The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 04.04.10
“Part of being sane, is being a little bit crazy.” Janet Long
Drifting (above) by mad artist Joseph A. Garrison, 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...
•••••••••••
Impurity
I'm pure-
Impure
With imperfections of my soul.
And I shake
Out of control.
The screaming ache
To shed my skin
And expose the writhing
Creature within.
To end all misunderstanding- I pass
Through multi-mirrored tunnels
Of time, kaleidoscope in the looking glass.
The spirit funneled
And rushing past
As I pull at the tornado grip
Rip at the blast,
Running, I trip
And fall fast.
L.R. Walker
(3 poems added 04.04.10)
editor's note: Here the snake sheds it's skin to reveal the poet who's mirror reflects us all. Hold fast to that rush of wind, fly with it or be trampled. - mh
To Be 24 and Write Bad Poetry
to be young
thoughts racing
pounding
pulsating
in the brain
to be 24 and write poetry
about bad women
with no hearts
to be 24 and write poetry
about lack of connections
loneliness
heartache
and all that other
deprived shit
that we are living
to be 24
and want
the world
in our palms
only to crush it
and blow the bits and debris
towards god
and say,
"look what i did"
to feel weak
feeble
and without hope
the future is dead
past is nothing but
bridges made of straws
that collapsed
and killed every citizen
these days
will kill you slowly
to weed out the weak
the stranded
the death
to be 24
and hold onto everything
in fear that it might
dissipate
at any second
so you place worth
on everything
every movement
every breath
every word
means something
if not anything
and you take it
manipulate it
place it inside your chest
and hope
nothing but hope
that one day
these dead eyed
will grow strong
these heartless
will grow hearts
and we are nothing
but tin men
with squeaky joints
looking for the oil
to lubricate us
define us
empower us
and love us
unconditionally
Alexander Rocha
(added 04.03.10)
editor's note: Yeah, 24-year-old angst with which every hoped-out, fifty-something can identify, which every poet strives to keep alive and flowing through their pens. We all want to say, "Look what i did." When things are hopeless, we write hope. When life is loveless, we write and wait for love. We are a whiney bunch! - mh
•••••••••••
THE LOWER LIFEFORM
Loser at living
Stronger than some, but too weak
Hungers burn to blurry white
Kyle Segars
(2 poems added 04.02.10)
editor's note: Here is bravery! A bleak self-assessment belched forth, printed in words. Making artistic use of the white-space, like a skittering cockroach suddenly exposed on white linoleum by a bare-bulbed, kitchen light abruptly switched on. See the bug - squash the bug." - mh
•••••••••••
Kidnapped By Extravagant Poets
I am kidnapped by extravagant poets. Kept in a basement where the pipes' knocking is nearly a music. Shadows are happiest when the candle's hair is on fire, one says, checking a knot binding my wrists. You tell 'em that in the ransom note. And tell 'em: There's no sense trying to flag down a hurricane, either. No sense at all.
I see one under a bare light bulb, loading a revolver with snub-nosed similes. I shudder to think what he'll do with them.
I'm taking the duct tape off now, says another, and putting the phone to your mouth. You tell 'em: The sky's too low for jumping this time. And the clouds are all made of stone. You tell 'em that, hear? And you better mean it!
Robert Scotellaro
(added 04.01.10)
editor's note: Here is a mad, crazy picture of what the world would be like if all our criminals were poets. No one would get hurt; well, not too much, anyway. So long as we "mean it." - mh
•••••••••••
eye
Wow eyes! What a grand a visualization you have.
My heart shudders from you.
Eye lashes boogie around you.
Lips smirk on you.
What supremacy is on you!
The global is perceptible.
The indistinguishable is foreseen.
Everything is unclothed on you.
Exquisiteness is with you.
Dreadful is with you.
Why do you have color?
Some are black,
Some are blue,
Some are many and diverse..
I know you are one, but you’re countless too.
You see similar and disconnected.
You are prejudice.
You are candid.
You are gluttonous.
You are kind.
I don’t know what you are!
You are in harmony.
You are in hostilities.
You are in brutality.
You are in forgiveness.
