::: A Taste of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 07.10.09 :::
“Poetry should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance” John Keats
Love Removal Machine (above) by Jimmy Ovadia, one of over twenty mad swirlin' resident artists currently being displayed in the Mad Gallery.
Wow, is it Friday already?! Just seems like last week that we sent our weekly taste of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum! Oh yeah, we do this weekly now, don’t we? Well, for those of you that look forward to this poetically packed posting we promise to not disappoint! We've gone and gathered poetic morsels from the most maddest of the mad poets from all corners of this big, blue, swirly marble and showcased them just for you!
We hate to beg but beg we shall…please, please, please let these mad poets know what you think! Show 'em some mad love right here.
•••••••
Hmmm...
If I decided
not to struggle
what would there be left
to whine about?
If I decided
not to whine
what would there be left
to talk about?
If I decided to
accept what is
what would there be left
to fight and resist?
If I decided to
surrender my grip
what would there be left
to hold on to?
Yet ease calls to me
coaxing smile, gentleness
showing me another way
and I am drawn
to her grace
and I am tempted
by her promises
and I am tickled
by her possibilities
and she says...
child, you don't need
to wiggle so...
nothing bad will happen
if you
just
let
go...
surprise, surprise!
lo and behold!
all those things
that seemed so
heavy once
all those things
that seemed so
important once
all those things
that seemed so
dreadful once
all those things
that made me feel
so small
and so tired
and scared
and martyr-like
all those sad little stories
and juicy little dramas
and tired little sagas...
all of my Favorite Struggles...
they all
shrink down
to their
actual size
as I step UP
into mine.
(The question is 'will I'?)
Lisa Olson
(1 poem added 07.10.09)
Reminding
when I am scheduled to die I shall stop dreaming and play
with a brown bear that lolls and wallows in a stream
and I shall climb onto a tall pine tree in the zoo
and roar loudly like the lion king towards the rolling autumn sky
I shall sit and help myself to a pile of deeply fried foods
With my mouth wide open and make all the eating noises I can
Jaywalking, trespassing and even running a little red light
You can give up your names and masks
And throw away all your clothes and manners
And stop caring about whatever others say or do to you
But we worry about our bills and savings
And concern ourselves with what is going on
Within sight or beyond our living rooms
Perhaps you can put a bit of everything on rehearsal now
And refuse to do whatever you would rather not want to
Since you are scheduled to die shortly, anyway
Changming Yuan
(2 poems added 07.09.09)
Worker Ants
Scrambling, zig zagging
across scolding hot sidewalks
the red fire insect bangs into brethren
like bumper cars in a carnival,
moving with a singular purpose -
to serve the greater good of the colony
and the queen. I know one
who giggles, laughs
tries to hide
sexual innuendos
hers, mine,
during five minute breaks
near the water cooler. We pass notes
between the cubicles
paper, electronic,
and the boss
almost catches us
every time.
One night
after the staff retired
for the weekend
you rewarded my diligence
granting entrance
into
the royal chamber
where the eggs collect.
Showered with praise
seldom shown
to lowly men such as I,
you bay at the moon
coyote wild
when fertilized with ardent desire.
As Monday creeps in
through the shutters
the sun illuminates
a troupe of simple creatures
marching across the window sill
and down onto the wooden floor
to search for
water, sugar,
to take to their families.
Finished with me, you shun my embrace,
demand I run to 7-11
to grab Black Flag and
coffee, black,
on sale near the register.
On my way back
through the park
I dodge, weave through
a maze of homeless, helpless.
You text me,
“Leave the can
on the front step,
the coffee in the kitchen
at work
and be careful not
to let the boss catch me
late again,”
so I sneak into
through the backdoor of
Jolly Termite Inspection.
Today of all days
Mr. A sees red
in the yearly profit projections
and once again,
treats, reduces
us all like
good little
drones
he and the company
believes us
to be . . . except for
my queen
who sees me
more as a king
at times,
rather than a mere
worker ant.
