::: A Taste of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 07.03.09 :::
“Some people never go crazy, what truly horrible lives they must live.” Charles Bukowski
Cabinets of curiosity seahorse flamingo (above) by Julie Luke, our latest sensational artist out of over twenty mad sensationally swirlin' resident artists currently being displayed in the Mad Gallery. Check out Julie’s Mad Gallery page, there’s a lot more of her beat-utiful madness to peruse!
It's Friday and what a week it has been for Mad Swirl! This past 1st Wednesday we were Open Mic’n it with the slam poets from The Poetry Grind. We delicately got to hanging new works in the Mad Gallery. We've got the anticipation of 4th of July fireworks awaiting us right around the corner. And last, but never least, it's time for our weekly taste of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum! We've gone and gathered poetic vittles from the most maddest of the mad poets from all corners of this big, blue swirly marble and showcased them just for you!
Don't forget, let these mad poets know what you think! Show 'em some mad love right here.
•••••••
releasing daddyo
we shook your tambourine,
rattled your lonely maraca
and beat your bongos, daddy,
we sniffed your books,
graded your LP's
and set the needle down gently
the kids blew bubbles and crushed junebugs
under flip flop feet
tremendous sultry night
under left over chistmas lights
on termite boards
my living room smells like cardboard and
intellegence, and someone wants
ice cream.
its too hot so
we start drinking beers
and start wishing the kids would sleep
so we could roll fat joints
and talk about you s'more
and then we read some buke
and then we read some mao
and then we played vivaldi
and the room was humming with you
i recalled our first dinner
our first quarrel
and the night i took the dagger
from your heart
in the car
and breathed life into your world
weary soul
we find poems
written in haste fast ink pen
such fastness
such madness
as if you knew
your life came quick
and had to escape into the spiral bound
confessionals
to be read later
like this.
ok.
i'm going to tell you now
that i'm ok.
and you shouldn't come back in dreams
speaking spanish
laying coy
on the back fenders of my
dream blue covair
with white tucked upholstered seats
40 years younger
speaking tounges
like the border
with comunist handbook
in your whethered dungerees
and you shouldn't ring my phone all day
waking me from my lovers arms
walking half dead to the receiver
you've already left
but most of all
you shouldn't worry
about anything anymore
sleep the milk white river
you knew you'd come to taste
so soon...
backstroke under the glimmering
stars
send fireworks and rubys in the raindrops
you send me
and I promise
daddyo
I'll remember you
Opalina Salas
(3 poems added 07.03.09)
2.
Human-shaped, creatures comprised of eyeballs drove the molten men of steel west, surviving on boot meat, they marched on carpets carved of unmelting ice. It rained severed monkey hands that day as they determinedly traveled to find what they hoped to be a better place... they looked to the sky, and a cloud of smoke cut the moon in half, it split apart and human limbs flew out, the sun smiled, and all the mountains howled... Blood drops curiously rained out of the ground and up to the sky, selfish prayers were broadcasted out of the speaker towers on the hilltops, Only a god could wish or will them the best...
Eric J. Brinovec
(added 07.02.09)
Design Flaws
Something in the machinery
doesn’t conform
to factory specs;
re-designing
isn’t feasible,
logistics are impossible.
Something in the eyes
makes water flow
at quickest sign
of pain
or sadness,
heating/cooling
out of whack;
burning with anger,
freezing
with indifference.
Chassis that rust
interior bleeds,
engines pumping
with faulty valves,
skipping beats
in fits of passion,
racing through
the midnight darkness.
Computer brains
that crash
and re-boot
at awkward times;
a data dump
fragmented info
slipping discs
of virus logic.
The Boss misread
the original blueprints;
engineers caught
cutting corners,
projects going over-budget
with universal kick-backs.
Layers on layers,
mismanagement
in higher echelons
handed down
to middle levels
where mindless flunkies
hand pink slips
to fallen angels.
Product lives on,
mass produced mayhem
assembly lined
with inbred errors
recalled,
bit by bit
and sent back,
bandaged,
Gerry rigged
and chugging gamely.
Rose Morales
(3 poems added 07.01.09)
Neighbors
The stop light.
The only glowing bit
of conscience goodness.
Shining—good natured Christianity.
Hangs like Christ.
Its bright red LED.
Above all our heads.
A couple feet away,
cupped with inches of glass
a few molds of plastic
a few pings of springs
are other human beings—
Where are they going?
To get groceries?
To get an abortion?
They’re next to us all—
but we all try to play it off.
