::: A Taste of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum: 04.24.09 :::

Lost In Thought by Ellen McMahill, just one of over a dozen mad swirlin' resident artists being displayed in the Mad Gallery!

"You will find poetry nowhere unless you bring some of it with you." Joseph Joubert

Hello fellow mad ones and welcome to our weekly taste of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum. Once again we have collected mad poetry from the maddest poets from all corners of this big & blue swirly marble and have showcased them here in the Forum just for you. The Poetry Forum is in flux, it’s a living and breathing, ever evolving and changing entity...so please come by and come by often for the latest swirling additions!

Peace

summer rain graces my cheeks like god's fingers wiping away the tears and anger of why he would turn his back on her and strip her nerves of their sheath. it's a warm, dreary rain, the San Francisco rain that drives people inside and leaves behind soft ground and humid air for days after it departs. it’s the rain the leaves fold upward, hands cupped and praising, hoping to catch a piece of gods mind, his motives and actions. while her body started destroying itself, I broke away and embraced an ideology that filled my heart with hate that took years to drive out. i long for love but live in the flailing despair of losing someone. 530 AM I saw the sun rising over the Thames, shoulders buckling under the weight of my body, everything was okay. have you ever felt true peace? the peace of "everything is alright even if nothing is going right," the peace of love pouring forth from you, the peace of solace in god's smiling pink, cursive orange face peeking above the hill to the east lips pursed "peace, peace." the word's burned out after 40 years of lies, peace isn't no war in Vietnam, peace is no war in our hearts, peace is acceptance, peace is loving even if love isn't coming back, or even if you're scared that it might not be someday.

dandelions lean back and reach upwards, begging for the rain.

Zach Ogden

(3 poems added 04.24.09)

THE OLD STORY

A soft whisper knocks on my heart
Beseeching me yet again to take heed
Of the swirling whirlwind of newborn
Emotions: the new-sprung sensations

While unprecedented, my old heart
Captures the immense impression
Pervading the universe once again
Conveying: the world is full of sorrow

Ashutosh Ghildiyal

(1 poem added 04.23.09)

the single pink glove.

as I lay
living
(which if
I'm not mistaken
is the purpose
of life)

I need not
delve deep
into the
breeze blown
catacombs
of my mind
for the answers
I'm after,

I merely
fall back
on all of
the
simple
glory
just
behind
me,

today;
I wore the
single pink glove
I'd found abandoned
in my laundry basket,

held a beautiful
woman in my arms
almost gracefully
sucking face
in a church
hallway,

freestyled
spoken-word
poetic psycho-
babble at a
narcotics
anonymous
meeting,

did a great
deal of walking
through the snow,

took an uninterrupted nap
while my room cleaned itself,

ate a strange dish
of vietnamese food
provided by a friend's
all too nurturing fiance'

smoked
a pack
(and a
half)
of cigarettes,

read a letter from
australia,
another from
christiansburg,
wrote one
to fryburg,

and am
unwinding
now

for a sleep that is yet
to climb through my window
and rip
this pen
from my hand,

as I stare out
into the stretch
of night,

and call the sun
a coward.

Eric Hamilton

(3 poems added 04.22.09)

The Safety of Gravel

There were white boys
made brown by the sun,
drinking it in, not for fun,
but because their farmer fathers forced
them. They spoke slow
and sparingly as I stared
past the dashboard at open fields
with renegade roads
running through them.

The cricket’s quiet call
overtook the radio
and every thing was still,
nothing beautiful, but
the grass was soft…

No wonder I laid there,
jeans gone, tee shirt on,
bra up, a backyard boy
between my legs
trying to fuck
with a whiskey dick,
begging me to believe
the bullshit he spit
between empty kisses
sour from hours
with a bottle he wasn’t
old enough to buy.

I got lost in the tall grass, let
those boys rest on
my chest, breathe in
the best and never
give it back, cuffed myself
to crickets, car stereos
and steering wheels the safety
of gravel so far way.

Tiegen Kosiak

(3 poems added 04.21.09)

The teaheads all gather round...

We're shadows on a spotlighted street, stretching and crawling and reaching for the light of the burning ember on the end of rolled up, dove-tailed, cherry-burnin'burning jay.

We stand around in a tight circle
to keep the cops away
to keep the smell away
to keep the others away.

We are a band of tea-heads inhaling to save our lives, chasing the thoughts that only serve to bring us down.

Gotta get higher.

Gotta get number.

Gotta get goner.

We gather around and pass it around and if you're not in our circle then stay-the-fuck-away.

We don't need any passers by, tea-heads like only other tea-heads when we stand in the circle. Like the mad ones only liking the other mad ones, like the hipsters only liking the other hispsters, like the poets who stand in front of cold souls trying to be someone, something, somewhere...

We tea-heads stand here in our circle and pass the rolled up dove-tailed cherry burning ember from tea-head to tea-head and say tea-headed things like...

"someday we'll be the ones, the firestarters"

and

"who knows where we will be lil allen, the whole mad swirl of everything to come begins now, dude. this is our on the road, this is our howl, this is our naked fucking lunch!"

But who gives a fuck what we do 'cos it's nothing compared to the truth, the words, or this tight circle of tea-heads standing under cold street spotlights, casting cold shadows on a cold autumn night. The rolled up dove-tailed cherry-burnin' jay goes wafting away and the circle breaks and we all go our own seperate tea-headed ways.


Gianni Sacco

(reposted 04.20.09)

Wily Eyebrows Almost Meeting

The request is delivered with such certainty that the timid, but brawny, cobbler thinks nothing of it ‘till the wood-frame glass door slaps the bells hanging in the sway. The customer leaves clutching the buff-color claim ticket. “How will I do this?” he thinks. “Such an odd request,” he says aloud to the fat orange cat dozing in the front window just below the sign, Ye Olde Cobbler Shoppe. The black, comfortably-worn shoes in question sit in the metal-mesh work-order basket, soles-side up. In his caloused right palm are two shiny Kennedy-half dollars. “It’s a powerful metaphor, you see,” the customer had said. “It represents our dire economy and bleak future, you see.” He furrows his brow – thick, wily eyebrows almost meeting – while re-reading the work order: FASTEN, EMBED OR OTHERWISE ATTACH PROVIDED HALF-DOLLAR COINS – ONE PER SHOE – TO SOLES. “Whatever happens, you see,” he had said. “I can stand tall knowing, I’m standing on my last dollar.”

icy rain
the tombstone reads – HE LIVED
IN HIS OWN WORLD

Jeffrey Winke

(1 haibun added 04.19.09)

So…didn’t we tell ya'? And this is just a snap shot. This poetic place is a'hoppin'! Now with over 100 poets (and growing everyday), Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum is truly a poetic voice to be reckoned with. Check it out...right...NOW! You won't regret it. We promise.