The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 02.28.10
“Confusion is a word we have invented for an order which is not understood.” Henry Miller
Can Cran Can Cranberry (above) by the multimedia artistic duo of K.R. Copeland and Jeff Crouch, 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...
•••••••••••
Dreamland
I remember the times
of long hair, Woodstock, civil rights
but most of all I recall the fervor
for righting wrongs
of the past
towards our fellow human beings
when it was unfashionable
to show it in dress, song or words.
On the day
that MLK
was gunned down
- a month before Bobby was murdered –
my father reminded me
once again
that one’s contribution to this world
is never measured by a bank account,
celebrity status nor professional ranking
but by the content of one’s character
and how much we give back to society.
Forty-two years later,
YouTube can conjure up
“I Have a Dream” as if by magic
to show us how far we’ve come
but still fallen behind
in providing for those
who have no food in their bellies
nor schools in their community.
Does the country of Haiti ring a bell?
Now is the time
to pay back the canceled check
Martin Luther wanted so desperately
to cash for his people.
Now is the time
to end the war against the helpless,
the hopeless before the harbingers of death
feast upon their bodies,
their minds,
and their souls.
Now is the time
to Imagine, as John did,
we can live as one
so leaders like Kennedy, King and Lennon
would not have wasted their lives
for people like you
and me
and others too poor
to buy laptops
or even glasses
to read these words
of hope and change
before it is too late
to live the dream.
Joseph D. DiLella
(1 poem added 02.28.10)
editor's note: ith everything going to Hell in a handbasket - just ask the economists, the political pundits and my 89 year old mother - this is a wonderful blast of fresh air. Come on, folks! Dream! Dream and do! Thanks, Joseph! - mh
•••••••••••
CRAZY WORLD
Penguins parade in the arctic air,
while butterflies swarm on the ginkgo
tree. Icarus mounts to the sky testing
his new steel wings.
Twisting and turning-haphazardly, the
labyrinths of reason are contorted things.
The snow burns brightly as the kangaroos
sing raunchy, ribald songs.
The elevator mounts to the sky piercing
purple clouds. A flock of ducks sing
The Hallelujah Chorus while pygmies gather
earth worms.
Hot air balloons fly upside down. Windows
rattle as the Eiffel Tower comes crashing
down. The penguins abandoned their
tuxedos in favor of warm winter coats.
Am I the only one sane one in this crazy
world?
Mike Berger
(1 poem added 02.27.10)
editor's note: For some of us, this kind of crazy would be welcome normalcy, but then, "Crazy is as crazy does!" I want to know what the kangaroos have in their pockets. A fun little romp! - mh
•••••••••••
Dear Woman on the Street
Dear woman on the street. Sadistic. Sordid. Splendid.
Roaming into China Town. And, the Boulevard of red carpet cock and rock.
Ushered out to concrete. The hard sun. Mighty blisters on hand and soles of feet.
Loving tourists and opening cracked hands to faces, indifferent. Pathetic.
Collecting calico sand from shorelines of sodden beaches; Manhattan, Venice, Santa Monica, marbles, of crystal and miniscule, into dirty thick glass jars. Sculpting castles of sand sharp against a sun drenched horizon.
Traveling pearl globe in your heart. Dreams in the crevice of an alley. On urine. On cat shadows, and passing cruisers. The taste of fig in your dry mouth. On your sore tongue.
Dear woman on the street. Will you wander forever, you princess? You prophet. You queen.
Hearing angel sounds come out of Troubadour, like soul, like miracle, like change.
Hiding your life in bags, in carts, on anguished wheels. Burying like treasure, like dog bone, your mother’s antique pearl necklace.
Swallowing pints of oblivious beverage and burrowing under wooden peers, singing songs till sun falls and rises once more.
Dear woman on the street. Don’t shrink into dark. Remain luminous amid tides of falling lives and broken hearts. Where the beats of time roll a thunder. And the mouths of birth open wide. And you walk another street. And build another castle of sand. And dream of another fig. And bury another memory. And speak prophecy from the lines of your face, and the eternity in your eyes.