Try to win a race in this mess.
Out of the corners of our left eyes, we spy.
Pry into their space.
Be amongst their wrappers and their cracker crumbs.
Do race car drivers feel like this?
Do pilots try to peak as they streak?
Any astronauts?
Men on mowers?
Don’t pick your nose!
…
DON’T!
Pretend you don’t care…
position your arm on the seat, as if someone’s riding stick.
As you peek to see if your mobile neighbor is wearing pants.
As you ponder: are there bodies in their trunk?
Do they carry a gun?
Have they eaten another human?
Careful though
…
they’re looking
at you too.
Tyler Malone
(3 poems added 06.30.09)
Invocation for the Restless
The thing with growing is, it takes time.
Is there anything more painful
and exciting?
Faces to the sky looking up
asking, begging, on their knees praying
for the next satisfaction
a paycheck, a spanking, an event
a birth, a life, a phone call
Waiting to perceive, receive, believe
seems like we’re all in need
before the message is corrupted
channel soul speak
complete the incomplete
connect and re-member
Chant with the higher
mind soul
release
strip away the preconceived disbeliefs
Touch the god inside yourself
Wishing cheeks
Evolve from dust
Become the burning
Evolve from ashes
Blow away
Have a sky rebirth
Movement, rhythm,
Molecular rotation
Inner planet shrine
Energies enter acting
changing, merging
opening accepting
giving or receiving
There are many faces in the sky
looking back at us
their expressions
are clouds
they keep waiting
for that same answer
we’ve been hiding
with in our selves
restless searching
for meaning and reason
logical explanations
in concise packaging
with definitions and guidelines
nothing more than the
compulsive need
to label identity
and disregard energy
consciousness comes
from action
from the belief in action
cast your light laden nets
into the universe
shine and nurture growth
reach forward in generations
and create wonder
while all along you were dying
and beginning at the same time
existence believes in you
acceptance is what you deserve
reflection and introspection
powerful observation
spectrum of interpretation
Joy, Truth, Love
undeniable laws
deities that deserve
expression
Language is the
reverberation of god
purified patient
waiting minds
empty
third eye blessings
embrace the infinity messenger
show your self in the ten directions
Desmene M. Statum
(1 poem added 06.29.09)
URBAN VIRUS
Quietly, insidiously, the virus spreads across the urban landscape,
assaulting humans everywhere.
The secret killer flows furiously through the crowded streets, in the
small, enclosed offices of claustrophobic workers, and into the
home, wantonly attacking those who live there, dumb creatures
unaware of the lethal onslaught.
Even after the urban virus has penetrated human flesh and bones,
insinuating itself into the bloodstream and brain, human victims are
oblivious of the silent massacre, the stealthy slaughter of the human
race.
Only love can obliterate hatred, the urban virus that spreads via
emotional contagion. Without this cure, one day the human race
will cease to exist. And the final act of destruction may come
soon, fueled by an urban virus that destroys our minds and souls
first, before annihilation, leaving behind the barren earth without
humans, and death-soaked dust, and beasts that roam the bleak,
surreal dreamscape.
Like a tight noose, the hidden but familiar virus viciously grips
our wounded souls.
Shall we submit to its contagious venom? Or shall we stop the
flow now, confessing to ourselves that hatred hides in the caves
of our private thoughts and emotions, nowhere else. Only then
can we wrestle with it, and cannibals that we are-devour our
Darkness, allowing hatred to be absorbed by love, the light of
the human race .
What shall we choose?
Mel Waldman
(3 poems added 06.28.09)
FLOWER CHILD
She could easily be one hundred.
Dandelion wine still oozes from her
pores. She once wore daisies in
her hair.
She should just be hitting her stride
but she is haggard and bent.
The carefree years
are gone.
She once had dreamy
visions of changing a cruel world.
There were no mores to stifle her;
she banged a thousand guys.
But when you danced a
wild dance, the
piper must be paid. Gray matted hair
hangs in her face. Lines are etched
a mile deep. Her hips need to be
replaced;
she can't walk.
Life was once a plumb to be picked.
It was a lark, free and wild.
No more!
She exists in a state run center.
Mike Berger
(1 poem added 06.27.09)
•••••••
Did you find some scrumptious poetry to fill your belly with? Yes? Yes! YES!!! Well there's plenty more where that came from! Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum is chock full with over 100 active poets (and growing everyday). Check it out...right...NOW! You won't regret it. We promise.
To view the entire Poetry Forum archive please click here.
