::: A Taste of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 03:06:09 :::
“writing a poem is discovering.” robert frost
Welcome to a weekly taste of the MadSwirl Poetry Forum. We have collected poetry from the maddest poets from the maddest corners of the world and have showcased them here in the Forum just for you. The Poetry Forum is in flux, living and breathing, evolving and changing constantly...so please come and come often for the latest additions and submissions!
Awakening
before the sounds of the City
pass through the open apartment window,
a bird on the fire escape sings a song,
sung before the City was here.
- jonathan hayes
(3 poems added 03.06.09)
Be bop poem
Rip rocken
Sure shocken
Be boppen
Get things poppen
Drown in the avalanch of sound
Smooth riffs of saxophones
Drum and bass a cacophony of tones
Jazzy melodies and 20-minute solos
In the flow it goes
Listen to him blow up and down the scale
Climbing to the top the cat sure can wail
He's a musical genius, tremendous
The bass and sax make you tingle and relax
He's a legend of jazz
Pushing it to out of breath
His breath control circular breathing
Look close, you can see his chest heaving
Covering the night club with a musical flood
Sound so bold and bright playing deep into the night
Fingers quick in a split kicking off licks
He makes it look so easy and sound so ready
Accompanied by a throbbing bass and drumming pace
Like busting through darkness
His sound drips then gushes
He lived that lush life high as a kite, drinks or smack he could play that sax
Expressing emotions and feeling his be bop beat no one else could compete so unique and complete be free style or off the sheet
he captured the vibe of city streets
Back in the day that man could play
Fast or slow sweet and mellow
He played like the sound of a sunrise
He played like the sound of the dawn
Quiet like whispers of nightfall
The beat of heavy rainfall, deep in the jungle call
Notes squealing and squeaking like his instrument was speaking kept peaking the next level seeking
Made you feel something playing music sounding like running so stunning backed by drumming bass fingers strumming
He uncovered explored and opened sounds to his sax roar
want more want more
how that melody did soar in score after score
The cymbal and the high hat the toe tap
Plays filling the empty spaces a colorful oasis with rhythm chases
guides our ears through a maze of amazing solos the way you blow
Like no other like no other
Saxophone smothered
There you go again blowing like a northeasterly wind
So free so easy so easy so free
Holding those high notes making music float playing in the haze of your dope
Your music stands the test of time
It is everlasting forceful blasting
I like to listen to you in my different mind states help me escape
I want to ride that Blue Train
With My Favorite things
Making that soprano sax sing
Want to make my Ascension with Giant Steps
To the Afro Blue Impression
To Meditations
Got to hear that Love Supreme
From the Blue Note to The Village Vanguard
You were kicking it heavy and hard
Getting down with Monk and Miles
That free jazz invented your own style
- dubblex
(3 poems added 03.05.09)
ANOTHER ROUND MORE: PLEAS FOR THE PLANET BLUES PART 4
I am warm in here. Out there it’s 20 degrees with a northeasterly wind. I don’t care except that the trees are confused. They can’t decide whether it’s time to wither down & go bare or should they buds. They talk to me and ask me but I say I don’t know. Cause, yo, it’s so crazy out here. You know, crazy for everyone, not just crazy for a sister but crazy for a tree. Al Gore says it’s global warming moving at a faster rate than presupposed before and the naysayers in the crowd out here argue this validity. I don’t know who to believe. Yesterday was 50 degrees. Today it’s snowing violently violet with a strong breeze. I can barely see through the thick curtain of white wet snow relentlessly cascading down outside. 50 degrees yesterday, yo sister, yo brother, yo…
What’s it to you if I dream away my solitude? Write poetry in my spare time. Spare time that used to be 1 minute is now 2. I don’t have time to work a regular gig. I’m too busy writing poetry and have too many other things to do.