You are universal.
You are still.
You are antagonistic.
I’m confused where you are.
Why aren’t you unique in humanism?
You fashion clash.
You origin terror.
You broaden friendship.
You break out fideism.
You magnetize and deter others.
I think you are to be matching in all.
Chiranjibi Niroula
(added 03.31.10)
editor's note: Eye have it - disclosure of all that defies disclosure. Once again, our Nepalese poet friend challenges us to look at that which we take for granted and never question. Do we rely on our faith, or investigate further? - mh
•••••••••••
Your Way
It's not about
who you know
it’s about how you
walk into a room
and how you say,
"That's me!"
when your name
is called
it’s how you
step forward
like a future star
on a chorus line
on a broadway
stage
and then
when the spotlight
shoots down
and it’s your turn
to shine
it’s how you
don’t shy away
like Frank Sinatra
never did
when he sang
my way
because you
have learned
to love the
instrument
that is you
and even if
your life is
more karaoke
than
the great white way
you still
have to give
it all you've got
because though
we may be
just a few
drunk friends
or ten thousand
strangers
you really
need us
to love you
all the way
Ivan Jenson
(added 03.30.10)
editor's note: This way, that way, one way or another, we are all being this person - the one talkin' or the one doin'. I hang my head when scolded by myself in the mirror. - mh
•••••••••••
Pliable Shards
Pliable
The blue light stroking the window
Gently intrudes; it unravels the stitches in your blanket
The line where your head meets the pillow and
Where your eyelashes meet your skin and
Where your hips met mine is as blurred as the
Milk dissolving into my coffee
Shards
“you’re so prickly,” you said
Perched high on your pedestal,
Using my raised eyebrows as an ottoman
My crossed arms are my defense against
The crinkles in your face that are
Trying to soften my edges
Jen Monte
(added 03.29.10)
editor's note: Here is sweet love, waking this witless lover to the whole love. Take the sharp with the soft or close the door on your way out. - mh
•••••••••••
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!
MmmMmmMmm,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
“Great wits are sure to madness near allied - And thin partitions do their bounds divide” John Dryden
Drifting (above) by mad artist Joseph A. Garrison, 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...
•••••••••••
Impurity
I'm pure-
Impure
With imperfections of my soul.
And I shake
Out of control.
The screaming ache
To shed my skin
And expose the writhing
Creature within.
To end all misunderstanding- I pass
Through multi-mirrored tunnels
Of time, kaleidoscope in the looking glass.
The spirit funneled
And rushing past
As I pull at the tornado grip
Rip at the blast,
Running, I trip
And fall fast.
L.R. Walker
(3 poems added 04.04.10)
editor's note: Here the snake sheds it's skin to reveal the poet who's mirror reflects us all. Hold fast to that rush of wind, fly with it or be trampled. - mh
To Be 24 and Write Bad Poetry
to be young
thoughts racing
pounding
pulsating
in the brain
to be 24 and write poetry
about bad women
with no hearts
to be 24 and write poetry
about lack of connections
loneliness
heartache
and all that other
deprived shit
that we are living
to be 24
and want
the world
in our palms
only to crush it
and blow the bits and debris
towards god
and say,
"look what i did"
to feel weak
feeble
and without hope
the future is dead
past is nothing but
bridges made of straws
that collapsed
and killed every citizen
these days
will kill you slowly
to weed out the weak
the stranded
the death
to be 24
and hold onto everything
in fear that it might
dissipate
at any second
so you place worth
on everything
every movement
every breath
every word
means something
if not anything
and you take it
manipulate it
place it inside your chest
and hope
nothing but hope
that one day
these dead eyed
will grow strong
these heartless
will grow hearts
and we are nothing
but tin men
with squeaky joints
looking for the oil
to lubricate us
define us
empower us
and love us
unconditionally
Alexander Rocha
(added 04.03.10)
editor's note: Yeah, 24-year-old angst with which every hoped-out, fifty-something can identify, which every poet strives to keep alive and flowing through their pens. We all want to say, "Look what i did." When things are hopeless, we write hope. When life is loveless, we write and wait for love. We are a whiney bunch! - mh
•••••••••••
THE LOWER LIFEFORM
Loser at living
Stronger than some, but too weak
Hungers burn to blurry white
Kyle Segars
(2 poems added 04.02.10)
editor's note: Here is bravery! A bleak self-assessment belched forth, printed in words. Making artistic use of the white-space, like a skittering cockroach suddenly exposed on white linoleum by a bare-bulbed, kitchen light abruptly switched on. See the bug - squash the bug." - mh
•••••••••••
Kidnapped By Extravagant Poets
I am kidnapped by extravagant poets. Kept in a basement where the pipes' knocking is nearly a music. Shadows are happiest when the candle's hair is on fire, one says, checking a knot binding my wrists. You tell 'em that in the ransom note. And tell 'em: There's no sense trying to flag down a hurricane, either. No sense at all.