Stay Golden and Stay Mad,
Johnny O
"The poet doesn't invent. He listens." Jean Cocteau
Cabinets of curiosity seahorse flamingo (above) by Julie Luke, our latest sensational artist out of over twenty mad sensationally swirlin' resident artists currently being displayed in the Mad Gallery. Check out Julie’s Mad Gallery page, there’s a lot more of her beat-utiful madness to peruse!
It's Friday and what a week it has been for Mad Swirl! This past 1st Wednesday we were Open Mic’n it with the slam poets from The Poetry Grind. We delicately got to hanging new works in the Mad Gallery. We've got the anticipation of 4th of July fireworks awaiting us right around the corner. And last, but never least, it's time for our weekly taste of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum! We've gone and gathered poetic vittles from the most maddest of the mad poets from all corners of this big, blue swirly marble and showcased them just for you!
Don't forget, let these mad poets know what you think! Show 'em some mad love right here.
•••••••
releasing daddyo
we shook your tambourine,
rattled your lonely maraca
and beat your bongos, daddy,
we sniffed your books,
graded your LP's
and set the needle down gently
the kids blew bubbles and crushed junebugs
under flip flop feet
tremendous sultry night
under left over chistmas lights
on termite boards
my living room smells like cardboard and
intellegence, and someone wants
ice cream.
its too hot so
we start drinking beers
and start wishing the kids would sleep
so we could roll fat joints
and talk about you s'more
and then we read some buke
and then we read some mao
and then we played vivaldi
and the room was humming with you
i recalled our first dinner
our first quarrel
and the night i took the dagger
from your heart
in the car
and breathed life into your world
weary soul
we find poems
written in haste fast ink pen
such fastness
such madness
as if you knew
your life came quick
and had to escape into the spiral bound
confessionals
to be read later
like this.
ok.
i'm going to tell you now
that i'm ok.
and you shouldn't come back in dreams
speaking spanish
laying coy
on the back fenders of my
dream blue covair
with white tucked upholstered seats
40 years younger
speaking tounges
like the border
with comunist handbook
in your whethered dungerees
and you shouldn't ring my phone all day
waking me from my lovers arms
walking half dead to the receiver
you've already left
but most of all
you shouldn't worry
about anything anymore
sleep the milk white river
you knew you'd come to taste
so soon...
backstroke under the glimmering
stars
send fireworks and rubys in the raindrops
you send me
and I promise
daddyo
I'll remember you
Opalina Salas
(3 poems added 07.03.09)
2.
Human-shaped, creatures comprised of eyeballs drove the molten men of steel west, surviving on boot meat, they marched on carpets carved of unmelting ice. It rained severed monkey hands that day as they determinedly traveled to find what they hoped to be a better place... they looked to the sky, and a cloud of smoke cut the moon in half, it split apart and human limbs flew out, the sun smiled, and all the mountains howled... Blood drops curiously rained out of the ground and up to the sky, selfish prayers were broadcasted out of the speaker towers on the hilltops, Only a god could wish or will them the best...
Eric J. Brinovec
(added 07.02.09)
Design Flaws
Something in the machinery
doesn’t conform
to factory specs;
re-designing
isn’t feasible,
logistics are impossible.
Something in the eyes
makes water flow
at quickest sign
of pain
or sadness,
heating/cooling
out of whack;
burning with anger,
freezing
with indifference.
Chassis that rust
interior bleeds,
engines pumping
with faulty valves,
skipping beats
in fits of passion,
racing through
the midnight darkness.
Computer brains
that crash
and re-boot
at awkward times;
a data dump
fragmented info
slipping discs
of virus logic.
The Boss misread
the original blueprints;
engineers caught
cutting corners,
projects going over-budget
with universal kick-backs.
Layers on layers,
mismanagement
in higher echelons
handed down
to middle levels
where mindless flunkies
hand pink slips
to fallen angels.
Product lives on,
mass produced mayhem
assembly lined
with inbred errors
recalled,
bit by bit
and sent back,
bandaged,
Gerry rigged
and chugging gamely.
Rose Morales
(3 poems added 07.01.09)
Neighbors
The stop light.
The only glowing bit
of conscience goodness.
Shining—good natured Christianity.
Hangs like Christ.
Its bright red LED.
Above all our heads.
A couple feet away,
cupped with inches of glass
a few molds of plastic
a few pings of springs
are other human beings—
Where are they going?
To get groceries?
To get an abortion?
They’re next to us all—
but we all try to play it off.
Try to win a race in this mess.
Out of the corners of our left eyes, we spy.
