5 published Poems by David L O’Nan : A Scramble in the Darkness, The Romance to the Rapture, etc.

A Scramble in the Darkness

When I feel the veins in my arms mutate into a tragedy
My head has become nothing but air
When I can’t move with the waves of the city
All I want is a hand to squeeze mine
When I’m alone,
I still feel the crowded breath upon my shoulders
Into my ears, caressing my brain
Injecting me with fears
I am cradled in nerves,
and with that you have no comfort
How can you describe this to the people that love you?
You still feel helpless,
the words don’t match your actions
You’ve been rejected, a rejection, and the madness
I feel the tears collected in a basin
By the darkness, while in scrambles
The darkness, is the only presence
The darkness, is your master
The darkness, is your personal rapture
The darkness is the minder
The darkness whistles you into the wind of capture
Until never again
A prayer wrapped in the skin of sin

The Romance to the Rapture

I walked for centuries
Burning the midnight oil
The wind,
like a romance
Began pleasant,
quite enticing
Then our minds became puzzles
As the wind ripped away our breath
And we could no longer see each other
As the sand flew into our eyes,
ripe with maleficence
Broke our hearts,
an assemblage of particles
Stale blood formed where we loved
You moved on to feel the rapture
I crawled into a septic of flooding
The oceans lay bare
and I often believed in only
the darkness of the sunsets
Peeling purple & orange skies
with the hint of black cloaked evils
Can I mask a smile for the dreamers?
That don’t live in nightmares
I can only sing myself out of the bore
Let my reflection drink the tears
that pour
In echoes I can hear your song
What is love?
A love is an affliction?
A love is bruising minds,
it is an addiction
You want the sunrise to lick the decay away
Begin with the pulse of the soul,
the sorrow I can feel
Alone, in breath
Forming peace when hated.


A Rhapsody for a Cloud, For a Friend

I know that tears can’t be erased
When staring at a blank photo
Memories are still playing within the fading
We want icicles that doesn’t melt in the desert
That drip vastly from forest branches
I remember a 5-year span
When I was all alone in my fears
Dreaming in dark mirrors,
I couldn’t recognize my own reflection
In that 5 years I knew you
When you were here
Although we didn’t draw together,
write together
You are a great person to talk to in life
In social media muck as well
On whatever Myspace was,
whatever facebook is
Wherever a lost cloud may go
We confessed, we discussed
The virals of sadness, madness,
or whatever the trips were
I confided to you in a PTSD window
From a night I was challenged
by the false in their own frightening shadows of self
To become the bullied
and the one who was advantageous to their call
And how it was unordinary for this to be
reversals of a common news story
I listened to your artistic energy in song,
I saw that same energy in your art
I appreciated you being an appearance at poetry readings
That I broke apart at
That you seemed to understand the Holy dances
we all try to sway to
Sometimes our feet become the monsters,
won’t let us move
The people we know, or thought we know
Even motherly,
have the sharpest bite
Lost like that cloud.
In space yet discovered
With eyes that recognize its artistic path
towards something not yet known
Unexplainable,
other galaxies will be able to decipher the purity
And understand the words, the art,
to appreciate a cloud of flower petals
With a soul. With a heart.
Whom has an Inner Light
What else, the darkness?
That is just the veil to hide the imagination.


A Crumbling Pyramid

The pyramids have lost their eyes
The pyramids are losing their life
They are crumbling into piles of sand
And here I am
Looking for my time,
caught in another’s mind
Searching for a soul to find
If it lays in the sand
Is it mine or another man’s?
Did my pyramid already begin to erode?
I feel so cold, walking on hot sands
The chilly breeze has caught my naked hands
And I’m aging by the smell
The smell of the crumbling life
And my mind is resting
in the licks of the desert
Starting its new mutation
into something sublime
Evolve into another mind
Become what they were taught
Believe in every thought
Try to hold onto a last sprinkle of sand
But I am too broken apart
The tremors in my hands will not let me
Hold onto this sand
And I must let go
To become a different man