Copyright ©2009
Landon K. Brown
(added 02.26.10)
editor's note: Here is a vivid portrait of one of those people we pretend not to notice. This poet notices all, including our blindness to the wonderful spirit that lives inside us all. Grand! - mh
•••••••••••
so that i know there’s life
the woman in the apartment
above my bedroom
playing louis prima
and sinatra at full blast
the man next door to her
pacing back and forth
dropping bowling balls
or some other heavy shit
they’re doing it
the old chinese hag
next door
with her television dramas
and grandchildren pounding
on the walls
they’re doing it too
the couple down the hall
making the worst smelling food
the aging frat boys
on the fourth floor who smoke cigarettes
and recite lines from shitty movies
in front of my window
and the superintendent passed out
on a bench with a
wine hangover
all of them
they’re doing it
the dog walkers letting
their mongrels shit
in the foyer
the delivery men playing
their bad music
and honking their horns
and the teenagers throwing up
beer and pizza outside in the snow
they’re helping this along
the exterminator
and the mailman
the cable bill and the electric bill
the student loans
and the landlord
because he’s a part of this too
all of them
every last one
they keep on doing
what they’re doing
so that i know there’s life
outside my closed blinds
ugly gray life
dismal like a traffic jam
or intense diarrhea
and it just won’t stop
no matter how dark i keep the apartment
or my soul
no matter how goddamned long
i hide
John Grochalski
(1 poem added 02.25.10)
editor's note: Affirmation that life is in progress; discordant, noxious, raucous and real. I think I'm getting a headache. Good stuff! - mh
•••••••••••
“Frenemies”
Preface: I HATE the word “frenemies.” It is a trite word that only people who read Cosmo and People Magazine would say. However, a certain person used it to describe our relationship, and unfortunately, I couldn’t argue with him; the word fits perfectly.
You want to kill me.
Don’t lie. You do.
You’d like to fuck me first,
but when it’s all said and done,
you want me dead at your hand.
You’d like to run your fingertips
along the sides of my breasts,
circle my areolas, and then
plunge your hand through my sternum and
rip out my heart.
Maybe even take a bite of it,
you sadistic fuck.
Don’t try to deny it.
We are way past pretenses.
You can’t even call this “love/hate.”
This is so much more.
If I let you get close enough to me
you would caress my neck with your lips
before strangling me with your bare hands,
looking into my eyes as I take my final breaths.
It goes both ways, buddy.
I don’t want to hear about your death
through the grapevine,
or even in the obituaries.
I want to cause it so that
I can make SURE you’re fucking dead.
I believe I already threatened to
stab you in the eye with a fork.
Though my friendship with you is PURELY artistic
(and YES, I will keep telling myself that)
I would use my “Kane Muthafuckin Hodder” autographed machete
to gently remove your head from your body
so that I could eat your brain
Hannibal Lechter-style with some farva beans.
So, yeah, you’re a pretty great guy.
I wouldn’t expect any less from you
than wanting to sodomize and slaughter me.
And I think you’d be pretty insulted
if I didn’t have a strong desire
to dismember and consume you.
I’m glad we had this talk.
Lindsay Haley
(added 02.24.10)
editor's note: Yeah! This is a truly honest relationship. No counseling needed, just choose the weapons and get on with it. Love it! - mh
•••••••••••
Harvest Time
Version 5
A Métis Indian lady, drunk,
hands blanketed as in prayer,
over a large brown fruit basket
naked of fruit, no vine, no vineyard
inside - approaches the Edmonton,
Alberta adoption agency.
There are only spirit gods
inside her empty purse.
Inside, an infant,
restrained from life,
with a fruity wine sap apple
wedged like a teaspoon
of autumn sun
inside its mouth.
A shallow pool of tears
mounts in native blue eyes.
Snuffling, the mother offers
a slim smile, turns away.
She slithers voyeuristically
through near slum streets,
and alleyways,
looking for drinking buddies
to share a hefty pint
of applejack wine.
-2007-
Michael Lee Johnson
(1 poem added 02.23.10)
editor's note: A sad event, obviously commonplace in the life of a sad person, beautifully written. How else does one deal with tragedy? What says there is a "correct" way to grieve? Sweet and sad! - mh
•••••••••••
Life
You are very inexplicable, I can’t delineate you.
You are very extreme, I can’t accomplish you.
You are with me, I can’t discern you.
Why you are a dispute!
You are at abyss, I want to convene you.
You are at acme, I want to scale you.
You are at Varsity, I want to predict you.
Why you are abstract!
Are you contentment in security?
Then who is Socrates for you?
Are you of divinity?
Then who is Nietzsche for you?
You are with meager governess.
Then what is spar for you?
You are with scholar.
Then what is cacophony for you?
Chiranjibi Niroula
(added 02.21.10)
editor's note: These are the questions we don't often ask, but the answers may be transforming, redirecting. This poet asks these questions of Life, or maybe the poet asks them of you. Hmmmm. - mh
•••••••••••
Diggin' It-ly Yours,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
“Example moves the world more than doctrine. The great exemplars are the poets of action, and it makes little difference whether they be forces for good or forces for evil.” Henry Miller
Can Cran Can Cranberry (above) by the multimedia artistic duo of K.R. Copeland and Jeff Crouch, 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...
