::: A Taste of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum 09.11.09:::
“Madness is rare in individuals, but in groups, parties, nations and ages it is the rule.” Friedrich Nietzsche
Underwater Fire #1 (above) by Jim Fuess, one of over 20 resident artists hanging in Mad Swirl's Mad Gallery.
In case you missed it, here's is a taste of what's been featured in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum this week...
(edior's note: the following poem was first published on 09.01.08. we are republishing this poem in remembrance of the day that OUR world changed a darker shade of sad forever. JO)
9/11 IN MY HEAD
I’ve got 9/11 in my head.
Can’t stop thinking about
The dead.
The 7-year anniversary of
That day-
Is on its way-almost here.
Where can we hide?
So many died, I can’t believe.
Is there no reprieve?
Dark memories fall from the sky.
Why?
Some folks want to forget.
Let them if they can.
I can’t. I won’t. Toxic dust
Cascades down my soul,
Burning a black hole where
The dead shall live forever.
I’ve got 9/11 in my head.
Can’t stop thinking about
The dead.
On the 7-year anniversary,
I’ll mourn my way. I’ll plant
The Tree of Life in the Waste Land
Of my broken soul.
My beauty, once shattered and
Lost in a black hole,
Will slowly rise again like the phoenix.
With faith and memory, I will heal.
I will fix-the scattered fragments of my
Being!
I will sing!
I’ve got 9/11 in my head.
Can’t stop thinking about
The dead.
But I will sing! Yes, I will sing!
Mel Waldman
Cigarette of Self-Esteem 11:48 p.m.
The Ashtray Forum: A Cigarette Lost:
caffeine guy stands in the clothes of a stupid monarch
picking his nose unrhythmic to motor staccato snickers
as a translucent backyard weed-eater jet-stream approaches
parting its pie-hole whispering “exile” dry-spit gently
to remove spectacle from the tree-limb.
The Match case Confrontation: Jack Crack’s Barbeque Shack:
“yes sir, we have the best meat in this heat.
Hello son, how’d you like to stoke on a complimentary
bitch girlfriend, arrogant boss, overdrawn checking account,
pot weather, defunct toilet, lady who just flipped you off
in the passing lane, burnt toast, expired milk, headstone
for your 16 year dead uncle who you never knew but are sure
you would have liked, wet clothes in the dryer, the damn
desk spider, waiting in a long line at the grocery store
for a simple set of watercolors, ok, ok,
love, sex…money/religion(politics)=death-war.peace
{refilling the ice-cube tray} man?!”
Fuck the Surgeon General: A Cigarette Found:
man amidst hungry shyster-beast recognizes drab-grout
fallen CRAYOLA 64, accepts demise, [Slo-Mo Pause],
extracts lighter and cigarette, [click].
The body is now attended by an ornate inner 3rd class lever
pulley system keeping the frame slouched erect
as a majestic homemade puppet filtering puffed inflated
aroused illusion through the reality-laden decrepit torso.
The Gardening Meteorologist Soliloquy:
“Exorcise derangement!
[sweeping hand gestures, smiles]
Beauty is a lavish calm emanating from the Nicotine Soul.”
The Exulting Exhalation:
the aroma has curtailed saturation.
the farce is annihilated.
Unrecognizable demon-captains realize the identity of a master.
Ugly is still ugly, but no longer permeates the membranes.
Royal robes velvet long and drawn golden temporary till the butt.
A crisping stoking wise sigh followed by an encrazed hooping
and hollering demurring an irrational joviality.
A wry grin replaces two-score creases of consternation.
the luckier angels grimace with wonder…..
and GOD can be nothing more than a little slightly pissed.
Quasimofo Snyder
(added 09.10.09)
Through the Wall
Load a disk,
Select a track
Press play
Thump
Make the call
Thump
Or don’t
Thump
Type half words
Bump, bump
On numbered keys
Bump, bump
Talking is outdated
Thump
Don’t smoke
Thump
Don’t drink
Thump
Don’t breathe
Bump, bump
If life is a drug
Bump, bump
I’ve yet to get high
Thump
See the road
Thump
Turn the wheel
Thump
Pass it on
Bump, bump
Look for cops
Bump, bump
I’m sure it’s a crime
…snuff it out…
…snuff it out…
…snuff it out…
Paul E. Loher
(added 09.09.09)
The eye in my sky is crying
(click here to hear Joy Leftow performing this poem)
The eye in my sky is crying
See my fears roll down the street
Tears allayed by stares in space
A cell phone in hand, no dial tone, a blues band commands my adrenal glands
Understand it’s my wedding band, not a new brand of incense,
I take a firm stand on a crash land course stuck in the meadowlands of York
Passion fruit seeps from my sweat glands
Swerving into oblivion on the freeway, an alien shaman ~ that’s me
An alligator devoured my right hand – Now I have 2 left feet left
Beauty is nothing but a backdrop for the blues
We all want beauty peace a little food and empathy
I keep trying and failing to decompartmentalize; an exemplary fit
Lost my wit – cut it out stupid twit see what’s writ do as befits,
I observe others fare better
The eye in my sky reflects humanity’s tears their fears that life can’t be any better or go anywhere except to all one place eventually
Do you want to be easily forgot, your family there
A score or two more no one will know you
Damn give your shell to charity
No formaldehyde either, please.