In my solitude you haunt me
With dreadful ease
Of days gone by
As I stroll past, I hear the trees say they don’t know what to think but should I care? I return inside where it’s warm from the glow produced by oil & coal from the furnace. I don’t need to know what’s causing this interruption of flow of service on my network. I keep telling others to listen to reason, use all your resources to power the nation. Power the Mojave Desert with miles & miles of solar panels and we’ll all be warmed free for life. There’ll be very little strife I promise. The economy will be trite without these services sold to the hilt, but we’ll all have our lights and warmth. Our services will be free if you’ll only please see what I see and power the Mojave desert with miles and miles of solar panels please please.
I hear cries from everywhere world wide, voices echoed & etched in the wind of tides,
Them that’s got shall get
Them that’s not shall lose
So the Bible said and it still is news
Mama may have, papa may have
But God bless the child that’s got his own
That’s got his own
You are so in love with you I see, but then who wouldn't be?
What is it with all the beautiful artists always taking self-portraits? Good self-esteem I guess?
Let kaleidoscope wings help my spirit soar, I want more, to fly away to exotic faraway shores where no one knows me where I can seek evolution and solutions, maybe even start a revolution.
- joy leftow
(3 poems added 03.03.09)
buzzkill
the perpetual pulse
of the ever present cursor
has never really
panned out that well
I’ve always preferred to pen
my words
between parallel stripes
so I was in my usual spot
on the front porch
watching two finches
and a squirrel
smoking a joint
when the words came
but my pen didn’t want
to mingle with the page
seems it
too
was having a bit
of writer’s block
but since the words were there
and don’t tend to
stick around very damn long
I set the reefer down
and went in to the cave
where the only light
that made any difference
was that damned flashing cursor
the little fucker killed
my words
a sort of cerebral abortion
and now I cant find
the rest of my goddamn joint
either
©02.20.2009
- yossarian hunter
(3 poems added 03.02.09)
See-Things
The simplest way
to say things
is to see things:
The sun
in the back of my head,
no timetables
for backgammon,
women of liquid starlight.
That sun was rising
I fell.
I fell from the center
of the carousel;
hospitals were hiding time,
the world was only horizon.
I want to see things
but there is nowhere to look
for nothing to see.
I ponder beneath reach
in every direction
toward the sun
that don't say,
the sky that don't see.
I see steam
colors rise from teacups
perusing altitudes
of human experience,
the decay of the sun
and bones that burn.
Flames rise from white
flower petals scribbling
upon purple night.
Orange fire rides on poles
that get turned on
by telephone polls.
I bury dewdrops
on flower petals
and tongues,
unmediated photon of no origin,
unsounded sign
of infinity and nothing.
Strings dance
upon an orchestra buried
beneath the stage
of no orchestra,
I scream
and there is no sound to see
is the simple way
to say things.
Unhinged door
to the cave where
I do not live,
secret to the sun
drawing the plains
and the precipice,
stone, the ocean
and the end.
and many
other things.
Sight of sound,
taste light, think
with moons, touch blue
fire, dance on
tombstones, know the origin
and nothing.
I do not speak for myself.
I split seconds
on flower petals,
seek solace next
to nothing,
and say thing
as I see thing.
The window is open:
As long as you exist
there is always something
to see.
xxxEven if you have no eyes.
So when I think back
to the origin, to what
exists before time,
the simplest way to say things
is that we see things.
and then we don't.
- chris hamilton
(1 poem added 03.01.09)
A QUARTER-TO-12 AT THE MIRAGE ON VALENTINE’S DAY
A quarter-to-12 at the Mirage on Valentine’s Day, we sit in the all-night
Brooklyn diner and play old songs on the Compact Disc, nostalgic songs
of our youth.
We listen to “Chances Are,” “It’s Not for Me to Say,” “Misty,” and other
songs sung by Johnny Mathis, followed by “My Funny Valentine,”
“Fly Me to the Moon,” and “All The Way” sung by Frank Sinatra.
