The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 06.05.10
“Here's to the crazy ones, the misfits, the rebels, the troublemakers, the round pegs in the square holes... the ones who see things differently - they're not fond of rules... they push the human race forward, and while some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius, because the ones who are crazy enough to think that they can change the world, are the ones who do.” Steve Jobs
Photograph (above) by mad photographer Edward Lee , one of over 20 artists currently coloring the virtual walls in Mad Swirl's eclectic electronic collective 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...
•••••••••••
BAD HEART
I was left with a bad feeling that I couldn’t comprehend
So wandered around and thought on what was up
There had been an unsuccessful trip to the optician
Where my son’s eyes had been treated by a monkey
But that wasn’t it
I mean apparently I am the eye and teeth guy
That is my duty as a far father
It is evident
I have bad eyes and bad teeth
So I have more experience plus
She pays for everything
But that’s not it
The bad feeling I mean
We walked home in steep and cold degrees
Me and my son
And I was aware of his asthma
Something that I don’t have and can’t understand
I was very sport orientated
At school anyway
And he never has been
Not that prescription is preclusion
But if you don’t have to physically educate
Mainly because training sadists go private these days
Then where is the fun
So aware of his wheeze and the ‘please
Let me in the door’ look in his eyes
I only propped him up and did not dare
Offer his fifteen year old self any unwanted advice
That wasn’t it either
The bad feeling I mean
When I got him to the door I noticed a pushchair
In the hallway
Years of training and experience do not stop
A gob from wobbling
But some extra sense did then
My son went in solely intent on an inhaler
And I slipped off as I heard the deep northern tones
Of my ex brother in law
The best man at my one failed wedding
To a sister he still adored
With children of his own now that would hopefully never be tainted
By the not knowing of a never uncle
I had no talk
No leverage or cheap jokes
Only a sudden rush
Of all that had passed
And I let my son go
Breathless
Anthony Murphy
(2 poems added 06.05.10)
editor's note: Sometimes, when the most to say wells up from deep within, the most to see and the most to hear dictate silence. Even a poet can learn when to shut up; but never how to stop feeling. - mh
•••••••••••
Bird of Prey
You would like
to tether
me to a
stake in your front yard
so you may study my swoop¾
an intrepid feat
you are powerless
to match.
You would like to hold
the string
attached to a claw,
a beak,
a rib.
That would make me your flesh and
bone and feather
kite¾
A toy, not manufactured,
bought or sold.
You wonder why I hover,
circling you.
You scan your street for dead pets:
the pesky squirrel, the occasional opossum,
a flat cat in the street.
And only if . . .
If only,
you weren’t breathing
under the shade of
that tree
in your front yard,
I would pound down
into your beautiful face,
clean the clefts of your cheeks,
suck your spindly bones,
and stand in
awe
of our Maker.
Tamitha Curiel
(5 poems added 06.04.10)
editor's note: We love to dissect and study and cage and categorize. We say, "My, what a wonderful creation our God has made, just so we can admire His handy-work." What does the vulture say? - mh
•••••••••••
WALKING IN RAIN
My old hat dripped water from
the brim. Large droplets dripped
before my eyes bringing a broad
smile. The rain danced a staccato
ballet across the old stone path.
Leaves glistened as the water
pooled on them. I jumped a shallow
puddle and splashed down sending
droplets everywhere. Little streamlets
formed in the darkened earth; the smell of
wet earth tickled my nose.
I shoved my hands deep in my pockets
as the rain made them cold. My nylon
jacket shed the wet. Across the way
people were huddled under a small
umbrella. They were missing the peace
that comes walking in the rain.
Mike Berger
(2 poems added 06.03.10)
editor's note: Some words of encouragement from a friend; Only wicked witches melt when splashed with rain. The rest can find peace that comes walking there. Take your umbrella down! - mh
•••••••••••
OCD
If you can multiply
the number of all-you-can-eat buffets
by the number of hands
you have shaken
by the first kisses with tongue
by the number of one night stands
it should come as quite
a surprise
that you are still
alive.
Consider your run of the mill germs
and all the mutated diseases
that dominate the nightly news
and you should not be surprised
that vaccinations
have overtaken
Viagra
in over the counter
demands.
You're only as clean
as your dirtiest member
and 30 cent whores
with a purse full of mouthwash
are not reassuring.
I tend to lather
and rinse
at least twenty times
before I feel comfortable
in my surroundings.
