The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 04.16.10
“Poetry is something that lives like fire inside you” F. Scott Fitzgerald
Underwater Fire #3 (above) by mad artist Jim Fuess, 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...
•••••••••••
Featured Poems: 04.12.10 - 04.16.10
Who the Hell Am I?!
I’m a nobody looking to be a somebody in any way I can. Or perhaps a somebody that nobody but me notices. Either way, I can’t help but wonder why my words and day screams and insane rantings and ravings aren’t splashed across every page? Isn't it just a travesty? A crying shame? Why must I suffer with the hunger and pain, with the knowledge that I should be a somebody that is something more than some sometimes piece of shit, lazy fuck? My mad dreams tell me so. My swirling gut tells me so. My whole being tells me so when it does twists and turns for no reason at all. What else could explain that empty feeling growing in my chest, in my mind, in my soul, in my art, that never seems to be satiated…sits thirsty and gnawing and there's nothing I've found yet to shut it the fuck up.
Who the hell am I?! I’m a-knocking on 40’s door and still wondering why and when and how I got moved into the 35 – 50 demographic. Damn! I fear age. I fear the clock’s tickings and tockings and the days passing and the months falling and the years rolling and…and…and what's that ache I'm feeling in my knee, in my wrist, in my stomach, in my temples, in my heart. And my almost-40 year old heart, it tells me to hurry this shit up 'cos time is running out and wouldn't you know it, bad tickers run in the family. Shit, why not have another smoke and give this some more thought?
Who the hell am I? A dreamer without a bed. A writer without a plot. A painter without a brush. A Midas without the touch. A bong without a load. A big fucking cock with no fucking pussy. Do I need to keep going? A rummy without a bottle? Or how 'bouta druggie without a jones? I got it…a whore without a john! Yeah, I like that one. Picture painted enough for you? I sure hope so.
Who the hell am I?! I'm Johnny Olson, that's who the hell I am. And if the name rings a bell then you’re probably knocking on 40’s door…or more…too. You’re probably thinking… "Tell us who our next contestant is, Johnny Olson" "Well Bob, it's Joe Shmoe! Joe Schmoe, come on down, you're the next contestant on the Price Is-goddamned-Right!" Oh, and don’t be confused with the weasel friend of Superman, Jimmy Olsen. Jimmy/Johnny OLSEN/OLSON. That’s right, I'm Johnny Olson. Write it down, make a note of it. I'll wait. I got all day night.
Johnny Olson
(1 poem added 04.16.10)
editor's note: So who the hell is this!?!? Who the hell is anyone? How do we make our mark? If we don't say anything or make any noise, we remain unknown. How else can we live forever? - mh
•••••••••••
Just Five Minutes
I...pick up the phone
and the sound of your voice
never ceases..
to make blush rise to cheeks
to make heart pound a little faster
and you talk
about everything and nothing
and I listen
and I hear...all the things that
add up to the reasons that
I need five minutes...
It isn't much in the scheme
of time,
five minutes that you can count off on one hand
Hands that touch...and touch to feel
all the spaces that lead to me
losing my breath.
A poet once said, I'm a prisoner of words
locked up in my head
and I cannot find my way out
the words have become voices that
just remind me
of why it is easier to remain silent
it is the easy way out
you keeping on talking and me
I keep listening
With just five minutes
I could count down the reasons
of why I can't imagine a day
without you in it.
Of how maybe we don't need labels
conditions and expectations
to have love
I don't need promises, and I don't believe in forever
I lost that illusion somewhere
back when life was a mystery
and I was too blind to see..
In just five minutes,
I could look you in the eye
and say it doesn't matter where we're going
it doesn't matter where we've been
It is the here and now with the clock ticking that
means a damn.
I picked up the phone
every time wanting to break in
and say wait...
just five minutes...
you may not want me as I want you
and that is tearing a hole in my heart
Just five minutes...
would bring me to say I don't need
anything
more than
closing the space between
and meeting somewhere in the middle
of circumstances and indefinites
that confuse me.
yes confuse me
because you dance around the obvious
saying much and leaving a whole lot out
of the translation
I know things arent perfect,
and I know things are far from easy
but what...
I pause, because five minutes
isn't enough
to say I love you
Five minute...and the chance was gone.
Diana Rose
(2 poems added 04.15.10)
editor's note: So much to say with so little time. We lose our chances to connect because we can't edit our thoughts into 5 minutes of words; vocabularies too large, attention spans too short and feelings too deep. (Sigh!) - mh
•••••••••••
Curtains
We hang ‘em
across smudged window panes
where the neighbor’s
kids try to peer inside,
as we hide our peccadilloes
from Mr. Jones and Mrs. Smith
across the street
though they’re both probably doin’ it
just like you and me, baby,
but they, too,
don’t want to show
their skin-deep machinations
to the world
for fear TMZ will feature it
on websites or for TV viewers
to SEE
their latest moves
alongside Tiger’s latest transgressions
on and off
the putting greens.