Joseph D. Di Lella
(1 poem added 07.08.09)
Heart Code (···· · ·— ·—· — | —·—· ——— —·· ·)
I’m going to re-write my language
emotions channeled into four chambers
Animal instinct lives inside of me
and so my signals fire-fly
mark my heart code
burn these rhythms
h · · · ·
e ·
a · —
r · — ·
t —
emotionally translated:
“di di di dit di di dah di dah dit dah”
beyond the sound lies
my Mayan murmur
72 beats at hint of sun
forming snake shadows
I sacrifice heart
staked at the tip of life’s pyramids
crawling, I go
s · · ·
n — ·
a · —
k — · —
e ·
sensitively spoken:
“di di dit dah di di dah dah di dah dit”
There’s no reason to placate my four walls
only your electric pulses will do
this language a telegraph wire
coding these I love you’s
can you hear it?
even the shadows speak
shedding into another season
slithering in war bought oil
my snake heart
Rafael Andrade Garza
(1 poem added 07.07.09)
Darkness at the break of Dawn
The flight of the dark storm
The minds wandering with souls so warm
The hatred of the mystic heart
The endless times spent apart
The strangeness of the hammering head
The wounds of those who cried and bled
The beauty bestowed on the untold
The fire crying in the blistering' cold
The noise of the tunes that forever linger
The price paid for craving power
The abyss inside filled with passion
The board on the streets minus the caption
The darkness at the start of dawn
The horror of evil cast upon
The beauty of eternal life
The bleeding cut of the two-sided knife
The angels and the devils sing
The lives of those wasted aping
The secret of the lines I write...One day I hope will finally ignite
Ray Gonsalves
(added 07.05.09)
Charmed Life
I'm with Robert Frost's
great-nephew and he's telling me about his
so-called job
as a kayak outfitter in Key Largo
How he gives guided tours
through the upper keys and the everglades
How he searches out wildlife
along reefs, in streams gin-clear and through
mangrove-tunnels
How he birdwatches
and watches manatees, flamingos
dolphins, alligators and snakes
lapping up their ecosystem
Half of his clients are women
he tells me
and half the time he goes out drinking with them
after the tour
and half the time one or the other of them
will want to fuck him
and most of the time he will be so good
as to oblige
Which doesn't leave much time
for the mulling over of his famous
great-uncle's poetry
In fact he's never even bothered doing that,
he says -
it just doesn't interest him
I don't bother
asking him why
M.P. Powers
(added 07.05.09)
the mad ones gather 'round...
to say their words,
to play their songs,
to dance their jig,
to snap their fingers,
to clap their hands,
to hoot their howls,
to boldly go
where mad ones
go!
go!
go!
to the swirling frontiers of
creativity, sensuality, comedy,
insanity, divinity, sexuality
& maybe, just maybe,
even debauchery.
the mad ones gather 'round...
because they feel the seed
of mad expression needs attention
thru the unconventional means
of evolutional revolution.
they speak to their fellow mad ones
who understand the words they recite,
who hear the notes they ignite,
who want a place to share their light,
who want to be a part of this swirling madness
because it feels so right
to be tapped in
and connected to
the collective source
of synchronicity.
this madness is our madness.
this swirl is our swirl.
this moment is our moment.
the whole mad swirl
of everything to come begins
...now!
...now!
...now!
every second,
every minute,
every hour,
every day,
every week,
every month,
every every every there is!
the mad ones gather 'round...
and i'll be shuffling after as i've always done,
after the ones i love the most,
the mad ones.
Johnny Olson
(1 poem added 07.04.09)
•••••••
So, were we right? Weren't those poetic morsels scrumptious? Yep, we told ya’ so! If you dig this collection and want more, visit Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum! It 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.