I use the excuse I’m Jewish; bury me green please
I keep saying son it will pass you by before we come noon to sun
Is this how you want to spend your last day
My man loves his drugs
Almost as much or more than me
He gets them easily supercalifragilisticexpialidociouslly,
Tons of prescriptions legally
His drugs do him right
Momentarily maniacal he says he’s feelin’ so tight
I see him in a new light struggling to write
Doctrinally following clinical struggles, a mix of Geodon, Ambien Lamogine,
To name a few - some are noxious others only for allergies
Billy Jean’s not his lover; enervated after meds
no more energy when he’s through throw some synergy into the fray
Walking up Bombay Broadway
Brings me back to tears rolling down the street
I refuse to admit defeat repeat it all again and again
The eye in my sky is crying
Joy Leftow
(3 poems added 09.08.09)
On A Rainy Summers Day
I sit here at this table
A stranger amongst strangers
Outside it is raining.
The rain brings to mind other times
When I sat writing
Attempting to define this phantom
That haunts me.
Looking up
I watch the world
Float by before my eyes.
The past is no more
The future yet to be
I have only this moment
This dying present
That lingers
Between nothing and nothing
I place each word along side another
Treading out this path
That can lead nowhere
I struggle with words and their meanings
Wanting to catch this non-existence
That is the flow of my life
A caged tiger
Caught in the confines of language
I pace each line away.
The sky is reflected on the wet path
My being is mirrored by the world,
Reflections of reflections
Leave me stranded between darkness and darkness;
Lost in this world of shadows
My being is extended outwards.
Each fluid second withers away
Leaving me stranded between a non-existent future
A long lost past.
Each dashing second
Brings to me
This emptiness
That lingers through out my being.
We exist for but a short time
Before we are sent down
To where we do not know;
Alone
I sit here
Looking for meaning in this existence
Alone I sit here
Better not to have been born
Than to live through this emptiness
That is in my heart.
I am left stranded in this place
That I do not know
The path mirrors the sky
Trees reach towards an empty heaven
Still I am left in darkness.
I walk outside
The leaves of plants
Reach out
Lovingly they hold out their leaves
The rain caresses them softly.
Amongst discarded cigarette butts
And other objects thrown away unthinkingly
They sit expecting nothing
Lingering in this moment
They do not need a reason to be.
(24/12/00)
John Najjar
(added 09.07.09)
NIGHT OF THE FUNERAL
Your cocoa
has taken on
the hue of nail clippings.
Your shoe
can’t stir
the floor.
And tongues
just bluff
what they are touching.
Likewise,
lips are merely
grief kept busy.
Try to be yourself,
I dare you,
not when you mimic
sad souls taking poison
or, slumped in chair,
ape fallen idols
with the windows closed
and gas turned on.
And yet
your body’s fixed
by your survival.
First bone,
then flesh,
then the mind too.
John Grey
(3 poems added 09.06.09)
to hell and back again
a choir
of god’s flock
rage outside
a plan and parenthood
going ape shit
gnashing teeth
doing what
they do
I stop at a red
and watch
this cluster fuck
unfold
a paraplegic
wheels around
pumping a 6 ft cross
in air
screaming
while a circus of
pig faced teens
lepers
and pinheads
grind away
I try to find
something
to throw at them:
contraceptives
a giant piñata of jesus
some tennis balls
nothing
but a cheap
reactionary devil sign
just to fan
the flames
a bit
moments pass
I get a green
and move on
once more
with the rest
of the damned
towards the next
accident
up ahead
Ernie Culver
(added 09.05.09)
The whole Mad Swirl of everything to come keeps beginning... now... now... now! Every second, every minute, every hour, every day, every week, every month, every every EVERY there is! Join in the poetic conversations going on in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum whenever the mood strikes.
Peace...please?
