Bending Rivers: The Poetry & Stories of David L O’Nan out now!

Bending Rivers: The Poetry & Stories of David L O'Nan by [David L. O'Nan, David O'Nan, Margaret Viboolsittiseri]

Over 500 pages and combining my books “The Famous Poetry Outlaws are Painting Walls and Whispers” “The Cartoon Diaries” “New Disease Streets” “Our Fears in Tunnels” & “Taking Pictures in the Dark” as well as a few from “Lost Reflections”

Check a link on Amazon for your country & also available on Kindle.

Poetry Showcase from Pasithea Chan

grayscaled photography of person's hand spreading sand

Photo from Kunji Parekh (unsplash)

Hey, I can manage!

I tried keeping up walking with him
but the bigger steps I made
the faster he went!

I tumbled and fell
I even scratched my knees.
He didn’t stop or even blink!

So I picked myself up
patted my pants from the dust
held my head high and walked.

Okay so you don’t care I get it.
Two can play a game!
Am doing it my way.

You used to make me wait
for you to turn hearts around
to grow a conscience in some
and to make things better.

You were able to take things from me
because I let you but not anymore.
I am not your toy, let’s get that straight!

I will take from you what I need.
I too won’t blink or look back.
Thank you for showing me that.

Today we walk side by side
on a road enough for more than two!
Our shoulders almost touch.

He gave me a smirk
I tapped him on his back
and said, hey Time guess what?

I don’t care anymore
about keeping up with you.
I can manage.
Author's Notes:

Author’s Notes: This piece is an imaginary scenario between the author and time... who keeps on running and the author keeps on chasing him...but she reaches a point when she realizes it's pointless and decides to do things her way her pace...because the world doesn't stop for sadness or happiness... because hearts don't change over time... because things don't get better in time... because it is what is.... if it's meant to be it'll be.

Trouble Me Not

Trouble me not with your worries
for your shallowness speaks to my darkness 
a credence that shrieks: evil is faithless.
Trouble me not with your fears
for a bloody moon of leers
lights my night like candlesticks.

Trouble me not with your hurts
for I couldn’t care less for what happens
next, to you or what part of you breaks.
Trouble me not with your beliefs
for you are a body of lies that belongs
to hell with all souls this reckless.
Trouble me not with your quarrels 
for your bullshit trembles under values
so shallow entangling you in misfortunes.

Trouble me not for you shall feed hell’s
appetite for troubled dark souls like yours
wait for it, hell’s gonna wring your neck with woes.

Trouble me not for as your screams
leave your lungs reaching the heavens
I shall relish blowing away your ashes.
Author's Notes: Inspired by: " From the Mouths of Trouble" by fellow poet RolinSton.

Gripe's Pentacle

Life is a circle that begins with creation
but ends when destruction becomes a mission.
Life’s circle is centered in attention
with irony and chance for a diameter.
Every life has a purposeful circumference
enclosing motives and goals with reason and balance.
But every life covers an area of interests
that can be tangent or parallel to others.
Destruction breaks life’s circle with confusion.
It strikes  down one’s balance
by hitting one’s center with attention.
Once balance is gone destruction 
leaks motives and goals with aggression. 
Then the chain of hurt and blame brings isolation
sliding in personal gain’s hook to hang gripe’s pentacle.
Gripe is a trivial complaint that disrupts reflection.
It has greed on one corner to burn compassion,
radicalism on the right corner to end discussion,
ignorance on the left corner to begin occlusion,
pride on its south east corner to prevent redemption
and envy on its south west corner to deny gratification.
Wearing destruction’s pentacle of gripe is a decision
made by many thinking their life begins with others’ destruction.
Life is a circle deformed by destruction’s
gripe pentacle showing blame's face
with its bloody mouth and envious eyes.
Author's Notes: Although gripe was defined in this poem but it is also worth noting that in this poem it is an acronym of destruction's pentacle: Greed, Radicalism,  Ignorance,  Pride, and Envy.

Mind Your Mind

Mind your mind and you shall find
happiness, a kinder form of life
that blows good fortunes like a wind
born out of clarity during moments of strife.
Lose your mind and you shall find
bitterness, a harder form of life
that leaves you lost and blind
amidst chaos from rage’s hive
Train your mind and you shall find
excellence, a better way to lead a life
of bounties known to humankind
in stories where dreams dive!
Mind your mind even when opined
and you shall never go blind
nor know what it is like to hide
a heart that’s been declined
or a thought that’s been confined.
Mind your mind as though a rind
that protects you from a jack-knife.
A mind that is refined 
is all that you need in life.