An old-fashioned couple, we hold hands across the gold table in our
ostrich-leathered booth. The red rose we received when we entered the
Mirage lies diagonally across the table.
For a few moments, perhaps, we dream of Yesterday and the surreal
passage of time, rushing forth almost at the speed of light. It’s much
like a dream, this phantasmagoric sequence of events labeled Life.
My beloved, whom I gaze at with awe and tenderness, trust and passion
and unparalleled love, remembers magical nights by Niagara Falls, when
she watched the fierce beautiful waters, illuminated by dazzling lights,
cascade down in strips of pastel colors.
“Niagara Falls is one of the wonders of the world,” she whispers. “I suppose
it’s like Time itself, a mysterious Force galloping across the universe like an
unbridled mustang.”
“We can’t stop it!” I cry out.
“Who wants to, my dear? Don’t you recall?”
Her dark brown eyes, soft and hypnotic, capture and swallow me and I whirl
and swirl in the wild universe of our love. And I remember how Time brought
us together, blessing us with the gift of love.
And I reflect: Time is cruel; it is gentle and beautiful too. Time is a beast that
devours human flesh and dreams; it is also a guardian angel that feeds our flesh
and soul.
Time is a unicorn rushing across the dreamscape of our imagination and a mirage
in the vast desert of human existence.
Yes, I remember how Time anointed us with drops of divinity. But is it real?
Are we?
Inside the Mirage, we enter a timeless dimension of pure love and vanish.
- mel waldman
(3 poems added 02.28.09)
PURPLE PLEASURES
My purple pal
Pesters me often
To write a poem on paper
The adorable gal
Persuades me often
To sing without a reason
Write I can, sing I can
Music and poetry
Bring together I can
Rhyme or no rhyme
Reason or no reason
Whichever be the season
I find myself ready
To oblige her already
With my mind active and my hand steady
To mount the poetic horse
Without changing the course
Ejaculating yet another seed of creative force
- ashutosh ghildiyal
(2 poems added 02.27.09)
Welcome to a weekly taste of the MadSwirl Poetry Forum. We have collected poetry from the maddest poets from the maddest corners of the world and have showcased them here in the Forum just for you. The Poetry Forum is in flux, living and breathing, evolving and changing constantly...so please come and come often for the latest additions and submissions!
Awakening
before the sounds of the City
pass through the open apartment window,
a bird on the fire escape sings a song,
sung before the City was here.
- jonathan hayes
(3 poems added 03.06.09)
Be bop poem
Rip rocken
Sure shocken
Be boppen
Get things poppen
Drown in the avalanch of sound
Smooth riffs of saxophones
Drum and bass a cacophony of tones
Jazzy melodies and 20-minute solos
In the flow it goes
Listen to him blow up and down the scale
Climbing to the top the cat sure can wail
He's a musical genius, tremendous
The bass and sax make you tingle and relax
He's a legend of jazz
Pushing it to out of breath
His breath control circular breathing
Look close, you can see his chest heaving
Covering the night club with a musical flood
Sound so bold and bright playing deep into the night
Fingers quick in a split kicking off licks
He makes it look so easy and sound so ready
Accompanied by a throbbing bass and drumming pace
Like busting through darkness
His sound drips then gushes
He lived that lush life high as a kite, drinks or smack he could play that sax
Expressing emotions and feeling his be bop beat no one else could compete so unique and complete be free style or off the sheet
he captured the vibe of city streets
Back in the day that man could play
Fast or slow sweet and mellow
He played like the sound of a sunrise
He played like the sound of the dawn
Quiet like whispers of nightfall
The beat of heavy rainfall, deep in the jungle call
Notes squealing and squeaking like his instrument was speaking kept peaking the next level seeking
Made you feel something playing music sounding like running so stunning backed by drumming bass fingers strumming
He uncovered explored and opened sounds to his sax roar
want more want more
how that melody did soar in score after score
The cymbal and the high hat the toe tap