Golden Sun Predator

There is a past
I don’t want to relive
I don’t want to feel erratic,
and pasted through walls anymore
I’m becoming an elastic dream to climb through
Reinvented my idea of God
While instilled with a mix of sexual desire
and possessive energy
I’m about as trustworthy as a red eyed snake
I live the fire and feel like leather
My eyes are dark,
and they lay behind wooden and splintered
Then the winding wind
Unusual scars form
Bitten stars
They were bitten by the night
Angry night,
living like a predator

Always hungry,
Always ready to eat
Eat away a new star,
making it dark and unwanted
Then the awakening
Lay in the arms of the golden sun
Cradling your head
like a newborn baby
You don’t think about the lifeless anymore
There is a snow cloud
made just for you
To make you feel wanted and adored
Just like the beauty of the snow
But like snow,
you can be dangerous
You can cause mayhem,
with your slick moves
And your cold intoxicating eyes
Make that Golden Sun want you again
In your heart still lived that predator
That muddy serpent.


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


Poem “Those Trains in Carbondale” by David L O’Nan


4 Poems by David L O’Nan available today on Punk Noir Magazine. Follow the link

Several Poems by David L O’Nan including “Wrestling the Air” “the Withering Alice” “Broken Ballets in Haunting Gardens” & more






A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Julie Stevens

with Julie Stevens:

Q1: When did you start writing and first influences?

Julie: I started writing seriously about 3 years ago. I showed 3 poems I’d written whilst at university years ago to a poet friend, who suggested taking up writing again. There’s no stopping me now. I remember having a real interest (still do) in Ted Hughes and Shakespeare in my teens.

Q2: Who are your biggest influences today?

Julie: My biggest influence today? So many to mention, but I absolutely love the work of Sylvia Plath, Simon Armitage, Seamus Heaney and many more.

Q3: Where did you grow up and how did that influence your writing? Q4:Have any travels away from home influence your work?

Julie: I grew up in a town called Harrogate in North Yorkshire, England. I had a real interest in theatre and think learning and reciting poems for many auditions helped influence my love of poetry.

I am always gaining ideas for poems on my travels. As a disabled person, I meet many obstacles that make the day more challenging or rewarding. I have recently written a poem about being free on a zip wire in Wales.

Q5: Any pivotal moment when you knew you wanted to be a writer?

Julie: Most of my poems give an insight into my disabled life with Multiple Sclerosis (MS). I am gaining so much enjoyment from writing and hearing how people relate to the poems and they are helping. My MS diagnosis has become a very positive thing.

Q6: Favorite activities to relax?

Julie: When I’m not writing I love getting outdoors and seeing a brilliant view. Nature always has a positive influence on me. I also enjoy meeting up with friends over a good cup of coffee!

Q7: Any recent or forthcoming projects that you’d like to promote?

Julie: I am currently fundraising for the MS Trust charity who have helped me so much over the years, particularly in funding MS nurses. All proceeds from my books sold go to this charity. Knowing I have written poems that are now helping fund the charity and through this am helping others with MS is an amazing thing. The Book Shop on my website: www.jumpingjulespoetry.com has links for my pamphlets Quicksand (Dreich 2020) and Balancing Act (Hedgehog Poetry Press 2021).

Q8: What is a favorite line/stanza from a poem of yours or others?

Julie: I have so many favourite poems I’ve written, but one of the lines I go back to and tell myself comes from my poem Bird: ‘Come now, ride with me, you won’t stumble in clouds,’ even when walking down the street!

Q9: Who has helped you most with writing?

Julie: There are many people who have helped me with my poems, providing feedback in poetry groups, or from more professional mentoring (Anna Saunders, Rebecca Goss), so I guess they’ve helped me improve the most.

