3 poems by David L O’Nan : “Come Possess Me in the Rain” “Sleight of Hand” “In the Palms of Schizophrenia”

Come Possess Me in the Rain

The conduits all say that I invented myth
And magic all in one breath.
There is a mist in the cold air
On a Greenwich Village Halloween night
I can not feel the electricity
Only the forceful druids, and the chanting wish of death

They hold me up and say
Come Possess me in the rain
Licks the cold steel to my skull
Possess me, with me
Real and muted by the shame
In an execution style parade
What is the impression of a concrete stain?

They are practicing Shakespeare
They are faux Warholas and Bohemians in sunglasses
Without a notion of care

And I’m in this shadow that you feel at the River
Cold to the touch, blood like paste
The arrows kill the stars in the nuclear waste
In the air, decaying the ground

Now I’m expected to love all
As I’m pierced to these skyscrapers
Bound and bullied
My hands shaking off frost
It takes every breath in my lungs to
Release all my cowardice and all the vapors

Like this militant view of my skewering
They drop me off like unused flesh
Love was only the invention
Off the roots of an untimely reptilian dream
And hate grew in the garden
And shook the city lights to the seas
There isn’t a Picasso left

Digging up from the cracks
I crawl up through Cherry Lane
And I watch all the faints
And my nerves constantly dance an alarm
I am rushed in my steps
I am hushed in the slivers of my brain

In my mind that never sleeps
In my possession they fed off for years
I can only find truth and humanity
And live like I’m the Palomino
Dodging in and out of the hustling of fear

Sleight of Hand

My blood is an old soul
That should be pumping through a robotic poet from classic times
If I’m breathing, you will hear me
When I’m not, you may hear me more
How else can you see these supposed fast-moving clouds dream –
As slow motion tantras through a heartless sky?
This current world is too loud for me,
Yet it isn’t nearly loud enough
The art is secluded
The arteries are clogged,
Filled with supernovas and suffering
And they call this a sleight of hand


In The Palms of Schizophrenia

(first published in 3 Moon Publishing)

I’m a runaway from
The colours of my aura
Slithering like worms across the cracks of sidewalks

My palms have lines that are geometrically wrong,
Where do the nails go?
When they capture me
To evict me, to a death.

When they mark me like all of Christianity,
Rising above the rest.
I live with nature, everchanging repetition.
No one else hears,
My cries in the night
Like wolves, like all of my fears

How are screams so fluent?
In an echo, a breath
In Convulsion, still so fluent?
Everyone has deep eyes
Congruent to my ruin.

I remember love
And the mystery of bells
The ringing of heartaches
And the burning of hell

Inside my palms
I always know my passions
Only I, and my ghosts of mind can imagine.
And in this world

Even levitation leads to a drowning.

feature photo by Janine Robinson (unsplash)

Wolfpack Contributor EIC Bios: David L O’Nan & HilLesha O’Nan

Poem by David L O’Nan : “Cartoon”

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Cartoon


I am a cartoon
Spawned out of sedatives,
And the undressing of social ghosts

From another era,
A misplaced shadow
Picked up by his brain
And placed into the grey
The black and white mingling
With the coolers of evergreen grass,
And sunshine
Only on days beyond the pale


The programmed moments
To feel human
Soon the eclipsing,
Back to the litter
The polluting of liar’s kisses


The youth that have regressed
From freedom to greed
I am a cartoon
All eyes wanting a joke,
You have become the joke
Smiles are for the pretty,
The handsome


The crooked money ticklers &
The sensual succubus
Teasing you into a melting,
Staining thought


Restraint, your control
Faceless,
Soul non-existent
Your mouth dry,
Drawn on
By the hedonistic mystery of power


You are tattooed in –
The rust of their hearts
All eyes are fake, to you
Their spinning, dancing words –
Are dreams, to you
When they move b y you
Fast like a motor’s hum
Trying to inject their life,
Inside your bubble
Puncturing the ink from my skin


They are annoying, to you


I am a cartoon
Murdered from the loving,
Peaceful world we knew –
Many vastly shaded moons ago –
And placed into this,
Whatever this is?


The unknowing,
The apprehension,
The reality
Placed into the soil to resurrect mania
Buried into this soil
To alleviate trusting


A cartoon always wonders
If they’ll make it –
To the next page

This poem is from my book “The Cartoon Diaries” (2019) found at this link tinyurl.com/v2pg5nrv Follow me on twitter @davidlonan1 and @feversof

Wolfpack Contributor EIC Bios: David L O’Nan & HilLesha O’Nan

Poem by David L O’Nan : “Monet’s Trees”

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

photo is Claude Monet’s “Trees in Bloom”

Wolfpack Contributor EIC Bios: David L O’Nan & HilLesha O’Nan

Poem by David L O’Nan: I Tremble Like Dying Flowers

I Tremble Like Dying Flowers

previously published in Royal Rose Magazine and in my book the Cartoon Diaries

I wrote you this ballad this morning
As your brown eyes slept away yesterday’s stress
Can I present you rich daisies and oils?
When Our minds can never really rest,
Of Course, I can write of the past
And all the crumbling rocks that cut like a good-bye.

But I want to be your strength
Instead of your fog in peril build,
A trembling dying daffodil
I want to wipe away a tear with confidence
And bring you the hands of Jesus in this fence.

We must break through
To touch the skins of heaven.

I want to swim,
I want to wipe these oceans over
This sadness, this anger
Drown those greedy seeds of cities.

They continue to grow that oppressive dirt
And I whisper words of I love yous
As you continue to sleep like a peaceful baby bird
And no Winter withering, of flowers
Impervious to the narcotic chills

And flowers dress out of its manic swaying,
All my crutches and bandages hold them up like a miracle for you.

The best I am, and can ever be
Is your damaged masterpiece.

Don’t throw this one out.

photo by Silvestri Matteo (unsplash)

Wolfpack Contributor EIC Bios: David L O’Nan & HilLesha O’Nan