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
“Perhaps no person can be a poet, or even enjoy poetry, without a certain unsoundness of mind.” - Thomas Babington Macaulay
Underwater Fire #1 (above) by Jim Fuess, one of over 20 resident artists hanging in Mad Swirl's Mad Gallery.
In case you missed it, here's is a taste of what's been featured in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum this week...
(edior's note: the following poem was first published on 09.01.08. we are republishing this poem in remembrance of the day that OUR world changed a darker shade of sad forever. JO)
9/11 IN MY HEAD
I’ve got 9/11 in my head.
Can’t stop thinking about
The dead.
The 7-year anniversary of
That day-
Is on its way-almost here.
Where can we hide?
So many died, I can’t believe.
Is there no reprieve?
Dark memories fall from the sky.
Why?
Some folks want to forget.
Let them if they can.
I can’t. I won’t. Toxic dust
Cascades down my soul,
Burning a black hole where
The dead shall live forever.
I’ve got 9/11 in my head.
Can’t stop thinking about
The dead.
On the 7-year anniversary,
I’ll mourn my way. I’ll plant
The Tree of Life in the Waste Land
Of my broken soul.
My beauty, once shattered and
Lost in a black hole,
Will slowly rise again like the phoenix.
With faith and memory, I will heal.
I will fix-the scattered fragments of my
Being!
I will sing!
I’ve got 9/11 in my head.
Can’t stop thinking about
The dead.
But I will sing! Yes, I will sing!
Mel Waldman
Cigarette of Self-Esteem 11:48 p.m.
The Ashtray Forum: A Cigarette Lost:
caffeine guy stands in the clothes of a stupid monarch
picking his nose unrhythmic to motor staccato snickers
as a translucent backyard weed-eater jet-stream approaches
parting its pie-hole whispering “exile” dry-spit gently
to remove spectacle from the tree-limb.
The Match case Confrontation: Jack Crack’s Barbeque Shack:
“yes sir, we have the best meat in this heat.
Hello son, how’d you like to stoke on a complimentary
bitch girlfriend, arrogant boss, overdrawn checking account,
pot weather, defunct toilet, lady who just flipped you off
in the passing lane, burnt toast, expired milk, headstone
for your 16 year dead uncle who you never knew but are sure
you would have liked, wet clothes in the dryer, the damn
desk spider, waiting in a long line at the grocery store
for a simple set of watercolors, ok, ok,
love, sex…money/religion(politics)=death-war.peace
{refilling the ice-cube tray} man?!”
Fuck the Surgeon General: A Cigarette Found:
man amidst hungry shyster-beast recognizes drab-grout
fallen CRAYOLA 64, accepts demise, [Slo-Mo Pause],
extracts lighter and cigarette, [click].
The body is now attended by an ornate inner 3rd class lever
pulley system keeping the frame slouched erect
as a majestic homemade puppet filtering puffed inflated
aroused illusion through the reality-laden decrepit torso.
The Gardening Meteorologist Soliloquy:
“Exorcise derangement!
[sweeping hand gestures, smiles]
Beauty is a lavish calm emanating from the Nicotine Soul.”
The Exulting Exhalation:
the aroma has curtailed saturation.
the farce is annihilated.
Unrecognizable demon-captains realize the identity of a master.
Ugly is still ugly, but no longer permeates the membranes.
Royal robes velvet long and drawn golden temporary till the butt.
A crisping stoking wise sigh followed by an encrazed hooping
and hollering demurring an irrational joviality.
A wry grin replaces two-score creases of consternation.
the luckier angels grimace with wonder…..
and GOD can be nothing more than a little slightly pissed.
Quasimofo Snyder
(added 09.10.09)
Through the Wall
Load a disk,
Select a track
Press play
Thump
Make the call
Thump
Or don’t
Thump
Type half words
Bump, bump
On numbered keys
Bump, bump
Talking is outdated
Thump
Don’t smoke
Thump
Don’t drink
Thump
Don’t breathe
Bump, bump
If life is a drug
Bump, bump
I’ve yet to get high
Thump
See the road
Thump
Turn the wheel
Thump
Pass it on
Bump, bump
Look for cops
Bump, bump
I’m sure it’s a crime
…snuff it out…
…snuff it out…
…snuff it out…
Paul E. Loher
(added 09.09.09)
The eye in my sky is crying
(click here to hear Joy Leftow performing this poem)
The eye in my sky is crying
See my fears roll down the street
Tears allayed by stares in space
A cell phone in hand, no dial tone, a blues band commands my adrenal glands
Understand it’s my wedding band, not a new brand of incense,
I take a firm stand on a crash land course stuck in the meadowlands of York
Passion fruit seeps from my sweat glands
Swerving into oblivion on the freeway, an alien shaman ~ that’s me
An alligator devoured my right hand – Now I have 2 left feet left
Beauty is nothing but a backdrop for the blues
We all want beauty peace a little food and empathy
I keep trying and failing to decompartmentalize; an exemplary fit
Lost my wit – cut it out stupid twit see what’s writ do as befits,
I observe others fare better
The eye in my sky reflects humanity’s tears their fears that life can’t be any better or go anywhere except to all one place eventually
Do you want to be easily forgot, your family there
A score or two more no one will know you
Damn give your shell to charity
No formaldehyde either, please.