Clouds and Castles

Welfare is a soul’s castle
built up in dreams’ clouds
only to be washed away
by life’s crashing waves.
Dreams are opaque clouds
combed by reality’s fingers
only to clash with thunders
that rain contradictions.
As the hail piles forming walls
one thinks he is hale behind doors.
Then truth’s sun shines
tearing our walls with woes.
Judgments make clouds 
condense pouring rains
of regrets in chains
that drag us with life’s waves.
Chances are the ebb and tides
that build or destroy our castles.
Time destroys us with our castles
tearing us down like our walls.
We tumble down with failures
humble down with lessons
mellow down with losses
and calm down with haplessness. 
We build walls of contradictions
to erect our castles of welfare.
We cement them with arbitrary acts
and tile them with sweet nothings.
Because we commercialized ourselves;
we don’t mind the wear and tear.
So we tear down and rebuild
today for tomorrow like a yesterday.
We forgot that those who live behind walls
tend to miss sunshines and meadows.
They keep building defenses
for wars that never come
until they die without living.

We pride ourselves
with castles in the air or seas
but forget that we are prisoners
of our devise dancing to our demise.
Souls were never made to live in walls.
Our bodies are enough walls.

Mama Told Me

Mama told me don’t tell all 
cause many are waiting for me
to fall just so they can gloat.
Turns out she was right after all.
But I told them how I stood tall
and they were there for me
at least that’s what I thought
until time sorted them all, money made its call.
Mama told me don’t tell all
cause no one would understand me
when I have nothing to give at
all and that’s how I lost them all.
I had to see them watch me fall
and hear them talk about me
calling me unreliable and that
hurt, because I never expected this at all.
Mama told me don’t tell all
but I did and it’s on me.
I regret telling but I can’t
change things so I accept it all.
Nobody visits and I don’t call.
I am all alone with what’s left of me
Who would’ve thought-
money keeps family around after all!
Mama told me don’t tell all
cause nobody cares for me
or how much I fought
because honesty doesn’t matter at all.
Depression and disappointment are all
I have to keep me company.
Desertion and neglect clog my throat
with hurt from being made to feel so small.
Mama told don’t tell all
because she knew they could hurt me
faking love that left me distraught
with a hurt so deep like a bottomless hole.
Author's Notes: The narrative in this poem is from my life and it was inspired by the following quote: "Sometimes the people closest to you betray you, and your home isn't a place you can be happy in anymore. It's hard but it's true". P.C. Cast

Blurred Clarity

If I told you, you need to sail the sea
to find thee and be able to see;
Would you say yes or disagree?
If I told you tragedy begets the clarity
to see what’s meant to be
would you call me crazy?
If I showed you hurt’s family
to protect you and me 
would you still see me?
Whoever said live with honesty
to find peace and harmony
forgot to highlight its tragedy.
All you get to say is if only
they’d spare me the misery
and let me face reality;
A reality starving for clarity
fed by choices made sincerely
starring those once trustworthy.
See trust chaps skies with maybe
and drenches life’s seas with irony
to dawn clarity that leaves both blurry.
You may think you sail aptly
but choices are tipsy boats swiftly
sailing amidst blurred clarity.
A clarity blurred by the company
you keep casting you in a tragicomedy
written by understanding’s bigotry!
To let the sea, meet the sky
to drop those flying high
to drown next to those passing by

A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Pasithea Chan



A Poetry Showcase from Thomas Christopher


Every speeding car is coming to kill. 
You look and look and look and even then
you still can’t change lanes. Your mind a terror 
of what if, wiring wired like a tripwire.
You’re one wrong move, wrong glance, wrong thought 
from being a screeching wreck of bone and steel. 
And the cars keep hurtling, speeding, weaving. 
More projectiles pouring on the highway, 
and when will the crash coming ever end?
Every sequence a siren of nightmares.
You get off on the wrong exit and stop.
Your hands still gripping the wheel. You’re shaking.
Your heart is pounding. This is why your life 
has gone nowhere you wanted it to go.