Sometimes the skin breaks
and bleeds with effort
and then
I have to begin
all over again.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan
(3 poems added 06.02.10)
editor's note: Better not to over think it or you'll wear off a layer of skin and spend too much on air freshener (with toxic consequences). Lather, rinse, repeat (I dare you - only once). - mh
•••••••••••
Letter of Sedition
Do not forgive me for the circumstances of my personality.
for the prodigious murmurs of my delirium.
for my illusions and illuminations.
Do not forgive me for those I've raped with my hands
nor those I've saved with my tongue,
nor those I've murdered in my mind,
nor those I've revived.
Do not forgive me for the forests I've laid to waste so our dreams
could flourish.
for worshipping the stars with the blood of a new born.
for torturing the oracle in her temple.
for walking blind into the ovens.
for inaugurating the moth as our queen.
for seeking refuge in her chrysalis.
Do not forgive me for being born again.
Do not forgive me, for I am a lover of things increate and annihilated,
the edifice of phantoms, the ghosts of the living,
monuments of rain, blue palaces of memory and air,
photographs printed on sand.
Do not forgive me, for I am the warden of the beasts as I am their slave.
Do not forgive me, for I am only as guilty as I am pure.
Do not forgive me, for I have studied your sacraments and I have prostrated
myself with the weathered youths of your poverty.
Do not forgive me, for I seek not the skeleton key to unlock the heavens.
Do not forgive me, for we are all aligned under the constellations of human
mythology and there we are all the same.
Do not forgive me, for I have endured your forgiveness before and I have
bowed to your psychologists and philosophers.
Do not forgive me, for my corruption is the only voice of my innocence.
Quinten Collier
(1 poem added 06.01.10)
editor's note: For many of us, the source of absolution is a life-long search. For others, the need for absolution is no longer important. World without end, amen! - mh
•••••••••••
Remembering
Twenty years erased and faced with buried memories of some other me from some other time and from some other place. Something was said which set-off thoughts in my head and I was whisked off to desert lands of oil and sand while in my cozy corner. Finding myself halfway across the world remembering...
Devil Dogs & M16s.
Camaraderie & war machines.
Fragile farewells & goodbye to our families.
Live-fire dry-runs & everyday MREs.
Letters from home & sand storming breezes.
Spades was the game & hating the enemy.
Watching our backs & getting home strategies.
GI Joe games & barely nineteen we be's.
Not old enough to drink but could kill with ease.
Smuggled porn mags & uptight Saudi's.
Sista sent candy and found hidden doobies.
Shield became Storm and we hunted Iraqi's
"Gas! Gas! Gas!" & "Where the hell are we?"'s.
Young old salts & old young newbies.
Just trying to get by & survive the atrocities.
Surrendering armies and our easiest victory.
Homecoming parades & tied yellow ribboned trees.
Semper Fi's and remembering "when we"'s...
Twenty years later and I find I can still be brought back to that some other me from some other time and from some other place, silently remembering these memories I know I will never forget.
Johnny Olson
(1 poem added 05.31.10)
editor's note: Whether the suits had good reason or wrong, our brothers and sisters have gone to fight for us. For that, we remember them and say, "Thanks!" to those who can still hear us. "Thanks!" - mh
•••••••••••
For Women Who Feel Too Fucking Much
They would say I'm good in bed.
They would say I'm good girlfriend material.
They would say I expire after six months.
There is too much of me to deal with.
I leave tracks and smudges
uprooted trees and debris
in my wake.
"Maybe this wine will loosen her tongue."
Honey, loosening my tongue is the last thing
you want to do. If it's a party you want,
keep me in the corner where I belong,
a pretty awkward magnetic glower.
I'm a saloon girl.
I'm the saloon girl that gets whipped and often.
I show much more than my petticoats and garter.
The biggest toughest cowboy in town
cannot handle my ball busting glass breaking
banshee shrieking ways.
But this is only on straight tequila
chupacabra disco blood moon nights.
Most nights I am the ghost you forget to feed.
I am the sigil inked on your thumb
so easily licked off by the placid
church mouse from Laredo.
I'm the silly succubus,
the one too preoccupied
with glyphs and guilt
to get you off.
Listen to the wind howl.
That is me
on mute.
Misti Rainwater-Lites
(2 poems added 05.30.10)
editor's note: This is full disclosure, the ultimate disclaimer. But, what self-respectin' , two-steppin', night-howlin', saloon prowlin', tequila-lovin' cowboy can resist? It is better to have loved and... buyer beware. - 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...
