::: A Taste of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum 09.25.09 :::
“To have great poets there must be great audiences too.” Walt Whitman
Babies of Octavius (above) by Julie Luke, one of over 20 resident artists displayed 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...
Goddamned Genesis.
crickets scrimmage among a warped whirl. Dust swirls
roots soar as sweat pours; a womb woven man unravels
the roughest quilt East of the Rockies; doomed Southern
spider eyes saw me shaking shade and they
scrambled spider legs that held dirty peace.
I melt the crust; now it’s hell under ten trimmed nails.
This soil isn’t worth being buried in.
Two hands from one man
choke an axe handle and
two skinny farm-tanned
limbs: a sharp shovel—
are displacing denizens
by the millions.
This soul doesn’t deserve this soil.
A man makes earth dance—spreads
an angled way for bright white sewer pipes.
Plucking out caulk rock: unveil pearls; pull
some fair foliage as hair from a mane. A man
taming ‘shrooms and soot since
trees can’t slip out nil nutrient
topsoil: take leafs
to the breeze and where
five vultures glide
over the toil: staining creation—
their shadows approve of man’s destruction
Lording over this soil:
I might die—gladly
they won’t let me be
buried in this soil.
Tyler Malone
(3 poems added 09.25.09)
Water
Loss
has no sound,
yet is not difficult
to read.
There is strength
in water,
my hair rusts
in its pursuit.
The rest is
shallow,
let’s keep it a
secret.
Sergio A. Ortiz
(added 09.24.09)
BASEBALL WARS
The war of evening battle bugs
lay siege on a window screen,
like tennis balls beaten with force
they try again, undaunted and dazed.
A man inside watches a baseball game;
the sound scratches to his ears.
His face is unshaven. A cigarette burns
between yellowed fingers. A cold beer
softens his anger. Ashes tumble,
splashing onto slippers dieing of age.
Dishes rattle in the kitchen.
Lunch dishes drip dry in straight lines.
A woman hums to a song buried in
her chest.
Children run the alley below his window.
Baseball bats clink in the hurriedness
of sweaty hands. Voices of excitement,
anger, swearing, oaths of hate. Blood
spills to concrete watering the cities hard
garden.
Above in the apartment. The man smokes his
cigarette.
Roger G. Singer
(added 09.23.09)
BASTARD LORE
Dark with oldest meaning
Bent, twisted, corrupted, corroded
And etched madly into the mind
With fevered strokes of ink
Or even blood
Its methods primitive
Its truths boundless
Hiding a million infinite wisdoms
And even more insanities
Leather bindings beaten by time
Pages yellowed and cracked with the same
You feel the power
As you hold it in your trembling hands
Its fearsome power
Urges you to put it down
To never open it
To hide it, even
But it still persuades you
To gaze upon its hideous essence
Face to maddened face.
Kyle Segars
(3 poems added 09.22.09)
Asking for Directions
When I was a kid,
parents
teachers
and community leaders
taught me to never approach the car
of someone asking for directions
because they likely wanted to abduct
molest
and possibly kill me.
It was not until I was driving around
completely lost
years later
that I realized the absurdity
of such claims.
Regardless of whether I asked children
or adults for directions,
in the span of two hours
I had seven people run away
four called me a pedophile outright
two a killer
and one shrieking woman beat the trunk of my car
with a stick.
Thank god
I didn’t stop off at the convenience store
for some candy
for the road trip
as I had planned to do.
I’d probably be serving a life sentence now
and I still wouldn’t
have directions.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan
(added 09.21.09)
Rescuing Nothing
I went in search of nothing, I wanted to know more about its non-existence, I eventually found it bolted to a red shag carpet on a far away western mesa, You know nothing when You see it screaming under an unforgiving sun, They had cut a jagged hole in it, I could see nothing was clearly suffering...Dusty glass shards rained down from heavy blue, glass clouds, I took out my steel umbrella in one hand, and a hammer in the other to take out the nails that appeared to be made of a light only a god could manifest, nothing was clearly grateful, but said nothing...We faced each other, acknowledged each other silently, and drifted opposite ways...I suspect in the travellings of nothing, It was just in search of meaning, I suspected it wanted to figure out out what it was, and ultimately find out if it was a form of something...It coveted form, meaning, and definition fiercely...
Eric J. Brinovec
(1 poem added 09.20.09)
Shitty ideas
All alone, makes it quiet
on a strict religious diet
As I sit here and shit
a realization will hit
I stare at my toes
clearly nobody knows
Here where my idea's are honed
upon my white, porcelain throne
Questions begin in here
answers based on fear
Most people don't understand
but I never asked for a hand
In the end it comes to this
a wadded piece of paper in my fist
All alone makes it quiet
on a strict religious diet
Poeticshaman
(added 09.19.09)
The whole Mad Swirl of everything to come keeps on beginning... now... now... and 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. We'll leave a light on fer ya'.
Stay Swirly!