Did I ever tell you
my best friend, Mark,
the really short kid in junior high,
lost his virginity
‘round midnight one summer’s eve
right out for the entire public to witness
on the 18th hole – now that’s a duffer’s delight
better than any birdie or eagle
I ever managed to commemorate
with her intials on my maple bedpost.
So I ask you
why do we mask
our feelings
our animal desires
our fantasies
out of fear that another may laugh
point a finger and gasp?
Madman Mercury
of Queen fame
laid it all
on the line
from pop, glam, psychedelic, blues, progressive
and hard rock
flaunting his musical genius
with tunes of love, lust, lingering desires
and it landed his group as the UK best selling band
even beating out the Beatles
in sales with over 300 million
to screaming fans
even Elvis would be jealous of today.
Of course,
AIDS caught fire in the world
and quickly spread from bathhouses
to bedrooms, ravaging millions
and rendered Freddie’s voice
silent, but it never stopped him
from telling everyone
exactly how he imagined the world
spun round and round
even up until his deathbed
confession – and warning.
If this artist taught me
one thing – and one thing only
through his athletic gyrations,
“Crazy Little Thing Called Love”
tunes and lyrics
it was this: If one does it
with style
with a person they truly love
there’s no need to close the drapes
until it’s curtains
– for YOU.
Joseph D. DiLella
(3 poems added 04.14.10)
editor's note: A reminiscent personal history lesson and a pop-music iconographic adage teach us something about perfect exhibitionism. "I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. Demille!" - mh
•••••••••••
misery guts
if you could choose just one portion
which would it be
slimy flesh
bitter peel
the pip?
life
an
indigestible
fruit.
Molly Guy
(added 04.13.10)
editor's note: Indigestion or no, ain't nothin' else on the menu. Pass the Maalox. - mh
•••••••••••
DARK THOUGHTS
Between sentences
a light goes off in
my mind; then a dark
emptiness fills the
room. The thoughts of a
madman asks, who are
you? Wearing a red
tie, the madman asks,
what man walks in my
shoes? The dark thoughts fill
my room. I hear
a rat running up
the stairs. The madman
asks, who is hungry?
The madman walks to
the kitchen. He asks,
who is that at the
door? He aims his big
gun at his dark thoughts.
Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
(3 poems added 04.12.10)
editor's note: Dark thoughts take on their own personas, dress distinctively, help themselves in our kitchens. We shuffle through our junk drawers for the right caliber bullets...did we remember to buy any? Where's the damn gun? - 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 here...
Ya Mon!
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Underwater Fire #3 (above) by mad artist Jim Fuess, 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...
•••••••••••
Featured Poems: 04.12.10 - 04.16.10
Who the Hell Am I?!
I’m a nobody looking to be a somebody in any way I can. Or perhaps a somebody that nobody but me notices. Either way, I can’t help but wonder why my words and day screams and insane rantings and ravings aren’t splashed across every page? Isn't it just a travesty? A crying shame? Why must I suffer with the hunger and pain, with the knowledge that I should be a somebody that is something more than some sometimes piece of shit, lazy fuck? My mad dreams tell me so. My swirling gut tells me so. My whole being tells me so when it does twists and turns for no reason at all. What else could explain that empty feeling growing in my chest, in my mind, in my soul, in my art, that never seems to be satiated…sits thirsty and gnawing and there's nothing I've found yet to shut it the fuck up.
Who the hell am I?! I’m a-knocking on 40’s door and still wondering why and when and how I got moved into the 35 – 50 demographic. Damn! I fear age. I fear the clock’s tickings and tockings and the days passing and the months falling and the years rolling and…and…and what's that ache I'm feeling in my knee, in my wrist, in my stomach, in my temples, in my heart. And my almost-40 year old heart, it tells me to hurry this shit up 'cos time is running out and wouldn't you know it, bad tickers run in the family. Shit, why not have another smoke and give this some more thought?
Who the hell am I? A dreamer without a bed. A writer without a plot. A painter without a brush. A Midas without the touch. A bong without a load. A big fucking cock with no fucking pussy. Do I need to keep going? A rummy without a bottle? Or how 'bouta druggie without a jones? I got it…a whore without a john! Yeah, I like that one. Picture painted enough for you? I sure hope so.
Who the hell am I?! I'm Johnny Olson, that's who the hell I am. And if the name rings a bell then you’re probably knocking on 40’s door…or more…too. You’re probably thinking… "Tell us who our next contestant is, Johnny Olson" "Well Bob, it's Joe Shmoe! Joe Schmoe, come on down, you're the next contestant on the Price Is-goddamned-Right!" Oh, and don’t be confused with the weasel friend of Superman, Jimmy Olsen. Jimmy/Johnny OLSEN/OLSON. That’s right, I'm Johnny Olson. Write it down, make a note of it. I'll wait. I got all day night.
