By the god of daylight a quilted quiver
Of sin lain beside me in the morning/
Worship of all that kneeled before me
In absolved prayer with the priest with
Two sons; one in religion; one in shame/
A blame of another kind.
Lust has taken those forsaken.
Earthly body returns to earth in dust.
The bells— they ring, they ring and angels
Bring out the remains of your Judas love.
With your rosary beads and divination Unknown you walk the path not shown—
There’s a morning waiting at the end of
The road shrouded in Biblical revelation,
All cock-eyed in the hold of another hand.
Lucifer comes round during Jupiter darkness
And kisses the ground walked by disrobed
Saints scholars and prophets from Mecca.
Flight of darkness in dawns early light,
Those chosen depart with the parting
And all history awaits.
Sunflower Seeds In Your Pocket
Ukrainian proverb:‘Love thy neighbour, but pull not down thy hedge.’ We sheltered from the wings of warwith their missiles.
We’re fated to our destiny a father leaves to go battleThis is our future history. now the skies scream down evil
the last goodbye: it was never our intention it was never meant to beour final destination.
In the metro sleep the future generation
hearing a new reality of warit was never God’s intention for them to hear death So near so soon. Although the world still turned and houses still burned we’re fated to waiting for fredsbringer with sunflower seedsin our pockets.
Demon dogs howl at the moon’s rise.
The room is readied with incense of
Frankincense and myrrh.
Have the angels fled?
A shadowy figure moves slowly;
The grass is scorched from hooves
Of the called.
As the devil thrills a captive audience,
With his splendid playing of the violin.
‘Such gusto! Bravo sir!’
— How the fires are stroked.
Such glow cast upon faces.
‘Care for a margarita?’
To watch the burning
Of the Testament.
For the poet hasn’t arrived yet with a rebuttal. Dare he try?
He lays at the Devil’s
Feet— like a faithful dog.
The crowds dance like mistresses
To music of the Devil’s symphony.
Have the angels fled?
The sounds cascade down their writhing bodies- The fiddle has them captivated.
It’s inside them/possesses them.
How they moan...
In a dream-like state, the music of the Stradivarius wraps its trilled embrace round me.
The angels have fled.
Happily Ever After
In this house of ours,
We (you) picked out
The new wallpaper in this
Sitting room of silence.
The pictures on the wall
In the hallway near the door
(Which once promised freedom)
Seems somewhat... incongruous,
To what the separate bedrooms entails.
Two unfulfilled souls in their
Own Les Misérables.
Frowns, sighs and shrugs
Are reiterated daily.
From blossoming beginnings:
You’re so lovely!
Ah stop, I’m blushing!
To the happily ever after of:
Did you put the bloody bin out?
Where’s my socks?
Hedgehog Poetry Press (c)
Blurb for “Before the Bridges Fell” upcoming book by me (David L O’Nan) on Cajun Mutt Press from Robin McNamara2 poems by Robin McNamara : New York city ain’t you just so & Holy Fires of ReligionPoems by Robin McNamara : “Here in the Woods” & “Sandpaper of Shame”3 new poems from Robin McNamaraA Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Robin McNamaraWolfpack Contributor: Robin McNamara
Bio: Robin McNamara has over 145 poems published worldwide in America, Canada, Ireland and in the UK with Versification, Pink Plastic House, Daily Drunk, Full House Literary Magazine, Dream Journal, Second Chance Lit, Literary Heist & Ephemeral Elegies. A regular contributor to Poetry Ireland and Black Bough Poetry poetry prompts. Robin’s forthcoming debut chapbook, Under A Mind’s Staircase, published by Hedgehog Poetry Press, UK is available to purchase now at: https://robinmcpoet.com/
David L O’Nan’s poetry reads like the American landscape. Filled with hope, passion and despair. If you like Charles Bukowski then you’ll like these poems. A very relevant poet in today’s indifference to mankind’s suffering and abandonment. There is a strange kind of comfort, a familiarity within the poems like:
Living in This Toxic Coalmine with the opening lines:
‘There are fields that no one wants to breathe There is a reality in which we cannot be.’
A Coffee Shop Chronicle has the beautiful Bukowski-style lines:
‘She’d drink vodka until 3 A.M. after
Saturday night excursions. She had men
howling for her and laughing at watered down jokes.
She could play violin like Alice Hartoncourt, with the beauty of the moonchild spirit.’
A highly relevant poet for the times we live in who paints an Edward Hopperesque canvas across the pages with his words. Highly recommended.
Förbjuden You cannot lose what you’ve wanted
If you’ve never had it. You cannot
betray what you’ve never had.And after darkness’s thrall
Comes morning’s fall of heart.
Torn apart. The beggars remorse,
The lovers lament. Damned
With craving for something distant,
For something gone. She’d sing
Her songs from a distance. Velvet
Voice with all kinds of black to soothe
Those fevered minds long lost
In the hollow of the dark to stories
of false prophets, who the night declined.
A torn Nirvana. You. Temptress of the mind.
I can taste, the fruit of your lust.
The holy man, oh, how how he raged.
For I had dared to preach
In tongues of fire and desire, of all my sins;
In this ancient language of your ancestors.
And the fire. It is endless. It is endless.
Dirty Hands & Paper Cups
In the grip of an icy day in
Christmas glow of seductive
lights from designer brands
in shop windows we passed
the flow of human traffic.
Two laneways thick on the pavement
in bobble hats and devotional worship
of the gods in their hands.
And then we passed a shadow
of another being, greyed, black
and quite as night; illuminated
with the decay of society. Hands
of mercy cupped for crumbs of your
conscience in the season of goodwill,
as you rush for things you think will
blind your passing indifference.
The Ghost Poet
Snakeskin songs along the Boulevard
Groove in a husky voice. Whiskey
breath and the death of poetry from
fast addictions. The Native Indian he
was a wise man inside my soul.
The Ghost Dance/ the Ghost Dance/
shedding my skin in a dance of trance.
French kissing tequila bottles, the Indian soul screams: no more!
It’s the end of the night.
Wolfpack Contributor: Robin McNamaraA Poetry Showcase for Robin McNamaraA Book Review: Robin McNamara – Under A Mind’s StaircasePublished poetry by Robin McNamara from “Under A Mind’s Staircase”A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Robin McNamara2 poems by Robin McNamara : New York city ain’t you just so & Holy Fires of ReligionPoems by Robin McNamara : “Here in the Woods” & “Sandpaper of Shame”