   
Stabbed in waiting while the hymns carry my ghost away from my body.

I listen with dim sleeping eyes.  The boats in the distance belt out 
tunes.  I drain in this loneliness.  The weakness, rustic in scowl.
Blood over the beads of rocks.  Listened to the wind blow once.
Listened to the wind blow twice.  It was a disguise.
Converged pure from my polluted brain.  The narcissists was wiry and sudden and overtook my neglected heart. Infested a brain.
The Empath dies in the end.

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

The Tranquil Sun by Vipanjeet Kaur

The sun sits tranquilly 
over the western horizon
at dusk,
His charioteer slows down
and pauses for a while
After traversing the whole sky.

While riding the chariot of dusk,
He smiles a last fading smile –
A farewell gesture;
A token of eternal love;
A parting kiss 
to the dying day.

While folding millions of his
imponderable arms of rays
that pervade the world
throughout the day,
He draws the blinds of 
his effulgence down
before night,
Like a mourner,
saluting the passing day.

Beyond the picket fence
of my mansion,
The one-eyed overseer
rings the bell of repose
and looks at me 
through crimson windows,
imparting a rosy aureole 
to my dormant hopes,
and like a dreamcatcher 
promising vernal dreams.

A fervent plea in his closing eye
to release the unrealised dreams of 
the dying day: broken, dead and decayed
in the autumn of dusk.
Let them burn 
on the pyre of the setting light,
Let the sombre red embers
reduce them softly to ashes
with the deepening darkness of dusk,
Let them dissolve in the darkness of night,
Let the cremains of despair be immersed 
in the flowing silver moonlight

before a new dawn begins
a new chariot ride. 

Bio: Ms. Vipanjeet Kaur from India is a poet fond of writing poems on various themes like nature, women empowerment, self, spiritualism and life.  Her haikus have been featured in the international online journals like Haiku Dialogue of The Haiku Foundation, The Haiku Pond, The Cold Moon Journal and the Scarlet Dragonfly Journal and her micropoetry has been published in the Five Fleas (Itchy Poetry). She has also read research papers on the topics of Literature, Human Rights and Women Empowerment in a few national seminars and international conferences. 
She can be followed on Twitter @vjpoeticmusings.



Fevers by Matthew Freeman

And I’ve said there’s no difference
between the streetlamp and the moon.
And that’s still true, but now
in late September as everything wanes
I’m sitting outside my sister’s apartment
with my diet soda and my cigarette and my iPod
watching the crowd get thin at Ted Drewes
and every little thing we believed in fall apart.
Someday when the sun burns out you’ll ask yourself
whether you stayed true, really true, to your
feverish desire.  

A Poetry Showcase by Matthew Freeman 

Moonage by Lesley Curwen

Haloed lunacy floats crosshatch beam
through umber cloud and bulrush-crown.   Bleak horizon swallows photon-feed
down continents of eyeless waves.

Landward, pines guard empty chairs 
against moon's threat, a pump-song
chuckles chlorine,  muddles jets
of aquamarine gems.

Poetry based on photography “The Lone Road to Moloka’I” from Maggs Vibo
 Poetry based on photography Challenge from Ankh Spice pt. 1




2 Poems from Ethan O’Nan : Dysphoria & Lake

Lake

Cognitive of the day
We tumble ran to the lake
Tripped off pants
Slipped down dress
Frantic laughing to the water 

Control lost, no play cool
Wet lips pressed, slick
Summer hot skin, steam
Dripping lake from strands
Pushed from our eyes

Lure me under again

Dysphoria
originally published in Fevers of the Mind Presents the Poets of 2020

I was told this is what I had to do
So my eyes seek a shape, pattern – fixation
Numb the mind
Climb inside the dark circle of the paneling
Twist into the loops & swirls of the curtain
Trace the maze of the tiles on the floor
It will all be done soon
This is what I was told I should do
That body isn’t mine
But I lug it around
And with it a persona to puppet
Who was I with her?
How did I behave around them?
No one really knew…me
I can’t say hello to you of five years ago.
I took this skin out & we spoke words that had meaning then, maybe
I don’t remember them now
How forgetful, unthoughtful, you’ll think
Who was I? How much of me did you really see? 
Better to burn the past than pick through splinters
I suppose this life is akin to living in a suitcase
Taking out this being, this flesh to engage
A misfit to the mind
Desperate to love, but moments of love felt like terror as well
Numb the mind
Find a shape
And if I were to change this skin
Receive stitches and sutures to be a more fitting form
You might be perplexed
You might think it a joke
Those who felt closest
May just deny, grow angry, grow sad
Call on the name of ghosts now gone
But a puppeteer’s arms grow heavy & sore 
After half a lifetime of shows
And once the rubble of the mind is cleared
The choice must be made to live life’s remainder 
In a performance for others
Or to stop staring at patterns


Ethan O’Nan is a trans man living in North Carolina, he has a wife and 2 children. Ethan only 
dabbles in writing these days. His whole life has led to the last few years fully understanding what to do 
to make him feel on the outside like he has always been on the inside. The older brother of EIC David L 
O’Nan, Ethan is a business owner along with his wife Kristi. Ethan enjoys 80’s music, art, crafting, 
making soap, & comedy.