With Peace, Love and Madness,
Johnny O
"If there must be madness, something may be said for having it on a heroic scale." John Kenneth Galbraith
Love Removal Machine (above) by Jimmy Ovadia, one of over twenty mad swirlin' resident artists currently being displayed in the Mad Gallery.
Wow, is it Friday already?! Just seems like last week that we sent our weekly taste of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum! Oh yeah, we do this weekly now, don’t we? Well, for those of you that look forward to this poetically packed posting we promise to not disappoint! We've gone and gathered poetic morsels from the most maddest of the mad poets from all corners of this big, blue, swirly marble and showcased them just for you!
We hate to beg but beg we shall…please, please, please let these mad poets know what you think! Show 'em some mad love right here.
•••••••
Hmmm...
If I decided
not to struggle
what would there be left
to whine about?
If I decided
not to whine
what would there be left
to talk about?
If I decided to
accept what is
what would there be left
to fight and resist?
If I decided to
surrender my grip
what would there be left
to hold on to?
Yet ease calls to me
coaxing smile, gentleness
showing me another way
and I am drawn
to her grace
and I am tempted
by her promises
and I am tickled
by her possibilities
and she says...
child, you don't need
to wiggle so...
nothing bad will happen
if you
just
let
go...
surprise, surprise!
lo and behold!
all those things
that seemed so
heavy once
all those things
that seemed so
important once
all those things
that seemed so
dreadful once
all those things
that made me feel
so small
and so tired
and scared
and martyr-like
all those sad little stories
and juicy little dramas
and tired little sagas...
all of my Favorite Struggles...
they all
shrink down
to their
actual size
as I step UP
into mine.
(The question is 'will I'?)
Lisa Olson
(1 poem added 07.10.09)
Reminding
when I am scheduled to die I shall stop dreaming and play
with a brown bear that lolls and wallows in a stream
and I shall climb onto a tall pine tree in the zoo
and roar loudly like the lion king towards the rolling autumn sky
I shall sit and help myself to a pile of deeply fried foods
With my mouth wide open and make all the eating noises I can
Jaywalking, trespassing and even running a little red light
You can give up your names and masks
And throw away all your clothes and manners
And stop caring about whatever others say or do to you
But we worry about our bills and savings
And concern ourselves with what is going on
Within sight or beyond our living rooms
Perhaps you can put a bit of everything on rehearsal now
And refuse to do whatever you would rather not want to
Since you are scheduled to die shortly, anyway
Changming Yuan
(2 poems added 07.09.09)
Worker Ants
Scrambling, zig zagging
across scolding hot sidewalks
the red fire insect bangs into brethren
like bumper cars in a carnival,
moving with a singular purpose -
to serve the greater good of the colony
and the queen. I know one
who giggles, laughs
tries to hide
sexual innuendos
hers, mine,
during five minute breaks
near the water cooler. We pass notes
between the cubicles
paper, electronic,
and the boss
almost catches us
every time.
One night
after the staff retired
for the weekend
you rewarded my diligence
granting entrance
into
the royal chamber
where the eggs collect.
Showered with praise
seldom shown
to lowly men such as I,
you bay at the moon
coyote wild
when fertilized with ardent desire.
As Monday creeps in
through the shutters
the sun illuminates
a troupe of simple creatures
marching across the window sill
and down onto the wooden floor
to search for
water, sugar,
to take to their families.
Finished with me, you shun my embrace,
demand I run to 7-11
to grab Black Flag and
coffee, black,
on sale near the register.
On my way back
through the park
I dodge, weave through
a maze of homeless, helpless.
You text me,
“Leave the can
on the front step,
the coffee in the kitchen
at work
and be careful not
to let the boss catch me
late again,”
so I sneak into
through the backdoor of
Jolly Termite Inspection.
Today of all days
Mr. A sees red
in the yearly profit projections
and once again,
treats, reduces
us all like
good little
drones
he and the company
believes us
to be . . . except for
my queen
who sees me
more as a king
at times,
rather than a mere
worker ant.