Swirlin' Madly,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Photograph (above) by mad photographer Edward Lee , one of over 20 artists currently coloring the virtual walls in Mad Swirl's eclectic electronic collective 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...
•••••••••••
BAD HEART
I was left with a bad feeling that I couldn’t comprehend
So wandered around and thought on what was up
There had been an unsuccessful trip to the optician
Where my son’s eyes had been treated by a monkey
But that wasn’t it
I mean apparently I am the eye and teeth guy
That is my duty as a far father
It is evident
I have bad eyes and bad teeth
So I have more experience plus
She pays for everything
But that’s not it
The bad feeling I mean
We walked home in steep and cold degrees
Me and my son
And I was aware of his asthma
Something that I don’t have and can’t understand
I was very sport orientated
At school anyway
And he never has been
Not that prescription is preclusion
But if you don’t have to physically educate
Mainly because training sadists go private these days
Then where is the fun
So aware of his wheeze and the ‘please
Let me in the door’ look in his eyes
I only propped him up and did not dare
Offer his fifteen year old self any unwanted advice
That wasn’t it either
The bad feeling I mean
When I got him to the door I noticed a pushchair
In the hallway
Years of training and experience do not stop
A gob from wobbling
But some extra sense did then
My son went in solely intent on an inhaler
And I slipped off as I heard the deep northern tones
Of my ex brother in law
The best man at my one failed wedding
To a sister he still adored
With children of his own now that would hopefully never be tainted
By the not knowing of a never uncle
I had no talk
No leverage or cheap jokes
Only a sudden rush
Of all that had passed
And I let my son go
Breathless
Anthony Murphy
(2 poems added 06.05.10)
editor's note: Sometimes, when the most to say wells up from deep within, the most to see and the most to hear dictate silence. Even a poet can learn when to shut up; but never how to stop feeling. - mh
•••••••••••
Bird of Prey
You would like
to tether
me to a
stake in your front yard
so you may study my swoop¾
an intrepid feat
you are powerless
to match.
You would like to hold
the string
attached to a claw,
a beak,
a rib.
That would make me your flesh and
bone and feather
kite¾
A toy, not manufactured,
bought or sold.
You wonder why I hover,
circling you.
You scan your street for dead pets:
the pesky squirrel, the occasional opossum,
a flat cat in the street.
And only if . . .
If only,
you weren’t breathing
under the shade of
that tree
in your front yard,
I would pound down
into your beautiful face,
clean the clefts of your cheeks,
suck your spindly bones,
and stand in
awe
of our Maker.
Tamitha Curiel
(5 poems added 06.04.10)
editor's note: We love to dissect and study and cage and categorize. We say, "My, what a wonderful creation our God has made, just so we can admire His handy-work." What does the vulture say? - mh
•••••••••••
WALKING IN RAIN
My old hat dripped water from
the brim. Large droplets dripped
before my eyes bringing a broad
smile. The rain danced a staccato
ballet across the old stone path.
Leaves glistened as the water
pooled on them. I jumped a shallow
puddle and splashed down sending
droplets everywhere. Little streamlets
formed in the darkened earth; the smell of
wet earth tickled my nose.
I shoved my hands deep in my pockets
as the rain made them cold. My nylon
jacket shed the wet. Across the way
people were huddled under a small
umbrella. They were missing the peace
that comes walking in the rain.
Mike Berger
(2 poems added 06.03.10)
editor's note: Some words of encouragement from a friend; Only wicked witches melt when splashed with rain. The rest can find peace that comes walking there. Take your umbrella down! - mh
•••••••••••
OCD
If you can multiply
the number of all-you-can-eat buffets
by the number of hands
you have shaken
by the first kisses with tongue
by the number of one night stands
it should come as quite
a surprise
that you are still
alive.
Consider your run of the mill germs
and all the mutated diseases
that dominate the nightly news
and you should not be surprised
that vaccinations
have overtaken
Viagra
in over the counter
demands.
You're only as clean
as your dirtiest member
and 30 cent whores
with a purse full of mouthwash
are not reassuring.
I tend to lather
and rinse
at least twenty times
before I feel comfortable
in my surroundings.
