The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 01.16.10
"Don't ask so much what the world needs. Go out and do what makes you come alive, because what the world needs most are people who have come alive." Howard Thurman
The Sovereign Zazilia of Idée Fixe (above) by Seattle mad painter Julie Luke, one of over 20 resident artists currently being displayed in Mad Swirl's eclectic Mad Gallery.
Just in case you missed it, here's just a taste of the poetry we featured this week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum...
•••••••••••
Haiku
Why are we fighting?
This desert’s big enough for
us all to die in.
It takes desire and
sacrifice to become a
grand masturbator.
All knowing Buddha
laughs as you drink from the cup
he just now pissed in.
So tell me again:
was it your words or my ears
that were stuttering?
They smile and laugh,
start the burlesque; optimists
love a funeral.
An exposé on
door to door mattress salesmen
with nowhere to sleep.
I broke a grass stem
then with four sturdy knots I
demanded it mend.
When Earth’s had her fill
she will exile all her dead
back to their fathers.
The mausoleum’s
shadow, embedded in mist,
has nothing to say.
Now close my account;
I was born a beggar, it’s
time I lived like one.
- Quinten Collier
(added 01.16.10)
•••••••••••
A Portent
Even with it’s newly-found social popularity,
the Night still has the foresight to pencil him in -
That damn dog outside.
I could just kill it.
It barks in some lost, chaotic rhythm
And that mercury vapor
seeps through the blinds
The nights are no longer quiet, no longer dark
ever since I acquired a firearm.
Truck passing
Headlights
waltz across the ceiling, and drunkenly collapse onto the wall.
It's hot in here
I'm breathing warm honey.
My ample bed-mate
sighs calmly; stirs
silken and cold
bathed in the acrid perfume of old powder and potential energy
I wait, stiff and straight, for sleep to take.
- Todd Macaulay
(added 01.15.10)
•••••••••••
ANTI-CHRIST OF VOGUE
I was twenty that July when I
first knew my father’s fashion
antenna was broken.
He was at the picnic table in our backyard,
feeding his pet squirrel peanuts, when I saw
the black dress socks with sandals, plaid
Bermuda shorts pulled nipple-high by wide
paisley suspenders stretched straight and
true over ironed white tee shirt, name
spelled out with sequins. Up top, multi-
colored neon baseball cap from Vegas.
When I asked him about it he got very defensive.
“Don’t kill the messenger,” he said, “somebody
in this family has to be in fashion.”
- Joseph Roque
(2 poems added 01.14.10)
•••••••••••
QUIT
dirty unkempt
and with crazy eyes
cars lock their own doors
as i pass by
just a
hungover hummingbird
in search of a cigarette
i flit
from ashtray to ashtray
outside of cafes
collecting the better
once lit discarded bits
in a Camel filters box
that i found and saved for this
then on to mark
the map of the day
with small treasures
discovered 'neath
hasty drive-thru windows
and dodging cars and comments
of ill-intent
i head to the nearest supermarket
and trade my booty
for cheap deli meat
it's 9:30 am
and feeling full and righteous
i think that i might just
catch a nap
and on my way
to find a place to lay
my head is when
i run smack
dab
in to that
drunk
the one whose name is
i forget
and who really cares
anyway
he's the one
who's always slobbering drunk
and laughing
like a son of a bitch
as he stares
right in to the sun
his arm held out shaking
a bottle of KD at me
he says
get ya A pull a That
and sure as a bet
i take the bottle
swipe the lip
and get a good
long pull off it
and damn
but it tastes like
well you know
it's really crap
but it does quench my thirst
a tad
i aint arguin that
and i hand it back
he replaces the cap
and shoves the bottle
in his pocket
and wanders away
staring
right in to the sun
cursing
friendly curses
at everyone
at
no one
it's 10:30 am
and this day
has just begun
and i guess i'll
scratch that nap
'cause now i'm thinkin
bout the beers on tap
at that bar that
i'm pretty damned
sure i was at
last night
and i got .30 cents left
in my pocket
and a sudden limp
and
i'm holding a sign
reads
GIMME
and i'm standin
in the middle of the road
when this guy
in a mercedes
rolls down the window
hands me a twenty
he says
don't go blowin that
on food
or nothin
and i just laugh
like i'm crazy
and yeah cause i'm lazy
i ditch the sign
lose the limp
and run off
up the hill
and into the wind
it's 11 am
and sure as sin
this day
aint even
begun
to begin.
- Jesse Doughty
(added 01.13.10)
•••••••••••
Timeless
Then is a lame horse
unable to stand on four legs.