The sunlight outside was brutal,
a violent glare I wanted to blot out
How dare you? How fucking dare you?
“You have diabetes,” the doctor had said. 
What happened never happened.
Blurry vision, chugging water, 
my blood sugar a lethal 500? 
Stab myself with needles every day?
Denial is a life invisible.
What you can’t see can’t hurt you
until it’s too late,
and your eyes aren’t blurry but blank,
blind to the charred-looking foot being cut off.
I bought a pack of cigarettes 
and smoked in the park.
Not my proudest moment.
An old woman cradled a scraggly dog,
a plastic cone ringing its stupid neck.  


My eyes bulge 
like popping squid eyes.
My head swollen 
like a pumpkin.
My body skinned down to sticks.
Skin peeling off in white flakes,
molting like a lizard.
Fading away inside myself.
A ghost changing shape.
I’m sinking into a hole 
of sheets and pneumonia.
I don’t know who I am.
But I’m alive. I know that.
And strangely peaceful.
My body beats and claws 
against nothing,
yet desperate to save me,
as if it only wants to tear 
me apart from the inside 
and start over again.
But there is no over again.
The window open for flight.
A phantom moving 
outside myself.
Sickness like a ghoul.

Follow Your Heart

Where but the sky to fling our hopeless hearts, 
red bubbles rising far into the blue
until going too high, always too high,
a drop of blood that pops without a sound,
poof, gone, as if no more, but there is more, 
the torn red sack, the split skin, maybe a piece 
of mangled meat falling beyond our sight,
landing in the branches of some distant tree,
hanging from limbs like splats of dripping blood
that don’t drip, red stains that don’t go away,
still wanting what happened of letting go. 
And it’s not the sky we look to anymore
but only to the branches we pass under 
to see some other heart-shreds hanging there.


You are brittle 
autumn leaves, 
broken and crushed 
into pieces, scattered 
like confetti on 
the dead grass,
ready for winter’s 
hand of snow 
to push you back 
into the ground, 
dissolve you away 
into the life of spring,
the life of a flower 
swallowing the sun, 
a life you’ll never see.


You hide your head in
a kaleidoscope 
hole while the wind shreds 
your life like a flag 
in tatters, flapping 
on a forgotten pole.  

Thomas has had work appear in Redivider, The Louisville Review, Hawai'i Pacific Review, The Nassua Review, The MacGuffin, and Crack the Spine.  Thomas lives in Nashville with their two sons.

Re-published poems by Michael Igoe

white and blue petaledd flower

photo from Annie Spratt (unsplash)

published previously in

Jamaica Plain Massachusetts

Pull on the blue serge sashes;
bear witness to Jamaica Plain.
The darkest blue
much like motifs
in the magazines
you leaf through.
When you're done,
you must come in
Watch the sugar cubes
melt where flies settle.
Spying through vessels,
or an unlocked window;
trying them on for size.
You might want to recal
those Hell's Kitchen visits.
When genes sang in series,
from that psychotic candy.
Another time it was fed
to your downtown flock.
Take a look friend!
How we've grown!
Yes, we've grown,
and now's the time,
to make a descent
from our branches.

I know how to tell time,
sometimes I tell the truth.
But this time-
I see flowers bloom
deep in the skeleton.

Pull on the blue serge sashes;
bear witness to Jamaica Plain.
The darkest blue,
much like motifs
in the magazines
you leaf through.

Allure of the Novice

Rain spears in a spiral
with hammer and tongs
a condensed chemistry
lullabies filling the air
The coy workaday chuckles
from the slow motion queen.
She chose pared fruit
swollen by first light.

New Poetry Showcase by Michael Igoe

A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Michael Igoe

Imagist by Paul Brookes

Worms Of

light bury through wooden clouds.
Insubstantial trees disappear, or are reshaped
by sunlight and gust. They bucket down leaves,
make the earth sodden with them. Rain making,
thunder making anvil shaped trees make rainbows.
You can see the grain in the clouds.

Depending upon how and where 
gust and light saw through wooden clouds, 
defines their grain, curly,straight or flat 
in relation to their growth rings.

I splish and splash paving slabs
sending concrete waves and ripples
to either side. Dive into the pavement,
backstroke through crazy paving.

