Tag: The Cartoon Diaries

Backyard Barbie Dolls by David L O’Nan – poetry

Backyard Barbie Dolls

Ethereal poses by the backyard Barbie dolls
She wants to join them
They dream unlike her,
a shallow gel over a burning world
They live a different dream
But she,
she wants to join them
Walk with a healthy strut,
red lipstick smear to smut
Pretend you’re never old,
if you want to join them
Suppress your caustic old-fashioned smile
Too crooked you’ll poison your ideal
Inherit the smirk of a dying golden rain
If you want to join them
There is a shelter you dare to seek
A natural beauty left on the brink
Hold your head over a toilet or a sink
Flush your mind into the pipes
if you want to join them
Now,
Barbies they want to play
Sucking limousines across the way
They have bleached away another perfect day
Digesting the Cancer
that lives inside them
There is a price tag on the plastic nude
She lays there crippled and rude
Overflowing in suntan oil and booze
Waiting for the eyes to join her

Poetry Paisleys, et Cetera by David L O’Nan from the Cartoon Diaries

Paisleys, et cetera

From a nest of crows lay a red robin
That we saw develop from an amber to a passion.
A spirit animal that flies free from the misery
Swimming in the sky vertically
From backwards to frontwards,
Curving with ease

In the sunsets of Purple and Pink
From Ice Blue to the Orange Papaya whip
Swiftly,
wings threading the needle of the seas
Marveling in Springtime heavens
Only to depress in your cup nest covered by January frost.

Bind your ribbons to an ironclad bend
resting your tarsus in the blanket of snow,
and dream with your culmen,
Drinking in the rewards of the March air,
only shades are left to conquer.

2 poems by David L O’Nan: Those Hazels, They Slice & Living in This Toxic Coalmine

Poetry: Butterflies and Manifestations by David L O’Nan – The Cartoon Diaries

BUTTERFLIES AND MANIFESTATIONS

There was a time
When I had an existence
We were the Roses
In fields with the butterflies
A Masterpiece
Manifestations followed by
The wilting, just weeds
Infestations
Butterflies spread across the crispness
Of the ground
Through it all sticks and the snakes
The moments of life
Beats your reflections
Upon oneself
All the hugs in 20 quick seconds
All the kisses in a flash of cloud to ground lightning
The moments of the attempts play like a 4 hour movie
The pills, the Crashing to the floor
Revived, prayers you have to rip from the mud.
Just to see your reflection
After another infestation
See yourself in precious waters
Pulled petals and thorns scattered
In the forms of scrambled tombstone etchings
Battles in love, beauty in achievements
When you stabbed your self-doubts
And you felt fragrant, and you could attract a crowd of dandelions whom thought they were Hollywood.
Make the proud moment reflections last longer,
God please
When I’m holding my babies
Not accepting being one of the masses of Roses
I feel the drowning of my mind
Being held down into another ditch
Another infestation
Butterflies scurry to a truth
A Masterpiece in true waters
A welcoming warm stare of the Nymphaea Nelumbo
May I feel comfort resting in this blanket of grass
Resting under twilight
Stars of God
Lift me into light
I can fully encompass the reflections
The last days of diseases that withered me to bone and plastic skin
I can see that I like everyone had moments of being a Masterpiece
That flew with the butterflies
A crowding of love
Purging ideas that there were infestations at all, and what was claustrophobia
Was just blind tremors
And tricks of sin
That oozed out the poisons
And scooped up, in handfuls and drank in by your own soul
When scared and resistant

Poetry: Monet’s Trees by David L O’Nan from the Cartoon Diaries

photo by Adora Goodenough (altered)

MONET’S TREES

We speak as if death,
as a reflection of shade
As we navigate in the circles of sunlight
As miracles of breath
Miracles of Mother Nature
The trees of a Monet painting
Have become real
We become bearers of our sins
To discuss, to confess
Confessions to the caverns of bark
Eaten away at,
We lay in the comfort of cold ground and confess
To the lace ripped from the corner of an orange moon
The days of strange
By the riverfronts
Watching little devils form in the ripples of water
We met each other
As soldiers of war
Soldiers of mental scarring
We met each other
From dust to blood
Battle-wound confessions
Blood of the dawn
Paints the tears to my skin
One with my pores

Can you feel the burning?
All the reflexes in a burning

Tremor
Confessions
When we whisper lies to celebrate infamous moments
Celebration of ego
In radical boredom
The moments we walked on the bridges of bone
To climb the highest mountain to touch the hands of God
Superiority complex, confess
That you are lost in a possession of spirit
The caverns of bark, to climb through
And let the animals, tunnel through
Nibbling at the periderm
Confess more
Were you satisfied with the awakening of madness?
As it spread, fires across lakes of thought
Confess to the artist that sketches into your brain
Confess to the colors that swirl in your mind
Greens, browns, grays
What shall the Rhytidome be?
When confessing to the caverns of bark
In a blending of Monet’s Trees

The War is Like Honey in Holiday Lights by David L O’Nan

The War is Like Honey in Holiday Lights

On this Christmas,
we are in these smoking lights
In our poverty,
In our never-ending wars
Like every Christmas it seems,
Ever since I became a young man
They forced me into these hate battles
Fighting “enemies ” whose faces –
Are in family photos,
Just like mine.
The government has tried to white-out my mind
Many years ago,
Blank me out,
a dot to be eaten by the machine
Replaced me into the sticky,
Fill in the wounds with the honey,
In stitches
Cohesive, bare boned and breathing in
Last heartbeats.
There are the memories,
Pretty voices humming
In hope,
I pray to a sky
That I cannot fathom all the angels
The angels,
That supposed to be cradling us all.

As these nightmares burn in our skin,
Layer me in towers upon towers of fears.
I try to imagine,
A boyhood love of bells ringing,
Instead of missile sirens purging –
the pure from the air.

I will always have my mother’s voice
She will sing to me from the haunts
Sing to me,
In hope
As more of my brother’s fall.
I cradle in this sticky dirt in my cuts,
And hold it up,
So, my angels can cradle me
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