Sometimes the skin breaks
and bleeds with effort
and then
I have to begin
all over again.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan
(3 poems added 06.02.10)
editor's note: Better not to over think it or you'll wear off a layer of skin and spend too much on air freshener (with toxic consequences). Lather, rinse, repeat (I dare you - only once). - mh
•••••••••••
Letter of Sedition
Do not forgive me for the circumstances of my personality.
for the prodigious murmurs of my delirium.
for my illusions and illuminations.
Do not forgive me for those I've raped with my hands
nor those I've saved with my tongue,
nor those I've murdered in my mind,
nor those I've revived.
Do not forgive me for the forests I've laid to waste so our dreams
could flourish.
for worshipping the stars with the blood of a new born.
for torturing the oracle in her temple.
for walking blind into the ovens.
for inaugurating the moth as our queen.
for seeking refuge in her chrysalis.
Do not forgive me for being born again.
Do not forgive me, for I am a lover of things increate and annihilated,
the edifice of phantoms, the ghosts of the living,
monuments of rain, blue palaces of memory and air,
photographs printed on sand.
Do not forgive me, for I am the warden of the beasts as I am their slave.
Do not forgive me, for I am only as guilty as I am pure.
Do not forgive me, for I have studied your sacraments and I have prostrated
myself with the weathered youths of your poverty.
Do not forgive me, for I seek not the skeleton key to unlock the heavens.
Do not forgive me, for we are all aligned under the constellations of human
mythology and there we are all the same.
Do not forgive me, for I have endured your forgiveness before and I have
bowed to your psychologists and philosophers.
Do not forgive me, for my corruption is the only voice of my innocence.
Quinten Collier
(1 poem added 06.01.10)
editor's note: For many of us, the source of absolution is a life-long search. For others, the need for absolution is no longer important. World without end, amen! - mh
•••••••••••
Remembering
Twenty years erased and faced with buried memories of some other me from some other time and from some other place. Something was said which set-off thoughts in my head and I was whisked off to desert lands of oil and sand while in my cozy corner. Finding myself halfway across the world remembering...
Devil Dogs & M16s.
Camaraderie & war machines.
Fragile farewells & goodbye to our families.
Live-fire dry-runs & everyday MREs.
Letters from home & sand storming breezes.
Spades was the game & hating the enemy.
Watching our backs & getting home strategies.
GI Joe games & barely nineteen we be's.
Not old enough to drink but could kill with ease.
Smuggled porn mags & uptight Saudi's.
Sista sent candy and found hidden doobies.
Shield became Storm and we hunted Iraqi's
"Gas! Gas! Gas!" & "Where the hell are we?"'s.
Young old salts & old young newbies.
Just trying to get by & survive the atrocities.
Surrendering armies and our easiest victory.
Homecoming parades & tied yellow ribboned trees.
Semper Fi's and remembering "when we"'s...
Twenty years later and I find I can still be brought back to that some other me from some other time and from some other place, silently remembering these memories I know I will never forget.
Johnny Olson
(1 poem added 05.31.10)
editor's note: Whether the suits had good reason or wrong, our brothers and sisters have gone to fight for us. For that, we remember them and say, "Thanks!" to those who can still hear us. "Thanks!" - mh
•••••••••••
For Women Who Feel Too Fucking Much
They would say I'm good in bed.
They would say I'm good girlfriend material.
They would say I expire after six months.
There is too much of me to deal with.
I leave tracks and smudges
uprooted trees and debris
in my wake.
"Maybe this wine will loosen her tongue."
Honey, loosening my tongue is the last thing
you want to do. If it's a party you want,
keep me in the corner where I belong,
a pretty awkward magnetic glower.
I'm a saloon girl.
I'm the saloon girl that gets whipped and often.
I show much more than my petticoats and garter.
The biggest toughest cowboy in town
cannot handle my ball busting glass breaking
banshee shrieking ways.
But this is only on straight tequila
chupacabra disco blood moon nights.
Most nights I am the ghost you forget to feed.
I am the sigil inked on your thumb
so easily licked off by the placid
church mouse from Laredo.
I'm the silly succubus,
the one too preoccupied
with glyphs and guilt
to get you off.
Listen to the wind howl.
That is me
on mute.
Misti Rainwater-Lites
(2 poems added 05.30.10)
editor's note: This is full disclosure, the ultimate disclaimer. But, what self-respectin' , two-steppin', night-howlin', saloon prowlin', tequila-lovin' cowboy can resist? It is better to have loved and... buyer beware. - 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...
Swirlin' Madly,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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