It limps along in misery,
but we are too attatched
to fire that final bullet
and end its suffering.
Now is a faery wisp,
nymph flitting from flower to flower,
and we with our butterfly net
full of holes, vainly trying to snag the prize,
when it is right before us if we just stand still.
(But we will not)
Insufferable are we,
reaching ever forward
for that tommorrow that is nearer than we think,
sacrificing today for a glimpse at a puff of smoke.
Sit.
Breathe.
Then and now coexist with tomorrow
in a netherworld of mist and shadows,
and we will have it all
if we open up our clenched fists
to let it fly free, a sycamore seed
that hovers in the sun splayed breeze.
- Rose Morales
(3 poems added 01.12.10)
•••••••••••
The Homeless
Sitting in the corner, back to the wall,
the observer becomes the pen, and feels no more;
skin is flayed; here the silent screams can be ignored;
we are all homeless here, shut out into the cold.
We are left to walk the back streets,
memory so icy cold, frozen;
these back streets are cracked and broken,
lined by deserted and crumbling buildings,
all haunted by the ghost of time passed
In this age of surface and broken pavements,
each moment a fleeting side show
caught in perception,
held by memory,
I sit in this bony apartment,
searching through these archives,
what seemed certain then, now is seen for what it was,
an illusion.
How easy it is to see
only what you want to see;
how easy it is not to hear the cries of the innocent,
the homeless
who must find deserted back streets
so they can sleep.
(21/10/09)
- John Najjar
(2 poems added 01.11.10)
•••••••••••
Fun!
Fun!
like sticks on fire
and sugar falling from the sky
Fun!
like following a ghostly shadow
into the woods at night
or crying for your mommy
when you know she's not gonna come
Fun!
like wet teeth
and hard-edged journalism
Fun!
like you never knew
or wanted to
Fun! Fun! Fun!
- Richard F. Yates
(2 poems added 01.10.10)
•••••••••••
The whole Mad Swirl of everything to come keeps on keepin' on... now... now... NOW! Every second, every minute, every hour, every day, every week, every month, every year, every decade, every every EVERY there is! Wanna join in the poetic conversations going on in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum? Then stop by whenever the mood strikes! We'll be there!
Be back soon with the latest rumors!
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
“A poem records emotions and moods that lie beyond normal language, that can only be patched together and hinted at metaphorically.” Diane Ackerman
The Sovereign Zazilia of Idée Fixe (above) by Seattle mad painter Julie Luke, one of over 20 resident artists currently being displayed in Mad Swirl's eclectic Mad Gallery.
Just in case you missed it, here's just a taste of the poetry we featured this week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum...
•••••••••••
Haiku
Why are we fighting?
This desert’s big enough for
us all to die in.
It takes desire and
sacrifice to become a
grand masturbator.
All knowing Buddha
laughs as you drink from the cup
he just now pissed in.
So tell me again:
was it your words or my ears
that were stuttering?
They smile and laugh,
start the burlesque; optimists
love a funeral.
An exposé on
door to door mattress salesmen
with nowhere to sleep.
I broke a grass stem
then with four sturdy knots I
demanded it mend.
When Earth’s had her fill
she will exile all her dead
back to their fathers.
The mausoleum’s
shadow, embedded in mist,
has nothing to say.
Now close my account;
I was born a beggar, it’s
time I lived like one.
- Quinten Collier
(added 01.16.10)
•••••••••••
A Portent
Even with it’s newly-found social popularity,
the Night still has the foresight to pencil him in -
That damn dog outside.
I could just kill it.
It barks in some lost, chaotic rhythm
And that mercury vapor
seeps through the blinds
The nights are no longer quiet, no longer dark
ever since I acquired a firearm.
Truck passing
Headlights
waltz across the ceiling, and drunkenly collapse onto the wall.
It's hot in here
I'm breathing warm honey.
My ample bed-mate
sighs calmly; stirs
silken and cold
bathed in the acrid perfume of old powder and potential energy
I wait, stiff and straight, for sleep to take.
- Todd Macaulay
(added 01.15.10)
•••••••••••
ANTI-CHRIST OF VOGUE
I was twenty that July when I
first knew my father’s fashion
antenna was broken.
He was at the picnic table in our backyard,
feeding his pet squirrel peanuts, when I saw
the black dress socks with sandals, plaid
Bermuda shorts pulled nipple-high by wide
paisley suspenders stretched straight and
true over ironed white tee shirt, name
spelled out with sequins. Up top, multi-
colored neon baseball cap from Vegas.
When I asked him about it he got very defensive.