•••••••••••
Dreamland
I remember the times
of long hair, Woodstock, civil rights
but most of all I recall the fervor
for righting wrongs
of the past
towards our fellow human beings
when it was unfashionable
to show it in dress, song or words.
On the day
that MLK
was gunned down
- a month before Bobby was murdered –
my father reminded me
once again
that one’s contribution to this world
is never measured by a bank account,
celebrity status nor professional ranking
but by the content of one’s character
and how much we give back to society.
Forty-two years later,
YouTube can conjure up
“I Have a Dream” as if by magic
to show us how far we’ve come
but still fallen behind
in providing for those
who have no food in their bellies
nor schools in their community.
Does the country of Haiti ring a bell?
Now is the time
to pay back the canceled check
Martin Luther wanted so desperately
to cash for his people.
Now is the time
to end the war against the helpless,
the hopeless before the harbingers of death
feast upon their bodies,
their minds,
and their souls.
Now is the time
to Imagine, as John did,
we can live as one
so leaders like Kennedy, King and Lennon
would not have wasted their lives
for people like you
and me
and others too poor
to buy laptops
or even glasses
to read these words
of hope and change
before it is too late
to live the dream.
Joseph D. DiLella
(1 poem added 02.28.10)
editor's note: ith everything going to Hell in a handbasket - just ask the economists, the political pundits and my 89 year old mother - this is a wonderful blast of fresh air. Come on, folks! Dream! Dream and do! Thanks, Joseph! - mh
•••••••••••
CRAZY WORLD
Penguins parade in the arctic air,
while butterflies swarm on the ginkgo
tree. Icarus mounts to the sky testing
his new steel wings.
Twisting and turning-haphazardly, the
labyrinths of reason are contorted things.
The snow burns brightly as the kangaroos
sing raunchy, ribald songs.
The elevator mounts to the sky piercing
purple clouds. A flock of ducks sing
The Hallelujah Chorus while pygmies gather
earth worms.
Hot air balloons fly upside down. Windows
rattle as the Eiffel Tower comes crashing
down. The penguins abandoned their
tuxedos in favor of warm winter coats.
Am I the only one sane one in this crazy
world?
Mike Berger
(1 poem added 02.27.10)
editor's note: For some of us, this kind of crazy would be welcome normalcy, but then, "Crazy is as crazy does!" I want to know what the kangaroos have in their pockets. A fun little romp! - mh
•••••••••••
Dear Woman on the Street
Dear woman on the street. Sadistic. Sordid. Splendid.
Roaming into China Town. And, the Boulevard of red carpet cock and rock.
Ushered out to concrete. The hard sun. Mighty blisters on hand and soles of feet.
Loving tourists and opening cracked hands to faces, indifferent. Pathetic.
Collecting calico sand from shorelines of sodden beaches; Manhattan, Venice, Santa Monica, marbles, of crystal and miniscule, into dirty thick glass jars. Sculpting castles of sand sharp against a sun drenched horizon.
Traveling pearl globe in your heart. Dreams in the crevice of an alley. On urine. On cat shadows, and passing cruisers. The taste of fig in your dry mouth. On your sore tongue.
Dear woman on the street. Will you wander forever, you princess? You prophet. You queen.
Hearing angel sounds come out of Troubadour, like soul, like miracle, like change.
Hiding your life in bags, in carts, on anguished wheels. Burying like treasure, like dog bone, your mother’s antique pearl necklace.
Swallowing pints of oblivious beverage and burrowing under wooden peers, singing songs till sun falls and rises once more.
Dear woman on the street. Don’t shrink into dark. Remain luminous amid tides of falling lives and broken hearts. Where the beats of time roll a thunder. And the mouths of birth open wide. And you walk another street. And build another castle of sand. And dream of another fig. And bury another memory. And speak prophecy from the lines of your face, and the eternity in your eyes.
