::: A Taste of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum 09.18.09 :::
“A good poem is a contribution to reality. The world is never the same once a good poem has been added to it.” Dylan Thomas
Fish Head (above) by the Christian Millet. This latest batch is positively sure to swirlify your mad eyes. Visit Mad Swirl's Mad Gallery for much more visual madnesses.
In case you missed it, here's is a taste of what's been featured in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum this week...
THE YELLOW GRASS
Down by the grass
the wasps fly low.
Do they rest or
tie their small
invisible shoes?
Black ants take up
smoking from the
lit cigarette
butts lying
on the yellow grass.
Stretched out on the
dying grass the
cat worries me.
It's getting
old and it won't eat.
Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
(3 poems added 09.18.09)
Check out the new chapbook "Overcome" by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal. Click here to read Mad Swirl's review and to order a copy of "Overcome".
wasabi: poems with a bite
by kenshiro dan (a tokyo psychiatrist, who "records" his cases in a mad, poetic form)
(i)
an appealing, familiar thought
having failed so miserably,
again,
he contemplated suicide,
again,
in the freezing cold;
but he thought the better of it,
deciding to take his life
when it got warmer –
more comfortable then
(ii)
lovers’ pact
the pair, holding hands,
unhesitatingly stepped forward,
into the void –
discovering, too late,
that each was with the wrong partner
(iii)
cost-effective
nothing like a bowl of hot,
steaming noodles
with a generous sprinkling of scallions,
raw,
freshly cut!
oh, but the smell of it,
(the day after)
in your nostrils,
when you breathe or hum,
and in your mouth,
when you talk or yawn –
awful!
enough for her,
suddenly,
to want to visit her mother
(iv)
a recipe that didn’t quite work out
not to my taste at all:
she desperately wanted me
out of her life;
i wished to remain --
a bitter-sweet scenario
that ended sourly,
salty tears and all –
mine
(v)
got to do it right
humiliated,
she knew it was time to leave –
by way of the knife…
but it had better be sharp:
she’d ever been one for neat and tidy
Norbert Luciano
(1 poem added 09.17.09)
Twist of Fate.. Approximately?
The burnin' fire washed away in the rain
The essence of life wasted away so insane..
The madness of the laugh tryin' to mend
The foes in friends we all befriend..
The recurrence of the twist of fate
The lines carved with future we await..
The doors which open without any knocks
The words exchanged in the midst of walks..
The confusin' love entangled in silence
The beauty of understandin' these words without guidance..
The virtue of patience ain't found with darkness
The portrait of lies painted by the actress..
The countless lives wasted with guns
The loss of friends and beloved ones..
The drugs wasted on souls eternally stoned
The faces impostors try to get cloned..
The value of words written with rhymes
I hope will last for several lifetimes..
Ray Gonsalves
(1 poem added 09.16.09)
High, White Socks
When I wear high, white socks,
My shins, they get itchy.
In a classification of actions as bitchy.
Like a geography teacher who quick quizzes “which sea”?
To her white-collar boyfriend who is equally fifty.
My black slacks don’t slack.
My brown shoes don’t tread.
My yellow tie doesn’t tangle.
My white socks do instead.
Adam Flowers
(added 09.15.09)
Wandering at Night
I ain't writ yet about my dream
from night before last
but it's certainly brought to mind
some serious questions:
Why was there a brick wall
(painted a greeny-grey)
at the bottom of the stairs
instead of the door that's usually there?
Why was that figure,
covered head to toe
in a charcoal-grey-almost-black sheet,
standin' stiff as a scarecrow
at the top of the stairs
when I tried to walk back up?
Why did he
crumple like dry twigs and fresh laundry
when I pushed past him
and headed back to the bedroom?
Why was he standin' again
when I glanced glanced glanced
over my shoulder
after trotting by the empty sheet
sloshed on the floor?
Where did that mirror come from?
Why was the reflected figures' arms
raised in a gonna-git-ya gesture
as I shuffled my zombie way
back to my sleep chamber?
And why did I crawl back into bed
instead of bothering
to find some way downstairs
and finish unclogging the bath-tub-drain
which was the reason I got outta bed in the first place?
