Poem: Wild Hearts by David L O’Nan

Wild Hearts

Finally, your wild heart has escaped
dug out of the tombstones and pistols.

Finally, breathing
lost your flannel scars

Overly cautious needletail flight
into a coal burnt sun.

Finally,  your wild heart has escaped.
Fireflies surrounding us.

In smithereens we are now static.
The last prayer to a Bonnie and Clyde tragedy.

We are puffing cigarettes like a royal snob.
Invisible now.

A parade for the burning winds.

He, the jealous king
makes love fraudulent.

Finally, your wild heart has escaped.
Dynamite sticks replace the brain.

He, lives as the artist wrapped in heartbeats
Ideally, he pretends his golden crown was light.

Foggy to everyone else.
Your wild daring heart has escaped.

From razors to scissors.
From cuts to blisters.

I have never felt the chills like that
in your shaking hand.

Your love, facade.
But you sleep will in the lilies.

Looking at deformed clouds.
Destructing the milky way.

1001 Days Before the Scream: poem by David L O’Nan 

Poem by David L O’Nan Butterflies and Manifestations

Poem by David L O’Nan : “Clearly!” (2005) (Poetry, writings) 

Poem by David L O’Nan : “Cartoon”

Hiraeth Series poems 26,27 from Kushal Poddar

Hiraeth Series 26-27


Anger sits with its piss sample.
The results displays pink.
Dream will be born
and born angry buck naked
on one bad laundry day
with the firmament greying
in one thousand minute shades.

I remember my mother died
two autumns ago on this date.
I stare at my toes while sitting
on the cold toilet seat.

Everyman can get pregnant
when the time ticks right
with the juvenile vision
to meet the deceased near
the black horizon.

(Inspired by a photograph of Chinki Sinha)

‘Revolution’ – someone has etched
with a screwdriver no longer
in use for its original purpose
on the body of a dilapidated bus
left to rot in the police garage,

and I sip my imbecile tea
latte and say, “Apparently
it takes a garage, not courage
to continue a revolution.”

The dust serpent hisses here.
Here this red dustbin
of a roadside stall spills its plastic guts.
The old comrade climbs up
on the bus without any wheels
and drives mad, drives blind.
The cookie I dipped falls and loses
its identity in the sea of my pale tea.

2 more poems from Hiraeth Series by Kushal Poddar

Poems 24 & 25 from Hiraeth Series by Kushal Poddar


The freight train of the tree leaves
hit the station Autumn.
This afternoon I desire to play daggas.

Between  the beats I lift my eyes 
and see the leaves gather
around over the hair losing yard 
and over the arthritic mower
and covering the pigeons irritated
by the doves sheathed in leaves
and into the space - sacred and worshipped
in my weekend conversation with my father
over the telephone.

I pick up the rhythm so that the vaccum
shrinks to accommodate the fall.

My landlord's ghost eldest son
whistles at his motorbike, and it
shakes off the leaves and the dust and
the leaves and the dust and the death
in this exact order.


Perhaps the boy suddenly remembers
to feed its solitary horse and begins to walk
with the haylage. There is no horse in the town.
I hear his footsteps and the beast's neigh.
Evening wraps up its business.
The pearls of the windows metamorphose 
pain into some magic lanterns of the hope.
The horse's shadow wins the bet of loneliness
wagered between it, the horse and the boy 
I hear the boots and the hooves and measure
yards and time with those and then I forget
the units and the numbers and the truths
of my calculations. Oh, nothing should happen
to the boy or to the horse in the pit of darkness. 

Hiraeth Series poems 21-23 from Kushal Poddar 

Hiraeth Series by Kushal Poddar (poems 13-20)*updated 9/13

Poems 8-12 from “Hiraeth Series” by Kushal Poddar

A Poetry Series by Kushal Poddar “Hiraeth Series”

About Bats: The Chiroptera Sonnets by Paul Brookes

brown bat

photo by James Wainscoat (unsplash)

  1. The Alcathoe

Home high in splits, cracks and loose tree bark,
near water. I hear it in two ways. Crash
of tumble. Soft echo in our Hunting Dark.
Trees are Hardnesses in our flying Dash.

