::: A Taste of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum 10.09.09 :::
“Sanity is a madness put to good uses.” George Santayana
Skull Men (above) by one of our featured artists Kristin Fouquet, one of over 20 resident artists displayed in Mad Swirl's Mad Gallery.
In case you missed it, here's a taste of the poetic morsels featured in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum this week...
I am yesterday
please don’t turn me away
from where I belong
color going
I don’t see the difference
between yesterday and tomorrow
gravestones say terrible
things to yellow mosquitoes
that come to kill
bad things happen
so long as good people
are afraid of mosquitoes
there will be no revolution
there will be many SAD THINGS
I LOVE, but nothing profound
will come to me
I am yesterday
and before that I was before that
now I am a Persian rug
a quilt, a scarf
a rag doll, dirty
socks.
(9.4.09)
Chris Hamilton
(3 poems added 10.09.09)
she wore
she wore three shades
of blue on a sunny
summer day
and a sweater
in ninety degree weather
i went to buy
her a flower
to see her smile
but when i did
she only
cried
Casey Quinn
(added 10.08.09)
In your absence
in your absence
it seems there is less me
my wine doesn't last
as long
the days are never satisfied
the gardens are filled with dead flowers
we will have our time again
our time will be fat with laughter
Joshua Weir
(1 poem added 10.07.09)
Dawn Draws the Wound
night's plucked beards
leashing
the dust
a million maimed eyes
eternal under calico lights
startling, burn like hair
always stiff
soft heat
a ghetto
nickel visions
wine flood
garbage like soaring flutes
wars, forced free feast
cataclysms
arches of day
squat blooming faces
infant oceans
glistening night's foot
far-flung arteries
of infinite rampant
thought black
upturned
dawn draws the wound
A.J. Kaufmann
(added 10.06.09)
It's MY pie
I slip, incognito
into the blindness of the day,
happy to meander sightless,
braille touch to hot coals
while my goose is cooked,
tender to the knife
and obviously forked up.
A morsel for your mercy,
tasty poison in a loving cup,
delivered in a rendered sauce
for a hypocrite's gander.
I duck from the solar flares,
far from the gamma rays
of exploding suns,
run to the icy regions
where the spots don't reach,
cool in my unique sameness.
Delivered ready to eat
into the fires of my own making.
Captured in the hungry mouth
of a jealous Satan,
I have stolen from him
my own little slice
of Hell.
Rose Morales
(3 poems added 10.05.09)
GOOD SAMARITAN
It’s been a long winter’s day.
Tired, hungry, in no mood to compete,
I just want to get home. Instead I find
myself with a bunch of crazed student
motorist graduates from the K-Mart
driving academy for the unconscious.
I’m stuck in traffic, heavy snow falling.
I stay well back, as I watch three cars
ahead, trying to get up a hill. The first
car is sliding backwards, wheels spinning
and smoking, as it hits the second car and
turns it sideways, then this driver keeps on
turning the wheel, right into the third car,
which was already facing backwards.
They all come to a dead stop at the bottom
of the hill, each pointing in a different direction.
The second driver gets out of his car, beats the
first driver unconscious. The third driver punches
the second driver, and throws him into the first
car’s trunk, then, wakes the unconscious
first driver and beats him unconscious again.
In the meantime, two of the cars roll off the
road into a lake. Insane from watching all of this,
I exit my car and ask the one conscious driver,
“are you okay?” “Go to hell, you moron,”
he replies.
Still unfazed, I smile and rescue the trapped
driver, gently wake the unconscious driver,
get them all up and about, wish them all well
and merry, then, consciously, concertedly,
run the three fuckers over.
Joseph Roque
(added 10.04.09)
MANY TWITCHING LEGS
Staring at the roach on my ceiling at 11pm
while holding a glass of wine,
I wonder if he has been there
since I left for work because
he has been poisoned,
or not
And now I am sure I will have
some kind of horrible dream tonight,
thanks to his stagnation and my
many twitching
legs
Nicole Kuwik
(2 poems added 10.03.09)
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'.
Abra-mad-abra!