Have You

seen the face of flowers?
A furrowed brow of lavender.
The skin folds of a rosebloom.
Gustblown fascinator of a Daisy.

A lily with its yellow tongue out.
A field full of closed mouth Tulips.
Climb a mantelpiece of mountains.
Pass the ornaments added to
by every visitor. Step carefully round
the opened envelopes of scree.

An affectionate crown of thorns
The gentle stigmata of a caress.
The spiked maiden of your hug.
Thumbscrews of our hand holding.

Look out of the windows of the moon
Let in a fresh air of stars. Street furniture
of an ancient wood. A sofa of raised roots.
Trees become lampstands ready
for the moonlight bulbs to be switched on
in their crowns, meanwhile sunlight bulbs move
from crown to crown. A shared lighting display.

What wallpaper did you choose for your face
before you went out? Large red open flowers
with a brown background? Anaglypta?
The red brick wall, or geometric lines?
Watch out for those with cat faces
who may use your face as a scratching post.

Skirting board round the hem of a room.
Are we under the dress of this lounge?
Or are we outside admiring the folds
of paint or wallpaper the room has chosen
from her wardrobe? Colour matching
the carpet and three piece suite
under or outside the skirt.

Walk carefully over the floorboards
of cirrus and nimbus. Especially,
at night when you don't want
them to creak and wake up
the house. Watch yourself
on the cumulonimbus,
one false move could see a downpour.
Your socks polish these clouds.
They sparkle, after mop and bucket work. 

Bone Colours

This morning sky is a blue bone,
winter tree branches untouched
by gust. Sky breathes easy
amongst the silhouettes.

Sometimes there are holes in the sky
and you can hear a bone flute
Naked branches become Aeolian harps,
plucked by gust, sky's breath.

The White bone walks
across itself using its body
as music. Hear the voice
of itself. The voice goes ahead

The body follows the sound
from bright light to bright light
from cirrus to nimbus
from gust to gale

The white bones is talking.
It walks across the sky.
A sunlight and moonlight path.
At night it is a black bone.

As if the sky is ash. A cremation
of the blue and white into grey.
Night is the burial time.
Day is the resurrection time.

The sky is a white bone
made of clouds.
Thunder is percussion
of lightning against bone.

A Knifeblock

Winter's knife block
is the key to unlock
sharp and keen edges
slice tracery and pages

of thin skin let flow
blood juice, let know
a thin line between
the bone and the dream.

Every Bone is

a word
We grow into, one
that may learn to stand,
Uncertainly before the first step.

Others may crash their words
against us, to show
how their strong
meaning and confidence,

might replace
our word with another.
Our words hold our frame up,
a scaffold to others.

Every word is a bone
coming out of your mouth,
wishbones, charmbones,
angerbones, lustbones.

Smallbones stick in your throat,
largebones make your mouth 
bulge as they muscle out
between your incisors,

bang against your molars,
restrict your tongue, breath
blocked, wordbones hard 
to utter through spit and mucus.

My Mop Bucket(Apologies to William Blake)

I create moods with mop and bucket.
My chiascuro is very expressive.
My brush is very free. I learn
from the Old Masters.

My floors are landscapes.
Spillages become portraits.
Accidents are worked in
In my head there is colour

on my mop that describes
dashes and dots. I'm a mophead
full of bright colours I dip into
and out of my bucket. No two

floors are the same.
I'm a buckethead.
Washing away the muck,
remaking it I imagine outside.

Different temperatures,
gusts, light. Bring them all 
into my bucket.

To see the world in a mop
And Heaven in a bucket.
Infinity in a dustpan,
And Eternity in a brush.

A One Eye

The sky is a skull.
One eye is the moon.
One eye is the sun,
The sky only uses one eye.
The one eye of the moon
waxes and wanes, sometimes
a crescent eye, sometimes full,
the blood eye, harvest eye,
wolf eye, hare eye, storm eye,
chaste eye, Blue eye, seed eye,
corn eye, snow eye, mead eye.
Ocean eye works the tides.
Draw down the eye lit
by light borrowed 
from the other
eye of the skull.

Bio: Shop Assistant. Writer and performer. Books include  Please Take Change,  A World Where, As Folk Over Yonder. Latest: Wonderland in Alice...
Twitter @PaulDragonwolf  for the Wombwell Rainbow Blog. 

%d bloggers like this: