::: A Taste of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 05.15.09 :::
"When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries disappear
and life stands explained." Mark Twain
and life stands explained." Mark Twain
Toby (above) by Kristin Fouquet, one of over a dozen mad swirlin' resident artists being displayed in the Mad Gallery!
Hello our fellow mad ones. And welcome to our weekly taste of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum. We once again have gone and collected mad poetry from the most maddest poets from all corners of this big & blue swirly marble and have showcased them in the Poetry Forum just for you. Here’s just a taste of what to expect when you visit Mad Swirl’s Poetry Forum. The 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!
unguided
dark brutal formalism,
butterfly under glass
collide with
talk in library, read in class:
sound meets letter; letter encounters sound,
curtsies, shimmies, and retires—
open mouths and closed eyes
try to find a cure
for loss
that begins in these pages.
yield
to deteriorating memories
capture in a big brown box:
enclose what? (besides meaning)
a jar of genuine dirt
that reveals a defensive shame
to ask why construct to deconstruct
with more than two elevators to serve
and thought about ants and peach pits and death and where the world went when eyes shut.
here is the house. it is green and white.
Jamie L. McDaniel
(3 poems added 05.15.09)
RESURRECTION MAN
I died in the winter of my despair. Yet in
the spring of sacred beginnings, I was reborn.
In the pristine moment of my 1st birth,
Hashem, my G-d, blessed me with
His divine breath, and in a cosmic kiss,
He created my celestial soul, my neshama, and
I came into being too, a human child with flesh
and spirit, nourished by the mysterious soul,
I came into being.
Through the eerie years of unexpected joy and
sorrow, and uncanny coincidences, colliding in the
cosmos of my life,
I was reborn again and again in the spring of holy
creation.
And I imagine that before my final death, I shall
die a thousand deaths on earth, for each day, injustice
and other evils murder my wounded soul, tearing my
flesh too with toxic despair.
Reborn with each magical sunrise, I am Resurrection Man.
But who shall I be when I am dead and dust once more?
Shall I rise from the earth and fly through the mystical air,
mere dust scattered over human existence? Perhaps,
Hashem will bless me with His divine breath, and in a
cosmic kiss, recreate my celestial soul, contained within the
holy sparks of barren dust, blessed and belonging to Hashem,
my G-d. If it is His will, I will drift in the turquoise sky,
seeking redemption and rebirth, yearning for eternal life,
discovering that even dust has a right to be, for it too comes
from Hashem, my G-d.
Mel Waldman
(3 poems added 05.14.09)
BLINK
The world is not the word
The word is not the world
The lamp burns all night
The flowers bloom stealthily
But soon the many colors fade
And light comes under a shade
Money and Youth
One day disappear
Moments of joy and pleasure
Are momentaneous
The whole world itself
One day comes to an end
Three days of life
Pass away in a blink
Only love lasts longer
Ashutosh Ghildiyal
(1 poem added 05.13.09)
DECADENT I AM
Let's fuck and dance
Let's all go apeshit
The sky is falling
Do we really have much to lose tonight?
The past, the present, and the future are one
To ask questions is to put answers under the gun
Let's go to all the places we always wanted to see
Even if we can't find a way to leave, we'll bring it all right here
We have no particular place here
Everything is dangerous
Get used to that
Some of my favorite dangers are alcohol, nihilism, and ideas
Now let's go to Europe
And drink cough syrup
Look around you if you really think you give a shit
And if you think you can say that what I say is to blame
How many people really would be willing to listen to a guy like me
When I talk about things like this?