Copyright ©2009
Landon K. Brown
(added 02.26.10)
editor's note: Here is a vivid portrait of one of those people we pretend not to notice. This poet notices all, including our blindness to the wonderful spirit that lives inside us all. Grand! - mh
•••••••••••
so that i know there’s life
the woman in the apartment
above my bedroom
playing louis prima
and sinatra at full blast
the man next door to her
pacing back and forth
dropping bowling balls
or some other heavy shit
they’re doing it
the old chinese hag
next door
with her television dramas
and grandchildren pounding
on the walls
they’re doing it too
the couple down the hall
making the worst smelling food
the aging frat boys
on the fourth floor who smoke cigarettes
and recite lines from shitty movies
in front of my window
and the superintendent passed out
on a bench with a
wine hangover
all of them
they’re doing it
the dog walkers letting
their mongrels shit
in the foyer
the delivery men playing
their bad music
and honking their horns
and the teenagers throwing up
beer and pizza outside in the snow
they’re helping this along
the exterminator
and the mailman
the cable bill and the electric bill
the student loans
and the landlord
because he’s a part of this too
all of them
every last one
they keep on doing
what they’re doing
so that i know there’s life
outside my closed blinds
ugly gray life
dismal like a traffic jam
or intense diarrhea
and it just won’t stop
no matter how dark i keep the apartment
or my soul
no matter how goddamned long
i hide
John Grochalski
(1 poem added 02.25.10)
editor's note: Affirmation that life is in progress; discordant, noxious, raucous and real. I think I'm getting a headache. Good stuff! - mh
•••••••••••
“Frenemies”
Preface: I HATE the word “frenemies.” It is a trite word that only people who read Cosmo and People Magazine would say. However, a certain person used it to describe our relationship, and unfortunately, I couldn’t argue with him; the word fits perfectly.
You want to kill me.
Don’t lie. You do.
You’d like to fuck me first,
but when it’s all said and done,
you want me dead at your hand.
You’d like to run your fingertips
along the sides of my breasts,
circle my areolas, and then
plunge your hand through my sternum and
rip out my heart.
Maybe even take a bite of it,
you sadistic fuck.
Don’t try to deny it.
We are way past pretenses.
You can’t even call this “love/hate.”
This is so much more.
If I let you get close enough to me
you would caress my neck with your lips
before strangling me with your bare hands,
looking into my eyes as I take my final breaths.
It goes both ways, buddy.
I don’t want to hear about your death
through the grapevine,
or even in the obituaries.
I want to cause it so that
I can make SURE you’re fucking dead.
I believe I already threatened to
stab you in the eye with a fork.
Though my friendship with you is PURELY artistic
(and YES, I will keep telling myself that)
I would use my “Kane Muthafuckin Hodder” autographed machete
to gently remove your head from your body
so that I could eat your brain
Hannibal Lechter-style with some farva beans.
So, yeah, you’re a pretty great guy.
I wouldn’t expect any less from you
than wanting to sodomize and slaughter me.
And I think you’d be pretty insulted
if I didn’t have a strong desire
to dismember and consume you.
I’m glad we had this talk.
Lindsay Haley
(added 02.24.10)
editor's note: Yeah! This is a truly honest relationship. No counseling needed, just choose the weapons and get on with it. Love it! - mh
•••••••••••
Harvest Time
Version 5
A Métis Indian lady, drunk,
hands blanketed as in prayer,
over a large brown fruit basket
naked of fruit, no vine, no vineyard
inside - approaches the Edmonton,
Alberta adoption agency.
There are only spirit gods
inside her empty purse.
Inside, an infant,
restrained from life,
with a fruity wine sap apple
wedged like a teaspoon
of autumn sun
inside its mouth.
A shallow pool of tears
mounts in native blue eyes.
Snuffling, the mother offers
a slim smile, turns away.
She slithers voyeuristically
through near slum streets,
and alleyways,
looking for drinking buddies
to share a hefty pint
of applejack wine.
-2007-
Michael Lee Johnson
(1 poem added 02.23.10)
editor's note: A sad event, obviously commonplace in the life of a sad person, beautifully written. How else does one deal with tragedy? What says there is a "correct" way to grieve? Sweet and sad! - mh
•••••••••••
Life
You are very inexplicable, I can’t delineate you.
You are very extreme, I can’t accomplish you.
You are with me, I can’t discern you.
Why you are a dispute!
You are at abyss, I want to convene you.
You are at acme, I want to scale you.
You are at Varsity, I want to predict you.
Why you are abstract!
Are you contentment in security?
Then who is Socrates for you?
Are you of divinity?
Then who is Nietzsche for you?
You are with meager governess.
Then what is spar for you?
You are with scholar.
Then what is cacophony for you?
Chiranjibi Niroula
(added 02.21.10)
editor's note: These are the questions we don't often ask, but the answers may be transforming, redirecting. This poet asks these questions of Life, or maybe the poet asks them of you. Hmmmm. - mh
•••••••••••
Diggin' It-ly Yours,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
“Example moves the world more than doctrine. The great exemplars are the poets of action, and it makes little difference whether they be forces for good or forces for evil.” Henry Miller
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