Johnny Olson
(1 poem added 04.16.10)
editor's note: So who the hell is this!?!? Who the hell is anyone? How do we make our mark? If we don't say anything or make any noise, we remain unknown. How else can we live forever? - mh
•••••••••••
Just Five Minutes
I...pick up the phone
and the sound of your voice
never ceases..
to make blush rise to cheeks
to make heart pound a little faster
and you talk
about everything and nothing
and I listen
and I hear...all the things that
add up to the reasons that
I need five minutes...
It isn't much in the scheme
of time,
five minutes that you can count off on one hand
Hands that touch...and touch to feel
all the spaces that lead to me
losing my breath.
A poet once said, I'm a prisoner of words
locked up in my head
and I cannot find my way out
the words have become voices that
just remind me
of why it is easier to remain silent
it is the easy way out
you keeping on talking and me
I keep listening
With just five minutes
I could count down the reasons
of why I can't imagine a day
without you in it.
Of how maybe we don't need labels
conditions and expectations
to have love
I don't need promises, and I don't believe in forever
I lost that illusion somewhere
back when life was a mystery
and I was too blind to see..
In just five minutes,
I could look you in the eye
and say it doesn't matter where we're going
it doesn't matter where we've been
It is the here and now with the clock ticking that
means a damn.
I picked up the phone
every time wanting to break in
and say wait...
just five minutes...
you may not want me as I want you
and that is tearing a hole in my heart
Just five minutes...
would bring me to say I don't need
anything
more than
closing the space between
and meeting somewhere in the middle
of circumstances and indefinites
that confuse me.
yes confuse me
because you dance around the obvious
saying much and leaving a whole lot out
of the translation
I know things arent perfect,
and I know things are far from easy
but what...
I pause, because five minutes
isn't enough
to say I love you
Five minute...and the chance was gone.
Diana Rose
(2 poems added 04.15.10)
editor's note: So much to say with so little time. We lose our chances to connect because we can't edit our thoughts into 5 minutes of words; vocabularies too large, attention spans too short and feelings too deep. (Sigh!) - mh
•••••••••••
Curtains
We hang ‘em
across smudged window panes
where the neighbor’s
kids try to peer inside,
as we hide our peccadilloes
from Mr. Jones and Mrs. Smith
across the street
though they’re both probably doin’ it
just like you and me, baby,
but they, too,
don’t want to show
their skin-deep machinations
to the world
for fear TMZ will feature it
on websites or for TV viewers
to SEE
their latest moves
alongside Tiger’s latest transgressions
on and off
the putting greens.
Did I ever tell you
my best friend, Mark,
the really short kid in junior high,
lost his virginity
‘round midnight one summer’s eve
right out for the entire public to witness
on the 18th hole – now that’s a duffer’s delight
better than any birdie or eagle
I ever managed to commemorate
with her intials on my maple bedpost.
So I ask you
why do we mask
our feelings
our animal desires
our fantasies
out of fear that another may laugh
point a finger and gasp?
Madman Mercury
of Queen fame
laid it all
on the line
from pop, glam, psychedelic, blues, progressive
and hard rock
flaunting his musical genius
with tunes of love, lust, lingering desires
and it landed his group as the UK best selling band
even beating out the Beatles
in sales with over 300 million
to screaming fans
even Elvis would be jealous of today.
Of course,
AIDS caught fire in the world
and quickly spread from bathhouses
to bedrooms, ravaging millions
and rendered Freddie’s voice
silent, but it never stopped him
from telling everyone
exactly how he imagined the world
spun round and round
even up until his deathbed
confession – and warning.
If this artist taught me
one thing – and one thing only
through his athletic gyrations,
“Crazy Little Thing Called Love”
tunes and lyrics
it was this: If one does it
with style
with a person they truly love
there’s no need to close the drapes
until it’s curtains
– for YOU.
Joseph D. DiLella
(3 poems added 04.14.10)
editor's note: A reminiscent personal history lesson and a pop-music iconographic adage teach us something about perfect exhibitionism. "I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. Demille!" - mh
•••••••••••
misery guts
if you could choose just one portion
which would it be
slimy flesh
bitter peel
the pip?
life
an
indigestible
fruit.
Molly Guy
(added 04.13.10)
editor's note: Indigestion or no, ain't nothin' else on the menu. Pass the Maalox. - mh
•••••••••••
DARK THOUGHTS
Between sentences
a light goes off in
my mind; then a dark
emptiness fills the
room. The thoughts of a
madman asks, who are
you? Wearing a red
tie, the madman asks,
what man walks in my
shoes? The dark thoughts fill
my room. I hear
a rat running up
the stairs. The madman
asks, who is hungry?
The madman walks to
the kitchen. He asks,
who is that at the
door? He aims his big
gun at his dark thoughts.
Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
(3 poems added 04.12.10)
editor's note: Dark thoughts take on their own personas, dress distinctively, help themselves in our kitchens. We shuffle through our junk drawers for the right caliber bullets...did we remember to buy any? Where's the damn gun? - 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 here...
Ya Mon!
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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