I may swarm He may chase me. We may
retreat to Darker and make young. Suckles
in my pouch. Then let it hang, while away
I skim leaves, snatch prey mid flight, food rustle

crunchy backed echoes, always hunt echoes
back. Amongst others know it’s cry and smell.
I hold it in my wings, soon its own wings
will learn flight in the Dark, it’s ears know well

a landscape of returning sound, nose scent
of prey, weathered woods, know home’s high ascent.

2. On Mexican Free-Tailed 1/3

To feed my baby I hunt from Lightdark
to Darklight. I remember its making.
He slowly, comes on grabs Her at the start
always by ear, the jaw, or neck, pulling
Her out of our crowd, moves onto Her back
biting scruff of Her neck. Holds Her. She yanks
away , He chirps faintly. She squeaks. Now back
with us Her face wounds bleed. She is pregnant.

He moves slowly onto my back, His ears
held low and eyes closed.. No neck-biting or
calls. I do not resist;  I groom myself, my ears
or sleep. Cold Time comes so we fly to Warm.

I give birth clinging upside down to stark
Dark thumbs and feet grasp. It wont fall to Dark.

Mexican Free-Tailed 2/3 Suckling
My baby is born naked, eyes open.
I carefully clean and nurse it. New-born
attached to me by thread. It'll be eaten
if it falls Below by hard scuttlers brawn.
I won't rescue it. We learn each other's
scent and voice before we separate. I
pull away to dislodge Bloodsac, unmother.
When dried it falls off child . Tenacious my
young use large feet and thumbs to hold on to 
Hard. It's tiny sharp teeth cling to mothers
or others. I put it among young, who
squeak, jostle, and crawl over each other.
After Hunt, find its call, muzzle top of it's head,
sniff, talk, raise my folded wing. It's breastfed.

A Mexican Free-Tailed 3/3 First Flight
I avoid several mid-air crashes
a breath. Rely on my untested guide
senses. Break my wings, get Belowed bashes
I'll be swarmed, stripped to bone in a breath's Wide.
First time I flew outside with our swarm, told
to watch for feathered claws that lie in wait
I found my first winged hard case, snatched by bold
one who jammed my echo. Learnt my mistake.
When Cold Time arrives we will fly to Warm. 
Gather outside entry to our Dark Home.
We will rise upwards, our gust makers form 
shapes in air in flight to our second Home.
We must rest and hang the journey, refresh. 
Mother says new home's food is tasty, fresh.

3. Barbastelle

All our food have ears, so we must use stealth.
They hear our echoes, make their own so we
hear theirs and think it ours. We must change depth
of our echo so they cannot hear. Free

to hunt, until they find new ways to stop
us. In flight I glean water as I skim
it, flit quick, echo up at Tallness top.
New echo works. Food is no longer thin.

Dark colder sooner. In Long Cold we must
enter Slow Time. Heart to few from many
beats, gathered together in Hard Dark roost.
All flitterers we ate feed our bellies.

Come Long Warm this heart will beat quicker, these
wings unfold hungry for flight and release.

4. The Golden-Crowned Flying Fox

I restrain Her from behind, bite Her neck. 
I approach Her, lick Her. She rejects me. 
I lick myself. Scratch my head, lick, flex 
my wing. Flap it. Flap it. Fan my body. 

It's too hot. As newborn my mother groomed 
me while she breastfed me. I lick my friend. 
We mock-bite, mock-wrestle. Recall she bloomed. 
Her wings shaking, Her chasing, biting ends, 

she rejects me. I hang sometimes by 
one foot, sometimes two, eyes open I stare 
around. I shake my wings, chase, bite, defy. 
Rub my neck or shoulder along branch share 

what's mine. Widely open my wings. Sleep, eyes 
closed wings around myself. Wake to more tries

5. A Bechstein's

I can smell the Tallness Tapper in Dark 
of its abandoned home. Come Dark outside 
I glean leaves to find food. Once our wings marked 
length, breadth of ancient Tallness in our glide.

It is ever less, and so are we. Shear 
beak carved out this roost in living Tallness 
beside water. Temporary home here 
we females move from Tall to Tall Darkness. 

beside water. Temporary home here 
we females move from Tall to Tall Darkness. 
He stays out there, sometimes on His own. We 
huddle together for warmth in Long Cold. 