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
“The experience of each new age requires a new confession, and the world seems always waiting for its poet.” Ralph Waldo Emerson
Skull Men (above) by one of our featured artists Kristin Fouquet, one of over 20 resident artists displayed in Mad Swirl's Mad Gallery.
In case you missed it, here's a taste of the poetic morsels featured in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum this week...
I am yesterday
please don’t turn me away
from where I belong
color going
I don’t see the difference
between yesterday and tomorrow
gravestones say terrible
things to yellow mosquitoes
that come to kill
bad things happen
so long as good people
are afraid of mosquitoes
there will be no revolution
there will be many SAD THINGS
I LOVE, but nothing profound
will come to me
I am yesterday
and before that I was before that
now I am a Persian rug
a quilt, a scarf
a rag doll, dirty
socks.
(9.4.09)
Chris Hamilton
(3 poems added 10.09.09)
she wore
she wore three shades
of blue on a sunny
summer day
and a sweater
in ninety degree weather
i went to buy
her a flower
to see her smile
but when i did
she only
cried
Casey Quinn
(added 10.08.09)
In your absence
in your absence
it seems there is less me
my wine doesn't last
as long
the days are never satisfied
the gardens are filled with dead flowers
we will have our time again
our time will be fat with laughter
Joshua Weir
(1 poem added 10.07.09)
Dawn Draws the Wound
night's plucked beards
leashing
the dust
a million maimed eyes
eternal under calico lights
startling, burn like hair
always stiff
soft heat
a ghetto
nickel visions
wine flood
garbage like soaring flutes
wars, forced free feast
cataclysms
arches of day
squat blooming faces
infant oceans
glistening night's foot
far-flung arteries
of infinite rampant
thought black
upturned
dawn draws the wound
A.J. Kaufmann
(added 10.06.09)
It's MY pie
I slip, incognito
into the blindness of the day,
happy to meander sightless,
braille touch to hot coals
while my goose is cooked,
tender to the knife
and obviously forked up.
A morsel for your mercy,
tasty poison in a loving cup,
delivered in a rendered sauce
for a hypocrite's gander.
I duck from the solar flares,
far from the gamma rays
of exploding suns,
run to the icy regions
where the spots don't reach,
cool in my unique sameness.
Delivered ready to eat
into the fires of my own making.
Captured in the hungry mouth
of a jealous Satan,
I have stolen from him
my own little slice
of Hell.
Rose Morales
(3 poems added 10.05.09)
GOOD SAMARITAN
It’s been a long winter’s day.
Tired, hungry, in no mood to compete,
I just want to get home. Instead I find
myself with a bunch of crazed student
motorist graduates from the K-Mart
driving academy for the unconscious.
I’m stuck in traffic, heavy snow falling.
I stay well back, as I watch three cars
ahead, trying to get up a hill. The first
car is sliding backwards, wheels spinning
and smoking, as it hits the second car and
turns it sideways, then this driver keeps on
turning the wheel, right into the third car,
which was already facing backwards.
They all come to a dead stop at the bottom
of the hill, each pointing in a different direction.
The second driver gets out of his car, beats the
first driver unconscious. The third driver punches
the second driver, and throws him into the first
car’s trunk, then, wakes the unconscious
first driver and beats him unconscious again.
In the meantime, two of the cars roll off the
road into a lake. Insane from watching all of this,
I exit my car and ask the one conscious driver,
“are you okay?” “Go to hell, you moron,”
he replies.
Still unfazed, I smile and rescue the trapped
driver, gently wake the unconscious driver,
get them all up and about, wish them all well
and merry, then, consciously, concertedly,
run the three fuckers over.
Joseph Roque
(added 10.04.09)
MANY TWITCHING LEGS
Staring at the roach on my ceiling at 11pm
while holding a glass of wine,
I wonder if he has been there
since I left for work because
he has been poisoned,
or not
And now I am sure I will have
some kind of horrible dream tonight,
thanks to his stagnation and my
many twitching
legs
Nicole Kuwik
(2 poems added 10.03.09)
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'.
Abra-mad-abra!
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
“The experience of each new age requires a new confession, and the world seems always waiting for its poet.” Ralph Waldo Emerson
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