I use the excuse I’m Jewish; bury me green please
I keep saying son it will pass you by before we come noon to sun
Is this how you want to spend your last day
My man loves his drugs
Almost as much or more than me
He gets them easily supercalifragilisticexpialidociouslly,
Tons of prescriptions legally
His drugs do him right
Momentarily maniacal he says he’s feelin’ so tight
I see him in a new light struggling to write
Doctrinally following clinical struggles, a mix of Geodon, Ambien Lamogine,
To name a few - some are noxious others only for allergies
Billy Jean’s not his lover; enervated after meds
no more energy when he’s through throw some synergy into the fray
Walking up Bombay Broadway
Brings me back to tears rolling down the street
I refuse to admit defeat repeat it all again and again
The eye in my sky is crying
Joy Leftow
(3 poems added 09.08.09)
On A Rainy Summers Day
I sit here at this table
A stranger amongst strangers
Outside it is raining.
The rain brings to mind other times
When I sat writing
Attempting to define this phantom
That haunts me.
Looking up
I watch the world
Float by before my eyes.
The past is no more
The future yet to be
I have only this moment
This dying present
That lingers
Between nothing and nothing
I place each word along side another
Treading out this path
That can lead nowhere
I struggle with words and their meanings
Wanting to catch this non-existence
That is the flow of my life
A caged tiger
Caught in the confines of language
I pace each line away.
The sky is reflected on the wet path
My being is mirrored by the world,
Reflections of reflections
Leave me stranded between darkness and darkness;
Lost in this world of shadows
My being is extended outwards.
Each fluid second withers away
Leaving me stranded between a non-existent future
A long lost past.
Each dashing second
Brings to me
This emptiness
That lingers through out my being.
We exist for but a short time
Before we are sent down
To where we do not know;
Alone
I sit here
Looking for meaning in this existence
Alone I sit here
Better not to have been born
Than to live through this emptiness
That is in my heart.
I am left stranded in this place
That I do not know
The path mirrors the sky
Trees reach towards an empty heaven
Still I am left in darkness.
I walk outside
The leaves of plants
Reach out
Lovingly they hold out their leaves
The rain caresses them softly.
Amongst discarded cigarette butts
And other objects thrown away unthinkingly
They sit expecting nothing
Lingering in this moment
They do not need a reason to be.
(24/12/00)
John Najjar
(added 09.07.09)
NIGHT OF THE FUNERAL
Your cocoa
has taken on
the hue of nail clippings.
Your shoe
can’t stir
the floor.
And tongues
just bluff
what they are touching.
Likewise,
lips are merely
grief kept busy.
Try to be yourself,
I dare you,
not when you mimic
sad souls taking poison
or, slumped in chair,
ape fallen idols
with the windows closed
and gas turned on.
And yet
your body’s fixed
by your survival.
First bone,
then flesh,
then the mind too.
John Grey
(3 poems added 09.06.09)
to hell and back again
a choir
of god’s flock
rage outside
a plan and parenthood
going ape shit
gnashing teeth
doing what
they do
I stop at a red
and watch
this cluster fuck
unfold
a paraplegic
wheels around
pumping a 6 ft cross
in air
screaming
while a circus of
pig faced teens
lepers
and pinheads
grind away
I try to find
something
to throw at them:
contraceptives
a giant piñata of jesus
some tennis balls
nothing
but a cheap
reactionary devil sign
just to fan
the flames
a bit
moments pass
I get a green
and move on
once more
with the rest
of the damned
towards the next
accident
up ahead
Ernie Culver
(added 09.05.09)
The whole Mad Swirl of everything to come keeps beginning... now... now... now! Every second, every minute, every hour, every day, every week, every month, every every EVERY there is! Join in the poetic conversations going on in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum whenever the mood strikes.
Peace...please?
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
“Perhaps no person can be a poet, or even enjoy poetry, without a certain unsoundness of mind.” - Thomas Babington Macaulay
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