I dunno.
But as soon as I woke up from the dream,
'bout 2 in the A.M.,
I did go back downstairs,
past the no-mirror-there
beyond the not-a-spooky-sheet-guy
through the non-brick-wall
and into the bathroom
to dump some chemma-goo
into the stagnant-n-scum tub water
and I scrimpled my brow,
disappointed with reality,
'cuz no matter how hard I tried
I couldn't convince myself
that a cotton-sheet-clad spook-ghost-spectre
was gonna be waiting for me
at the top of the stairs
to pop out and say "Hey!"
when I headed back up.
And that's a shame.
Let's face it;
it's just more damn exciting
to wander the house
in a dream.
Richard F. Yates
(2 poems added 09.14.09)
A Religious Painting in Modern Times
I crossed across
to the wrong side of the cross
and will have to cross again
myself to that watch
that wallet now empty
that emptiness now suspicious
that suspicion now pierced
woven with doubt
nourishingly enamored of traffic
speeding
up the crucifix
then fulfilling
its death wish through the steeple.
That is, unless the beltway
is backed up
as it usually is.
Francis Raven
(added 09.13.09)
Hallelujah - I'm a Bum
...or soon to be.
Job - terminated within the month.
Wife and baby - leaving for airport terminal tomorrow.
Heart - terminally broken from years of disappointment.
I wonder...
will I meet all the people
I pissed on and off
on the way down
the career ladder
to throne of greed
in the corporate sky?
At least I'll be with
my own kind (they say)
the disenfranchised
lovable losers
and not so adorable ones
sleeping behind bushes
near mall restaurants
hoping to nab a half-eaten Egg McMuffin
to choke down
with the Boone's Farm eye opener.
There's only two problems
with that scenario:
I can't stand fast food
and I don't dumpster dive.
Is it too late
to find GOD
or would the preacher man simply say,
"Hallelujah - you're a bum"?
But I'm not
- yet -
am I?
Joseph D. DiLella
(3 poems added 09.12.09)
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.
Swirl On!
Johnny O
Editor-in-Chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
“Truly great madness can not be achieved without significant intelligence.” Henrik Tikkanen
Fish Head (above) by the Christian Millet. This latest batch is positively sure to swirlify your mad eyes. Visit Mad Swirl's Mad Gallery for much more visual madnesses.
In case you missed it, here's is a taste of what's been featured in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum this week...
THE YELLOW GRASS
Down by the grass
the wasps fly low.
Do they rest or
tie their small
invisible shoes?
Black ants take up
smoking from the
lit cigarette
butts lying
on the yellow grass.
Stretched out on the
dying grass the
cat worries me.
It's getting
old and it won't eat.
Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
(3 poems added 09.18.09)
Check out the new chapbook "Overcome" by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal. Click here to read Mad Swirl's review and to order a copy of "Overcome".
wasabi: poems with a bite
by kenshiro dan (a tokyo psychiatrist, who "records" his cases in a mad, poetic form)
(i)
an appealing, familiar thought
having failed so miserably,
again,
he contemplated suicide,
again,
in the freezing cold;
but he thought the better of it,
deciding to take his life
when it got warmer –
more comfortable then
(ii)
lovers’ pact
the pair, holding hands,
unhesitatingly stepped forward,
into the void –
discovering, too late,
that each was with the wrong partner
(iii)
cost-effective
nothing like a bowl of hot,
steaming noodles
with a generous sprinkling of scallions,
raw,
freshly cut!
oh, but the smell of it,
(the day after)
in your nostrils,
when you breathe or hum,
and in your mouth,
when you talk or yawn –
awful!
enough for her,
suddenly,
to want to visit her mother
(iv)
a recipe that didn’t quite work out
not to my taste at all:
she desperately wanted me
out of her life;
i wished to remain --
a bitter-sweet scenario
that ended sourly,
salty tears and all –
mine
(v)
got to do it right
humiliated,
she knew it was time to leave –
by way of the knife…
but it had better be sharp:
she’d ever been one for neat and tidy
Norbert Luciano
(1 poem added 09.17.09)
Twist of Fate.. Approximately?