Let's just fuck and dance and remember when partying was not about sitting down
Or being calm and laid-back or just standing there
Let's bounce off the walls, shit will probably get broken
If we spend too much time worrying about the consequences
We'll be sure to forget that all great things, whether simple or complex
Are measured in the bad
And without suffering and consequence, we would know no exceptional times
And one more line just to make that rhyme
Kyle Segars (as Wyld Kyle)
(2 poems added 05.12.09)
don’t kiss the emperors ring
This is an SOS to the saints
Tho they are all dead
Our world is sick
Stricken with tired aching feet
Mouths that rest slack
Ooh those sorrow’d eyes they bleed
Coloring crimson cheeks
Into a false state of bliss
This is an SOS to the bedraggled
Waiting every month for their dollars
Completely co-dependent upon
A deceitful organization
Ruled by mobsters with dollar guns
And coins fer the eyes
After they suck peoples husks dry
Why o why
Do these shackles of oppression
Hinder them, probing deep inside their memories
Little bells ting their gongs
Humming a tune of farewells
A heavy tune to bring them further down
This is an SOS to the fearful
Who cower in their beds at night
Scanning the midnight skies for fighter jets
& wmo’s
Smothering their faces with the pillows
Like a makeshift gas mask
Waiting for the end to come
Sending this SOS out to the masses
A wakeup call to the order
A new world order
With tattoos just for you
No branding of skins will do
Will not be perpetrated by you
Will not be herded to concentration camps
For special treatments
Will not submit to martial law
Or subtle morse codes through the phones
Or control through tele-screen portals
So this is an SOS for you
To wake and rise
Take to the streets and riot
Take no prisoners
Raise no swords
Load no guns
Sheath the pens and jam the streets
This is an SOS to batter the walls
Heed this call
Pour out the brandy
Melt all the pills
Break the needles and smear the lines
Cause there is no need for chemical confusion
This is our calling and its time to yell
We are sick of it all
Yea its time to say
All there is to say
That has been stifled
By the butt of the rifles
Bled out with rusted bayonettes
Lost in the bunkers of peace
Sucking on the sticks of grease
Torching the meadows slick with oily footprints
Forget about the carbon in the air
Dodge the acid rains
Cut off all yer hair
Tie it up in knots
1000’s of feet of rope
For the greatest tug o war
This nation has ever seen
So yea this is an SOS to the unseen
The sullen ones that just get by
The lonely ones who cry
The broken ones who cannot rise up
The little children
Ooh the little children their clock it ticks the clock
Distorting their enchanted view
So this is an SOS for our little girls and boys
Hiding behind our no-vacancy eyes
They are still spying on us
Waiting for us to remember
Those days that we must sing
Rather than these days where we don’t feel a thing
Yes this is an SOS for everything
We adore
An SOS to open new doors
Slam the old boys in the closets
Hang their gangers on the hangers
& hit the streets
Hit the streets & riot
No longer the quiet
But a raging storm
To ensure our futures
Ohh the children
Let them sing
& not bow to an emperors ring.
John C Sweet
(1 poem added 05.11.09)
storm and bones
big old house with blistered paint,
silent living room full of pictures,
I sit in the rocking chair and rock
back and forth, back and forth,
the sound of the family clock
humming silently in the stillness
and I drink quietly the red wine
tilting back and forth, back and…
old bones against wood,
creaking and squeaking
outside in the dusty back yard
there is the ancient cherry-tree
that stood against the ages and
the axes of my forefathers
suddenly I hear some other noises
and I take a look through the window,
one dark and hairy cloud is crawling
upon the untouched evening sky
and there is the lightening splitting
my paradise regained,
followed by the thunder muffling
the beats of my rusty heart
perfect moment, perfect hour-
the angry fist of the unmerciful storm
hits angrily the green grass outside and
I feel it in my wrinkling body –
old bones against the wind,
creaking and squeaking
O, Tempora!-
the branches of the tree are dancing
among the solitude of the passing time,
one perfect storm which shows me that
our world was created not for us
I think now
that this is the perfect time for someone to die,
no music, no dancing, no laughter,
just the boiling storm and
just this old clock going-
tic toc,
tic toc
tic…
let me be.
Peycho Kanev
(3 poems added 05.10.09)
WRITERS' BLOCK
In nineteen-eighteen
the Spanish influenza
infected everyone in the world,
killing twenty-two million people,
while, at the same time,
World War One wound down
with a measly body count
of eight million.
Nature wins twenty-two to eight.
Authors and poets
spent millions of words
on thousands of pages
describing, reporting
and illustrating the war,
but not on line
mentioned the influenza,
no one published text
until the nineteen-nineties.
Looking back,
I see people marching
in victory parades
wearing white gauze masks
over their noses
and mouths
in the a futile attempt
to protect themselves
from something
they did not have words
to describe.
Kenneth P. Gurney
(3 poems added 05.09.09)
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