3 poems by Coby Daniels: Lost, Contemplation, Broken Mirror

Coby Daniels

Lost

I am on a march now
To a place that opens
Upon the vista of Heaven
But I keep losing my way up
Jacob’s ladder
Please help me find the compass
That leads me right to you

For I am lost now
And
You are Babel
Re-orienting my ability of speech
I speak in different thoughts
And think in different tongues
I never seem to make sense
Anymore
There is a revival
That has left me understanding
The mysterious language
Of the lost
Like

Those who see without eyes
And only hear with ears closed

Contemplation

I am stuck in conference
With the dark night
Listening to the fireflies
Telling me tales
Of

When the moon fell in love
With stardust

Outside
Hangs a veil of fog
Thicker than a slay queen’s lashes
And as heavy as
The beat of a million songs unsung
Marking time inside my head

I want to reach out
And touch the stars
But then I pause
Because

My dreams are in a line of fire

I don’t want to burn to ashes
Pursuing my dreams
So I listen to this tale
The fireflies tell

Much like some long forgotten rhymes

Broken Mirror

Let my reflections
Of once upon a time
Bleed on the shards of a mirror
Now broken

This verse
Should have been
A tale of two cities:
Time and Space

Standing still because;

You became
The only thing in my world
That brought me
From the abyss of forgetfulness

You taught me that
Remembrance is not always a curse
But a beautiful song too

Trips
Down memory lane
Have now become incisions
Letting out bad blood

Letting out insanity

You remind me that
Some broken things
Are never meant to be
Made whole again.

(c) Coby Daniels

Bio: Daniel Asamoah Yeboah (a.k.a. : Coby Daniels) is a young Ghanaian poet, novelist, spoken word artiste, and proud alum of the University of Cape Coast from where he graduated with a
Bachelor of Arts in Education Degree. He was also president of the Department of English’s Creative Writers Club. He has featured in several journals including the maiden and second editions of the Lunaris Review Online Magazine. He has performed some inspiring poems on platforms in Ghana such as Moonlight Cafe, Indigenious Minds, VerbzCafe and has been greatly influential together with other creatives like The Village Thinkers in instituting the poetry revival in his university campus with selflessness, zeal and enthusiasm. He is a social volunteer and
aspires to positively impact society with his writings and volunteerism. He loves nature photography and is a voracious reader. Find him on: IG & Facebook: coby Daniels, Twitter:
@coby_daniels and his blog: http://www.cobysthinktank.wordpress.com

Wolfpack Contributor Bio: Pasithea Chan

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 @RogueMalachite and on Ello @ello.co/pasitheaanimalibera where you can find more of her historical fiction and mythological or cultural short stories.

Poem by R.D. Johnson: “Just a Scratch” (new poetry)

Just a Scratch

See you used to scratch me
That first one showed the lines 
First contact, first strike
Caught off guard by your words and actions 
And how they both affect me physically and mentally
The next time you went for blood
The blood permeated the layers of the subcutaneous and cutaneous 
Oxidized and oozed 
You knew how go take things up a notch
You became a mosquito that was drunk off blood
Wanted to be the life of the party
Knowing the very thing you were doing was killing you inside too
But you still continued
You finally scratched me hard that you went deep 
The scars from before reopened as the pain and suffering 
Became your fountain of youth 
But for me it was getting old
To me, it was to time to scratch em back
And let me feel the rage
Of doing what you’ve done to me
All these years
And I just sat there and let you do it
I look at the mental scars I have left 
As the memories of where I was 
And how far I came
And I’m glad to see those marks
Are fading away 

Bio: Follow R.D. Johnson on twitter @r_d_Johnson Check out his work on the Poetry Question with RDJ’s Replays https://thepoetryquestion.com/category/replay-rdj/ Read His work on dailydrunkmag.com R.D. Johnson is a pushcart nominee, a best of the net nominee for Fevers of the Mind “(Not Just On) Juneteenth”

Poem by Peach Delphine: wave is a circular motion

Out of the wound
we come singing
a chorus of wings
swallowed by daylight.

Hand that balances wind
waiting on the surface,
out from the creek, free diving,
descending from surface warmth,
gathering shells,
ascending in one long exhalation,
leaving the squeeze of depth
and coldness behind.

There is a voice in lightless sea,
entering through eye,
answering voice of shadow
buried beneath sternum
coiled about spine, always
we feel the vibrations
in our feet and hands
always we feel the wire
of edge, the burnished arc
of time.

This form has become shadow
of cloud, darkening shallows
for a moment, turtle grass,
blue crabs, bonnethead sharks,
ponderous and seeking tongue
of horse conch, the sea is indifferent
to this body, the multiplicity of forms
has buoyed me out past the Key of memory
into the open Gulf of sapphire
reflected in your eyes.

Surfacing breathless, unfolded

from palms the optic remains unspoken,
fronds shimmering with morning,
a spent shell lifted from shallows,
empty of body,
my own emptiness filled with sea
restlessly seeking reunification
with the greater body
an ebb and flow of so many small voices
in the roots of mangrove,
a clinging of barnacles
to our mothering wood,
leaves of voices lifting
to azure, a different blue
than your eyes reflecting
sea and horizon.

from palms the optic remains unspoken,
fronds shimmering with morning,
a spent shell lifted from shallows,
empty of body,
my own emptiness filled with sea
restlessly seeking reunification
with the greater body
an ebb and flow of so many small voices
in the roots of mangrove,
a clinging of barnacles
to our mothering wood,
leaves of voices lifting
to azure, a different blue
than your eyes reflecting
sea and horizon.

Bio: Peach Delphine is a queer poet from Tampa, Florida. Infatuated with what remains of the undeveloped Gulf coast.

2 new poems by Michael Igoe :”Inborn” & “Funeral Lilies”

           

Inborn

Underneath a chassis,
a white glove touches
greasy stacks of boxes.
The bullets inside them
spill out on cold ground.
A file of sultry generals
assembles in a building.
In the shape of a Basilica.
Scarved girls
at work within
are busy washing
their china dishes.
To find themselves
not quite so lonely
when dishwashing.

 Funeral Lilies

Necessary arrangements
are taking up more time.
Following rigid orders ,
we pick those flowers that bloom in skeletons.
Straightening creases,
ones real or imagined.
We read the rumors,
in the gossip column
we put them all down
to a misunderstanding.
Thanks to St. Jude,
for favors granted.
He’s close to the kin,
who perish among us.
But ones assembled,
give him due respect.
It seemed odd,
to think it’s sad,
achieving a thrill.
Using only one word
that soothes our soul.
At a hot dog pit
south of 95th
we will arrive
at his funeral.
We meet brazen kings making no mistakes
about power wielded
A Kansas City woman
calls a broom a rocket.
To match things up
she took a chance
to stand in line
so she can shake
the mayor’s hand.
She sure hoped he’d die
when he stole the election.
They both sit in the grandstands,
between the one eyed vagabonds.

Bio: Michael Igoe, neurodiverse city boy, Chicago now Boston, recovery staff at Boston University Center For Psych Rehab. Many works appear in journals online and print. Recent: Spare Change News(Cambridge MA), thebluenib.com, minerallit.com. Avalanches In Poetry Anthology@amazon.com. National Library Of Poetry Editor’s Choice For 1997. Twitter: MichaelIgoe5. poetryinmotion416254859.wordpress.com. Urban Realism, Surrealism. I like the Night.

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

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         

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