The burnin' fire washed away in the rain
The essence of life wasted away so insane..
The madness of the laugh tryin' to mend
The foes in friends we all befriend..
The recurrence of the twist of fate
The lines carved with future we await..
The doors which open without any knocks
The words exchanged in the midst of walks..
The confusin' love entangled in silence
The beauty of understandin' these words without guidance..
The virtue of patience ain't found with darkness
The portrait of lies painted by the actress..
The countless lives wasted with guns
The loss of friends and beloved ones..
The drugs wasted on souls eternally stoned
The faces impostors try to get cloned..
The value of words written with rhymes
I hope will last for several lifetimes..
Ray Gonsalves
(1 poem added 09.16.09)
High, White Socks
When I wear high, white socks,
My shins, they get itchy.
In a classification of actions as bitchy.
Like a geography teacher who quick quizzes “which sea”?
To her white-collar boyfriend who is equally fifty.
My black slacks don’t slack.
My brown shoes don’t tread.
My yellow tie doesn’t tangle.
My white socks do instead.
Adam Flowers
(added 09.15.09)
Wandering at Night
I ain't writ yet about my dream
from night before last
but it's certainly brought to mind
some serious questions:
Why was there a brick wall
(painted a greeny-grey)
at the bottom of the stairs
instead of the door that's usually there?
Why was that figure,
covered head to toe
in a charcoal-grey-almost-black sheet,
standin' stiff as a scarecrow
at the top of the stairs
when I tried to walk back up?
Why did he
crumple like dry twigs and fresh laundry
when I pushed past him
and headed back to the bedroom?
Why was he standin' again
when I glanced glanced glanced
over my shoulder
after trotting by the empty sheet
sloshed on the floor?
Where did that mirror come from?
Why was the reflected figures' arms
raised in a gonna-git-ya gesture
as I shuffled my zombie way
back to my sleep chamber?
And why did I crawl back into bed
instead of bothering
to find some way downstairs
and finish unclogging the bath-tub-drain
which was the reason I got outta bed in the first place?
I dunno.
But as soon as I woke up from the dream,
'bout 2 in the A.M.,
I did go back downstairs,
past the no-mirror-there
beyond the not-a-spooky-sheet-guy
through the non-brick-wall
and into the bathroom
to dump some chemma-goo
into the stagnant-n-scum tub water
and I scrimpled my brow,
disappointed with reality,
'cuz no matter how hard I tried
I couldn't convince myself
that a cotton-sheet-clad spook-ghost-spectre
was gonna be waiting for me
at the top of the stairs
to pop out and say "Hey!"
when I headed back up.
And that's a shame.
Let's face it;
it's just more damn exciting
to wander the house
in a dream.
Richard F. Yates
(2 poems added 09.14.09)
A Religious Painting in Modern Times
I crossed across
to the wrong side of the cross
and will have to cross again
myself to that watch
that wallet now empty
that emptiness now suspicious
that suspicion now pierced
woven with doubt
nourishingly enamored of traffic
speeding
up the crucifix
then fulfilling
its death wish through the steeple.
That is, unless the beltway
is backed up
as it usually is.
Francis Raven
(added 09.13.09)
Hallelujah - I'm a Bum
...or soon to be.
Job - terminated within the month.
Wife and baby - leaving for airport terminal tomorrow.
Heart - terminally broken from years of disappointment.
I wonder...
will I meet all the people
I pissed on and off
on the way down
the career ladder
to throne of greed
in the corporate sky?
At least I'll be with
my own kind (they say)
the disenfranchised
lovable losers
and not so adorable ones
sleeping behind bushes
near mall restaurants
hoping to nab a half-eaten Egg McMuffin
to choke down
with the Boone's Farm eye opener.
There's only two problems
with that scenario:
I can't stand fast food
and I don't dumpster dive.
Is it too late
to find GOD
or would the preacher man simply say,
"Hallelujah - you're a bum"?
But I'm not
- yet -
am I?
Joseph D. DiLella
(3 poems added 09.12.09)
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.
Swirl On!
Johnny O
Editor-in-Chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
“Truly great madness can not be achieved without significant intelligence.” Henrik Tikkanen
Comments