“Don’t kill the messenger,” he said, “somebody
in this family has to be in fashion.”
- Joseph Roque
(2 poems added 01.14.10)
•••••••••••
QUIT
dirty unkempt
and with crazy eyes
cars lock their own doors
as i pass by
just a
hungover hummingbird
in search of a cigarette
i flit
from ashtray to ashtray
outside of cafes
collecting the better
once lit discarded bits
in a Camel filters box
that i found and saved for this
then on to mark
the map of the day
with small treasures
discovered 'neath
hasty drive-thru windows
and dodging cars and comments
of ill-intent
i head to the nearest supermarket
and trade my booty
for cheap deli meat
it's 9:30 am
and feeling full and righteous
i think that i might just
catch a nap
and on my way
to find a place to lay
my head is when
i run smack
dab
in to that
drunk
the one whose name is
i forget
and who really cares
anyway
he's the one
who's always slobbering drunk
and laughing
like a son of a bitch
as he stares
right in to the sun
his arm held out shaking
a bottle of KD at me
he says
get ya A pull a That
and sure as a bet
i take the bottle
swipe the lip
and get a good
long pull off it
and damn
but it tastes like
well you know
it's really crap
but it does quench my thirst
a tad
i aint arguin that
and i hand it back
he replaces the cap
and shoves the bottle
in his pocket
and wanders away
staring
right in to the sun
cursing
friendly curses
at everyone
at
no one
it's 10:30 am
and this day
has just begun
and i guess i'll
scratch that nap
'cause now i'm thinkin
bout the beers on tap
at that bar that
i'm pretty damned
sure i was at
last night
and i got .30 cents left
in my pocket
and a sudden limp
and
i'm holding a sign
reads
GIMME
and i'm standin
in the middle of the road
when this guy
in a mercedes
rolls down the window
hands me a twenty
he says
don't go blowin that
on food
or nothin
and i just laugh
like i'm crazy
and yeah cause i'm lazy
i ditch the sign
lose the limp
and run off
up the hill
and into the wind
it's 11 am
and sure as sin
this day
aint even
begun
to begin.
- Jesse Doughty
(added 01.13.10)
•••••••••••
Timeless
Then is a lame horse
unable to stand on four legs.
It limps along in misery,
but we are too attatched
to fire that final bullet
and end its suffering.
Now is a faery wisp,
nymph flitting from flower to flower,
and we with our butterfly net
full of holes, vainly trying to snag the prize,
when it is right before us if we just stand still.
(But we will not)
Insufferable are we,
reaching ever forward
for that tommorrow that is nearer than we think,
sacrificing today for a glimpse at a puff of smoke.
Sit.
Breathe.
Then and now coexist with tomorrow
in a netherworld of mist and shadows,
and we will have it all
if we open up our clenched fists
to let it fly free, a sycamore seed
that hovers in the sun splayed breeze.
- Rose Morales
(3 poems added 01.12.10)
•••••••••••
The Homeless
Sitting in the corner, back to the wall,
the observer becomes the pen, and feels no more;
skin is flayed; here the silent screams can be ignored;
we are all homeless here, shut out into the cold.
We are left to walk the back streets,
memory so icy cold, frozen;
these back streets are cracked and broken,
lined by deserted and crumbling buildings,
all haunted by the ghost of time passed
In this age of surface and broken pavements,
each moment a fleeting side show
caught in perception,
held by memory,
I sit in this bony apartment,
searching through these archives,
what seemed certain then, now is seen for what it was,
an illusion.
How easy it is to see
only what you want to see;
how easy it is not to hear the cries of the innocent,
the homeless
who must find deserted back streets
so they can sleep.
(21/10/09)
- John Najjar
(2 poems added 01.11.10)
•••••••••••
Fun!
Fun!
like sticks on fire
and sugar falling from the sky
Fun!
like following a ghostly shadow
into the woods at night
or crying for your mommy
when you know she's not gonna come
Fun!
like wet teeth
and hard-edged journalism
Fun!
like you never knew
or wanted to
Fun! Fun! Fun!
- Richard F. Yates
(2 poems added 01.10.10)
•••••••••••
The whole Mad Swirl of everything to come keeps on keepin' on... now... now... NOW! Every second, every minute, every hour, every day, every week, every month, every year, every decade, every every EVERY there is! Wanna join in the poetic conversations going on in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum? Then stop by whenever the mood strikes! We'll be there!
Be back soon with the latest rumors!
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
“A poem records emotions and moods that lie beyond normal language, that can only be patched together and hinted at metaphorically.” Diane Ackerman
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