I see one under a bare light bulb, loading a revolver with snub-nosed similes. I shudder to think what he'll do with them.
I'm taking the duct tape off now, says another, and putting the phone to your mouth. You tell 'em: The sky's too low for jumping this time. And the clouds are all made of stone. You tell 'em that, hear? And you better mean it!
Robert Scotellaro
(added 04.01.10)
editor's note: Here is a mad, crazy picture of what the world would be like if all our criminals were poets. No one would get hurt; well, not too much, anyway. So long as we "mean it." - mh
•••••••••••
eye
Wow eyes! What a grand a visualization you have.
My heart shudders from you.
Eye lashes boogie around you.
Lips smirk on you.
What supremacy is on you!
The global is perceptible.
The indistinguishable is foreseen.
Everything is unclothed on you.
Exquisiteness is with you.
Dreadful is with you.
Why do you have color?
Some are black,
Some are blue,
Some are many and diverse..
I know you are one, but you’re countless too.
You see similar and disconnected.
You are prejudice.
You are candid.
You are gluttonous.
You are kind.
I don’t know what you are!
You are in harmony.
You are in hostilities.
You are in brutality.
You are in forgiveness.
You are universal.
You are still.
You are antagonistic.
I’m confused where you are.
Why aren’t you unique in humanism?
You fashion clash.
You origin terror.
You broaden friendship.
You break out fideism.
You magnetize and deter others.
I think you are to be matching in all.
Chiranjibi Niroula
(added 03.31.10)
editor's note: Eye have it - disclosure of all that defies disclosure. Once again, our Nepalese poet friend challenges us to look at that which we take for granted and never question. Do we rely on our faith, or investigate further? - mh
•••••••••••
Your Way
It's not about
who you know
it’s about how you
walk into a room
and how you say,
"That's me!"
when your name
is called
it’s how you
step forward
like a future star
on a chorus line
on a broadway
stage
and then
when the spotlight
shoots down
and it’s your turn
to shine
it’s how you
don’t shy away
like Frank Sinatra
never did
when he sang
my way
because you
have learned
to love the
instrument
that is you
and even if
your life is
more karaoke
than
the great white way
you still
have to give
it all you've got
because though
we may be
just a few
drunk friends
or ten thousand
strangers
you really
need us
to love you
all the way
Ivan Jenson
(added 03.30.10)
editor's note: This way, that way, one way or another, we are all being this person - the one talkin' or the one doin'. I hang my head when scolded by myself in the mirror. - mh
•••••••••••
Pliable Shards
Pliable
The blue light stroking the window
Gently intrudes; it unravels the stitches in your blanket
The line where your head meets the pillow and
Where your eyelashes meet your skin and
Where your hips met mine is as blurred as the
Milk dissolving into my coffee
Shards
“you’re so prickly,” you said
Perched high on your pedestal,
Using my raised eyebrows as an ottoman
My crossed arms are my defense against
The crinkles in your face that are
Trying to soften my edges
Jen Monte
(added 03.29.10)
editor's note: Here is sweet love, waking this witless lover to the whole love. Take the sharp with the soft or close the door on your way out. - mh
•••••••••••
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!
MmmMmmMmm,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
“Great wits are sure to madness near allied - And thin partitions do their bounds divide” John Dryden
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