Links:

https://hybriddreich.co.uk/quicksand-julie-stevens-2/

https://burninghousepress.com/2020/04/21/two-poems-by-julie-stevens/

Poetry by Julie Stevens in Fevers of the Mind Press Presents the Poets of 2020 ‘Angst’

5 poems by Linda M. Crate

stop harmful narratives

saw a video
where a woman was
blaming mental illness
on a lack of faith,
and insisting that it was
the fault of demons;

can we not push
harmful narratives that
aren’t true when mental health
is still a stigma no matter
how much we speak of it?

she said it was just her opinion
when people called her
out instead of owning up to
her mistake,

and it just is exhausting
to see people be so willfully ignorant;

inherited my anxiety and my
depression from my mother but that doesn’t
make me a bad person or unworthy
of love and care.

it’s so obvious

you said it was all the time
i spent alone that made me
depressed,
but honestly it was you
making me feel like no matter
what i wouldn’t be good enough;

tried to be a good daughter
but you wouldn’t let me be anything
less than a burden to you and you made me
feel as everyone saw me that way—

when i stopped trying i was then
criticized for that, too, as if no matter what
i was going to be the villain in your story;

you were the adult and i was the child but
somehow your feelings were more valid than mine

in your eyes—

you always invalidated my stress,
my fears,
and my dreams;

then you wonder why we aren’t close?
it’s so obvious.

i didn’t need everyone to like me

i was bullied
relentlessly
always
even had a guidance counselor
tell me if i weren’t so weird
i would fit in with my
friends,
and it was that day i promised myself
i would always hold on and value
my weird;
because i decided i was worth being me
a long time ago—
because once i did try to fit in,
yet nothing i did ever earned the love
or respect from my peers
that i so craved;
and i realized that not everyone’s opinion
mattered and i didn’t need the friendship
of everyone.

i am worthy and i always have been

there are some people
who walked away
that still haunt me

used to think that i wasn’t
good enough to be loved,

but sometimes you just have
to pull yourself out of that bed
with that last bit of strength
you have and push on because
some people who promise
you forever walk away;

they don’t always give you
closure or a reason—

just disappear from your life
becoming a ghost whilst you’re both
still living,

and i have to admit that some days
i can ignore it and other days it weighs
heavy but i have realized it has nothing
to do with me but everything to do with them;

i am worthy and i always have been.

we didn’t choose it

every school is against bullying
until it comes to doing something
about the bullies

they won’t step in and help you,

and they’ll make you feel as if it is
your own fault that you’ve been bullied;

but it is not my fault that other
teenagers were riddled with insecurities
and decided to take it out on me—

i used to laugh and talk loudly
until they bullied me,
and now i am so soft spoken
that people complain;

i was asked out as a joke and ostracized one
day by my friends for no reason at all—

they told the guidance counselor that i
just followed them like a puppy dog and was
“so weird” and the guidance counselor blamed me, too;

it angers me that those that are wounded and hurt
are blamed for their own pain because we didn’t choose it.

Wolfpack Contributor Bio: Linda M. Crate

Several new poems by Linda M Crate

3 new poems from Linda M. Crate

2 Poems by Linda M. Crate : “Anyone Can Appreciate the Light” & “Until He Was Gone”

2 new poems by Marie Little : Portrait & What the Others Know

Portrait

Holding my breath
fears quieted by river mist
I dance mermaid, full-tailed and fleshy.

You watch like wild garlic as
I flit from shade to shimmer
turn silted somersaults.

You paint me naked, still,
my mouth sand, my eyes pebbles.
I forget to hold my breath.

What the Others Know

My hand in brambles
is it here they tuck 
misshapen thoughts or
are secrets trapped in 
cuckoo spit, clinging
to otherness?
Nothing is ripe here 
yet but 
I grow questions by the hour
weave them into the 
six bar gate, brand
them in bark, nest them in
hedges. A dog-walker nods
a smile at me. His
pockets bulge with
answers, brambles
vining from his boots.

A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Marie Little