Plays filling the empty spaces a colorful oasis with rhythm chases
guides our ears through a maze of amazing solos the way you blow
Like no other like no other
Saxophone smothered
There you go again blowing like a northeasterly wind
So free so easy so easy so free
Holding those high notes making music float playing in the haze of your dope
Your music stands the test of time
It is everlasting forceful blasting
I like to listen to you in my different mind states help me escape
I want to ride that Blue Train
With My Favorite things
Making that soprano sax sing
Want to make my Ascension with Giant Steps
To the Afro Blue Impression
To Meditations
Got to hear that Love Supreme
From the Blue Note to The Village Vanguard
You were kicking it heavy and hard
Getting down with Monk and Miles
That free jazz invented your own style
- dubblex
(3 poems added 03.05.09)
ANOTHER ROUND MORE: PLEAS FOR THE PLANET BLUES PART 4
I am warm in here. Out there it’s 20 degrees with a northeasterly wind. I don’t care except that the trees are confused. They can’t decide whether it’s time to wither down & go bare or should they buds. They talk to me and ask me but I say I don’t know. Cause, yo, it’s so crazy out here. You know, crazy for everyone, not just crazy for a sister but crazy for a tree. Al Gore says it’s global warming moving at a faster rate than presupposed before and the naysayers in the crowd out here argue this validity. I don’t know who to believe. Yesterday was 50 degrees. Today it’s snowing violently violet with a strong breeze. I can barely see through the thick curtain of white wet snow relentlessly cascading down outside. 50 degrees yesterday, yo sister, yo brother, yo…
What’s it to you if I dream away my solitude? Write poetry in my spare time. Spare time that used to be 1 minute is now 2. I don’t have time to work a regular gig. I’m too busy writing poetry and have too many other things to do.
In my solitude you haunt me
With dreadful ease
Of days gone by
As I stroll past, I hear the trees say they don’t know what to think but should I care? I return inside where it’s warm from the glow produced by oil & coal from the furnace. I don’t need to know what’s causing this interruption of flow of service on my network. I keep telling others to listen to reason, use all your resources to power the nation. Power the Mojave Desert with miles & miles of solar panels and we’ll all be warmed free for life. There’ll be very little strife I promise. The economy will be trite without these services sold to the hilt, but we’ll all have our lights and warmth. Our services will be free if you’ll only please see what I see and power the Mojave desert with miles and miles of solar panels please please.
I hear cries from everywhere world wide, voices echoed & etched in the wind of tides,
Them that’s got shall get
Them that’s not shall lose
So the Bible said and it still is news
Mama may have, papa may have
But God bless the child that’s got his own
That’s got his own
You are so in love with you I see, but then who wouldn't be?
What is it with all the beautiful artists always taking self-portraits? Good self-esteem I guess?
Let kaleidoscope wings help my spirit soar, I want more, to fly away to exotic faraway shores where no one knows me where I can seek evolution and solutions, maybe even start a revolution.
- joy leftow
(3 poems added 03.03.09)
buzzkill
the perpetual pulse
of the ever present cursor
has never really
panned out that well
I’ve always preferred to pen
my words
between parallel stripes
so I was in my usual spot
on the front porch
watching two finches
and a squirrel
smoking a joint
when the words came
but my pen didn’t want
to mingle with the page
seems it
too
was having a bit
of writer’s block
but since the words were there
and don’t tend to
stick around very damn long
I set the reefer down
and went in to the cave
where the only light
that made any difference
was that damned flashing cursor
the little fucker killed
my words
a sort of cerebral abortion
and now I cant find
the rest of my goddamn joint
either
©02.20.2009
- yossarian hunter
(3 poems added 03.02.09)
See-Things
The simplest way
to say things
is to see things:
The sun
in the back of my head,
no timetables
for backgammon,
women of liquid starlight.
That sun was rising
I fell.