Pry into their space.
Be amongst their wrappers and their cracker crumbs.
Do race car drivers feel like this?
Do pilots try to peak as they streak?
Any astronauts?
Men on mowers?
Don’t pick your nose!
…
DON’T!
Pretend you don’t care…
position your arm on the seat, as if someone’s riding stick.
As you peek to see if your mobile neighbor is wearing pants.
As you ponder: are there bodies in their trunk?
Do they carry a gun?
Have they eaten another human?
Careful though
…
they’re looking
at you too.
Tyler Malone
(3 poems added 06.30.09)
Invocation for the Restless
The thing with growing is, it takes time.
Is there anything more painful
and exciting?
Faces to the sky looking up
asking, begging, on their knees praying
for the next satisfaction
a paycheck, a spanking, an event
a birth, a life, a phone call
Waiting to perceive, receive, believe
seems like we’re all in need
before the message is corrupted
channel soul speak
complete the incomplete
connect and re-member
Chant with the higher
mind soul
release
strip away the preconceived disbeliefs
Touch the god inside yourself
Wishing cheeks
Evolve from dust
Become the burning
Evolve from ashes
Blow away
Have a sky rebirth
Movement, rhythm,
Molecular rotation
Inner planet shrine
Energies enter acting
changing, merging
opening accepting
giving or receiving
There are many faces in the sky
looking back at us
their expressions
are clouds
they keep waiting
for that same answer
we’ve been hiding
with in our selves
restless searching
for meaning and reason
logical explanations
in concise packaging
with definitions and guidelines
nothing more than the
compulsive need
to label identity
and disregard energy
consciousness comes
from action
from the belief in action
cast your light laden nets
into the universe
shine and nurture growth
reach forward in generations
and create wonder
while all along you were dying
and beginning at the same time
existence believes in you
acceptance is what you deserve
reflection and introspection
powerful observation
spectrum of interpretation
Joy, Truth, Love
undeniable laws
deities that deserve
expression
Language is the
reverberation of god
purified patient
waiting minds
empty
third eye blessings
embrace the infinity messenger
show your self in the ten directions
Desmene M. Statum
(1 poem added 06.29.09)
URBAN VIRUS
Quietly, insidiously, the virus spreads across the urban landscape,
assaulting humans everywhere.
The secret killer flows furiously through the crowded streets, in the
small, enclosed offices of claustrophobic workers, and into the
home, wantonly attacking those who live there, dumb creatures
unaware of the lethal onslaught.
Even after the urban virus has penetrated human flesh and bones,
insinuating itself into the bloodstream and brain, human victims are
oblivious of the silent massacre, the stealthy slaughter of the human
race.
Only love can obliterate hatred, the urban virus that spreads via
emotional contagion. Without this cure, one day the human race
will cease to exist. And the final act of destruction may come
soon, fueled by an urban virus that destroys our minds and souls
first, before annihilation, leaving behind the barren earth without
humans, and death-soaked dust, and beasts that roam the bleak,
surreal dreamscape.
Like a tight noose, the hidden but familiar virus viciously grips
our wounded souls.
Shall we submit to its contagious venom? Or shall we stop the
flow now, confessing to ourselves that hatred hides in the caves
of our private thoughts and emotions, nowhere else. Only then
can we wrestle with it, and cannibals that we are-devour our
Darkness, allowing hatred to be absorbed by love, the light of
the human race .
What shall we choose?
Mel Waldman
(3 poems added 06.28.09)
FLOWER CHILD
She could easily be one hundred.
Dandelion wine still oozes from her
pores. She once wore daisies in
her hair.
She should just be hitting her stride
but she is haggard and bent.
The carefree years
are gone.
She once had dreamy
visions of changing a cruel world.
There were no mores to stifle her;
she banged a thousand guys.
But when you danced a
wild dance, the
piper must be paid. Gray matted hair
hangs in her face. Lines are etched
a mile deep. Her hips need to be
replaced;
she can't walk.
Life was once a plumb to be picked.
It was a lark, free and wild.
No more!
She exists in a state run center.
Mike Berger
(1 poem added 06.27.09)
•••••••
Did you find some scrumptious poetry to fill your belly with? Yes? Yes! YES!!! Well there's plenty more where that came from! Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum is chock full with over 100 active poets (and growing everyday). Check it out...right...NOW! You won't regret it. We promise.
To view the entire Poetry Forum archive please click here.
Stay Golden and Stay Mad,
Johnny O
"The poet doesn't invent. He listens." Jean Cocteau
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