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
“I want to stay as close to the edge as i can without going over. Out on the edge you see all kinds of things you can't see from the center.” Kurt Vonnegut
Babies of Octavius (above) by Julie Luke, one of over 20 resident artists displayed 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...
Goddamned Genesis.
crickets scrimmage among a warped whirl. Dust swirls
roots soar as sweat pours; a womb woven man unravels
the roughest quilt East of the Rockies; doomed Southern
spider eyes saw me shaking shade and they
scrambled spider legs that held dirty peace.
I melt the crust; now it’s hell under ten trimmed nails.
This soil isn’t worth being buried in.
Two hands from one man
choke an axe handle and
two skinny farm-tanned
limbs: a sharp shovel—
are displacing denizens
by the millions.
This soul doesn’t deserve this soil.
A man makes earth dance—spreads
an angled way for bright white sewer pipes.
Plucking out caulk rock: unveil pearls; pull
some fair foliage as hair from a mane. A man
taming ‘shrooms and soot since
trees can’t slip out nil nutrient
topsoil: take leafs
to the breeze and where
five vultures glide
over the toil: staining creation—
their shadows approve of man’s destruction
Lording over this soil:
I might die—gladly
they won’t let me be
buried in this soil.
Tyler Malone
(3 poems added 09.25.09)
Water
Loss
has no sound,
yet is not difficult
to read.
There is strength
in water,
my hair rusts
in its pursuit.
The rest is
shallow,
let’s keep it a
secret.
Sergio A. Ortiz
(added 09.24.09)
BASEBALL WARS
The war of evening battle bugs
lay siege on a window screen,
like tennis balls beaten with force
they try again, undaunted and dazed.
A man inside watches a baseball game;
the sound scratches to his ears.
His face is unshaven. A cigarette burns
between yellowed fingers. A cold beer
softens his anger. Ashes tumble,
splashing onto slippers dieing of age.
Dishes rattle in the kitchen.
Lunch dishes drip dry in straight lines.
A woman hums to a song buried in
her chest.
Children run the alley below his window.
Baseball bats clink in the hurriedness
of sweaty hands. Voices of excitement,
anger, swearing, oaths of hate. Blood
spills to concrete watering the cities hard
garden.
Above in the apartment. The man smokes his
cigarette.
Roger G. Singer
(added 09.23.09)
BASTARD LORE
Dark with oldest meaning
Bent, twisted, corrupted, corroded
And etched madly into the mind
With fevered strokes of ink
Or even blood
Its methods primitive
Its truths boundless
Hiding a million infinite wisdoms
And even more insanities
Leather bindings beaten by time
Pages yellowed and cracked with the same
You feel the power
As you hold it in your trembling hands
Its fearsome power
Urges you to put it down
To never open it
To hide it, even
But it still persuades you
To gaze upon its hideous essence
Face to maddened face.
Kyle Segars
(3 poems added 09.22.09)
Asking for Directions
When I was a kid,
parents
teachers
and community leaders
taught me to never approach the car
of someone asking for directions
because they likely wanted to abduct
molest
and possibly kill me.
It was not until I was driving around
completely lost
years later
that I realized the absurdity
of such claims.
Regardless of whether I asked children
or adults for directions,
in the span of two hours
I had seven people run away
four called me a pedophile outright
two a killer
and one shrieking woman beat the trunk of my car
with a stick.
Thank god
I didn’t stop off at the convenience store
for some candy
for the road trip
as I had planned to do.
I’d probably be serving a life sentence now
and I still wouldn’t
have directions.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan
(added 09.21.09)
Rescuing Nothing
I went in search of nothing, I wanted to know more about its non-existence, I eventually found it bolted to a red shag carpet on a far away western mesa, You know nothing when You see it screaming under an unforgiving sun, They had cut a jagged hole in it, I could see nothing was clearly suffering...Dusty glass shards rained down from heavy blue, glass clouds, I took out my steel umbrella in one hand, and a hammer in the other to take out the nails that appeared to be made of a light only a god could manifest, nothing was clearly grateful, but said nothing...We faced each other, acknowledged each other silently, and drifted opposite ways...I suspect in the travellings of nothing, It was just in search of meaning, I suspected it wanted to figure out out what it was, and ultimately find out if it was a form of something...It coveted form, meaning, and definition fiercely...
Eric J. Brinovec
(1 poem added 09.20.09)
Shitty ideas
All alone, makes it quiet
on a strict religious diet
As I sit here and shit
a realization will hit
I stare at my toes
clearly nobody knows
Here where my idea's are honed
upon my white, porcelain throne
Questions begin in here
answers based on fear
Most people don't understand
but I never asked for a hand
In the end it comes to this
a wadded piece of paper in my fist
All alone makes it quiet
on a strict religious diet
Poeticshaman
(added 09.19.09)
The whole Mad Swirl of everything to come keeps on beginning... now... now... and 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. We'll leave a light on fer ya'.
Stay Swirly!
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
“I want to stay as close to the edge as i can without going over. Out on the edge you see all kinds of things you can't see from the center.” Kurt Vonnegut
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