I fell from the center
of the carousel;
hospitals were hiding time,
the world was only horizon.
I want to see things
but there is nowhere to look
for nothing to see.
I ponder beneath reach
in every direction
toward the sun
that don't say,
the sky that don't see.
I see steam
colors rise from teacups
perusing altitudes
of human experience,
the decay of the sun
and bones that burn.
Flames rise from white
flower petals scribbling
upon purple night.
Orange fire rides on poles
that get turned on
by telephone polls.
I bury dewdrops
on flower petals
and tongues,
unmediated photon of no origin,
unsounded sign
of infinity and nothing.
Strings dance
upon an orchestra buried
beneath the stage
of no orchestra,
I scream
and there is no sound to see
is the simple way
to say things.
Unhinged door
to the cave where
I do not live,
secret to the sun
drawing the plains
and the precipice,
stone, the ocean
and the end.
and many
other things.
Sight of sound,
taste light, think
with moons, touch blue
fire, dance on
tombstones, know the origin
and nothing.
I do not speak for myself.
I split seconds
on flower petals,
seek solace next
to nothing,
and say thing
as I see thing.
The window is open:
As long as you exist
there is always something
to see.
xxxEven if you have no eyes.
So when I think back
to the origin, to what
exists before time,
the simplest way to say things
is that we see things.
and then we don't.
- chris hamilton
(1 poem added 03.01.09)
A QUARTER-TO-12 AT THE MIRAGE ON VALENTINE’S DAY
A quarter-to-12 at the Mirage on Valentine’s Day, we sit in the all-night
Brooklyn diner and play old songs on the Compact Disc, nostalgic songs
of our youth.
We listen to “Chances Are,” “It’s Not for Me to Say,” “Misty,” and other
songs sung by Johnny Mathis, followed by “My Funny Valentine,”
“Fly Me to the Moon,” and “All The Way” sung by Frank Sinatra.
An old-fashioned couple, we hold hands across the gold table in our
ostrich-leathered booth. The red rose we received when we entered the
Mirage lies diagonally across the table.
For a few moments, perhaps, we dream of Yesterday and the surreal
passage of time, rushing forth almost at the speed of light. It’s much
like a dream, this phantasmagoric sequence of events labeled Life.
My beloved, whom I gaze at with awe and tenderness, trust and passion
and unparalleled love, remembers magical nights by Niagara Falls, when
she watched the fierce beautiful waters, illuminated by dazzling lights,
cascade down in strips of pastel colors.
“Niagara Falls is one of the wonders of the world,” she whispers. “I suppose
it’s like Time itself, a mysterious Force galloping across the universe like an
unbridled mustang.”
“We can’t stop it!” I cry out.
“Who wants to, my dear? Don’t you recall?”
Her dark brown eyes, soft and hypnotic, capture and swallow me and I whirl
and swirl in the wild universe of our love. And I remember how Time brought
us together, blessing us with the gift of love.
And I reflect: Time is cruel; it is gentle and beautiful too. Time is a beast that
devours human flesh and dreams; it is also a guardian angel that feeds our flesh
and soul.
Time is a unicorn rushing across the dreamscape of our imagination and a mirage
in the vast desert of human existence.
Yes, I remember how Time anointed us with drops of divinity. But is it real?
Are we?
Inside the Mirage, we enter a timeless dimension of pure love and vanish.
- mel waldman
(3 poems added 02.28.09)
PURPLE PLEASURES
My purple pal
Pesters me often
To write a poem on paper
The adorable gal
Persuades me often
To sing without a reason
Write I can, sing I can
Music and poetry
Bring together I can
Rhyme or no rhyme
Reason or no reason
Whichever be the season
I find myself ready
To oblige her already
With my mind active and my hand steady
To mount the poetic horse
Without changing the course
Ejaculating yet another seed of creative force
- ashutosh ghildiyal
(2 poems added 02.27.09)
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