When we swarm to find Him,to make babies. 
We make the New and listen to the Old. 
I hear the living Tallnesses tale tell 
amongst themselves about who stands who fell. 

6. Honduran White Bat

Briefly stay in many leaf homes we make.
First our teeth cut holes on leaf underside,
our feet and thumbs grab hold, our thumbs pull, take
it downwards, break some leaf fibers, decide

to abandon it. Continue others.
I and three more stay with Him in one, two
Long Darknesses, then move to another.
I cut and reshape other homes. Blown through

by gust or damaged by heavy rain I
abandon. He Often grooms himself, cuts
no work on our homes. Some groom and work. My
baby play shapes a broken leaf. Such

sharpen their making skills, use mouth and thumb.
Soon they will be shaping their own homespun.

7. The Ghost Bat

I see feathered ones silhouette against
Lightdark .It's chatter distinctive. In the 
Hollow Darkness I eat its head first. Wrenched
feet and wings pile up underneath me.
I brought it to ground, my thumb claws held 
it down, my wings enveloped it, my teeth
bit its neck, until it's squawk and flap stilled.
I suckled at mother's teat till my teeth
grew sharp. Sat and waited for prey with her.
She taught me how to call, hear their echoes.
Their croak and slither, skitter and flitter.
Told me invisible barbs, no one knows
when or how they appear will shred our wings 
no matter how we struggle against things

8. Brown Long-Eared

At rest I tuck my ears under my wings, 
or curl them back. I fly low and slow, 
hear their flutter, I follow tight stalling 
turns, my nose makes sounds returned as echo

heard by my ears, almost as big as me. 
I hover glean leaves, as I get closer 
whisper pulses echo a buzz. I see 
their uneatable wings that I'll render

onto waste piles underneath where I feast. 
Before Long Cold Her and I make a child. 
Then both of us will Slow Time, do the least. 
Start of Long Warm She births a nipple thrived. 

Holds to her and her milk while she hunts Dark. 
Her rich sup will bring it up to see its mark. 

Arachnida Sonnets by Paul Brookes (an occasional series)

The Insect Sonnets by Paul Brookes

Introducing the Marine Sonnets by Paul Brookes

The Unresolveables (An Heroic Crown Sonnet Sequence) by Paul Brookes at (sonnets 1-15)

Anthology Post: Finding a Wonderland in Alice by Paul Brookes (poetry)

3 Poems by Paul Brookes in Fevers of the Mind: Her Fiftieth, Her Fur Elise, A Black Bead

1001 Days Before the Scream: poem by David L O’Nan

person wrapped face with white textile

1001 Days Before the Scream

Thursday began the delusions
By Friday there was a hint of seclusion
The giggles bit like frightened mice.

By the next week
Something was clawing at the vacancy
Left by shadows
Kept growing more and more -
and more beast-like.

A month in the rattling tails
Like a rattlesnake militia
Testing and begging for a scream.

But you...

Still not frightened enough.

Walking up with the breathy tangles on my neck
Sly, slick with many questions
The walking around in the daze
Crawling, then back to walking.

The deep voices of jumbled word priests are taunting,
praying for your scream.

The chipmunk voice dancers are singing,
moistening your lethargic wet dream.
There is a calm grandiose...

A few years in.

Thinking back to normalcy.
The sunlight and the rain and all.
Balance each other out to become -
Your dark and trusting friends.

The grass will grow straight,
Crooked, burnt, and sometimes laced with decay.
Netherworlds overcast cloudy,
pungent waste.

You dissolve into a slight breath,
Catching a shriek! in your lungs...
but pause
before the orgasmic vocal becomes loud.

By 1000, you are a gagging lunacy freak
Pulling petals from your floral heart.
Bleeding here
Bleeding there
Love me once
Love me twice

And finally,

As midnight struck day 1001

A scream passes
Ready to face
Your next scream
You begin the new phase.

Poem: Mid Morning to Mid San Francisco by David L O’Nan 

2 new poems by David L O’Nan on IceFloe Press (click links) today “Those Hazels, they Slice” and “Living in This Toxic Coalmine”

5 poems from David L O’Nan in Icefloe Press : “I Hope All is Well In Utah” “They Met in Prussia” “The Hills Have Blindsides” “I Honored You in Pennyrile Forest” “A Walk in Whistler’s Woods”