Joseph D. Di Lella
(1 poem added 07.08.09)
Heart Code (···· · ·— ·—· — | —·—· ——— —·· ·)
I’m going to re-write my language
emotions channeled into four chambers
Animal instinct lives inside of me
and so my signals fire-fly
mark my heart code
burn these rhythms
h · · · ·
e ·
a · —
r · — ·
t —
emotionally translated:
“di di di dit di di dah di dah dit dah”
beyond the sound lies
my Mayan murmur
72 beats at hint of sun
forming snake shadows
I sacrifice heart
staked at the tip of life’s pyramids
crawling, I go
s · · ·
n — ·
a · —
k — · —
e ·
sensitively spoken:
“di di dit dah di di dah dah di dah dit”
There’s no reason to placate my four walls
only your electric pulses will do
this language a telegraph wire
coding these I love you’s
can you hear it?
even the shadows speak
shedding into another season
slithering in war bought oil
my snake heart
Rafael Andrade Garza
(1 poem added 07.07.09)
Darkness at the break of Dawn
The flight of the dark storm
The minds wandering with souls so warm
The hatred of the mystic heart
The endless times spent apart
The strangeness of the hammering head
The wounds of those who cried and bled
The beauty bestowed on the untold
The fire crying in the blistering' cold
The noise of the tunes that forever linger
The price paid for craving power
The abyss inside filled with passion
The board on the streets minus the caption
The darkness at the start of dawn
The horror of evil cast upon
The beauty of eternal life
The bleeding cut of the two-sided knife
The angels and the devils sing
The lives of those wasted aping
The secret of the lines I write...One day I hope will finally ignite
Ray Gonsalves
(added 07.05.09)
Charmed Life
I'm with Robert Frost's
great-nephew and he's telling me about his
so-called job
as a kayak outfitter in Key Largo
How he gives guided tours
through the upper keys and the everglades
How he searches out wildlife
along reefs, in streams gin-clear and through
mangrove-tunnels
How he birdwatches
and watches manatees, flamingos
dolphins, alligators and snakes
lapping up their ecosystem
Half of his clients are women
he tells me
and half the time he goes out drinking with them
after the tour
and half the time one or the other of them
will want to fuck him
and most of the time he will be so good
as to oblige
Which doesn't leave much time
for the mulling over of his famous
great-uncle's poetry
In fact he's never even bothered doing that,
he says -
it just doesn't interest him
I don't bother
asking him why
M.P. Powers
(added 07.05.09)
the mad ones gather 'round...
to say their words,
to play their songs,
to dance their jig,
to snap their fingers,
to clap their hands,
to hoot their howls,
to boldly go
where mad ones
go!
go!
go!
to the swirling frontiers of
creativity, sensuality, comedy,
insanity, divinity, sexuality
& maybe, just maybe,
even debauchery.
the mad ones gather 'round...
because they feel the seed
of mad expression needs attention
thru the unconventional means
of evolutional revolution.
they speak to their fellow mad ones
who understand the words they recite,
who hear the notes they ignite,
who want a place to share their light,
who want to be a part of this swirling madness
because it feels so right
to be tapped in
and connected to
the collective source
of synchronicity.
this madness is our madness.
this swirl is our swirl.
this moment is our moment.
the whole mad swirl
of everything to come begins
...now!
...now!
...now!
every second,
every minute,
every hour,
every day,
every week,
every month,
every every every there is!
the mad ones gather 'round...
and i'll be shuffling after as i've always done,
after the ones i love the most,
the mad ones.
Johnny Olson
(1 poem added 07.04.09)
•••••••
So, were we right? Weren't those poetic morsels scrumptious? Yep, we told ya’ so! If you dig this collection and want more, visit Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum! It 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.
With Peace, Love and Madness,
Johnny O
"If there must be madness, something may be said for having it on a heroic scale." John Kenneth Galbraith
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