The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 06.19.10
“Chaos is the score upon which reality is written.” Henry Miller
Flotsam (above) by mad painter Jon Marquette , 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...
•••••••••••
Sayings
You couldn’t even say hi:
she stayed tucked between
her black scarf and gothic collar
that sat like a pointy statue.
When she wasn’t out, she finger-licked
the finer things: the gloss and haze
from the blurred city window
in her one-bedroom apartment
between the streets. Pine viewed her
from outside that window
and it flooded the room, knocked
out the litter box’s odor
she despised. She believes that
what doesn’t kill you makes you hate
whatever that was; makes you want
more until you’re (actually) dead
Richelle Dodaro
(added 06.19.10)
editor's note: Love those little watchwords for living, we all have them. How about, "Everyday, in everyway, things are getting better and better" -or- "You get what you pay for." But, here, a watchword for dying? Reminds me of another, "Be careful what you ask for..." - mh
•••••••••••
The Widow
He lives in the crow’s feet around her eyes.
Calmly folding up his freshly ironed sweaters and tucking them into those big gray bags, he proceeds to relax. He reclines on the bridge of her brow, grabs a newspaper, sips his tea. He pours the dregs into her iris. The murky brown blends and masks the blue, washing out any trace of vibrancy. He’s tired. He pulls the lid of her eye down and blankets himself with her lashes. They sleep together.
Jen Monte
(2 poems added 06.18.10)
editor's note: He is a real squatter, he is. Hope he doesn't find me - Life, keep him at bay! Alas, in time he will come to all. (This one comes from a new voice on our list of Contributing Poets. Welcome Jen Monte! See more good poems on her page.) - mh
•••••••••••
Every 5 years my brain
Every 5 years my brain
pulls a jackal out of its magic hat.
While eating a donut
or brushing my teeth.
No warning.
No matter what I tell it.
"We’re okay, friend
remember blue hydrangea,
and cream-cicles"
And I know I’m cooked
when the TV can’t cure me
and the dogs start sniffing
around my head and whimper.
Every five years
a disciple yanks me from the hole.
There is one in every
unhappy place.
Every laundry mat
Every waiting room
Every all night grocery.
They appear
like lady bugs
on my hands.
Unexpected
Pleasant
Harmless
And for a
brief moment
I feel
lucky...
Until the verses
are fed to me like
apple sauce,
and like the TV
it’s just noise...
Babble
These preachers
of “the word”
think they know me
as well as they know themselves.
Did they know that I almost
set my church on fire?
These people are smiles and maddening calm.
They are Sugar Plum Fairies and Mr. Rogers
And they promise me peace
to end all.
"How many verses must I recite,
Before I am raised to your holy heights?"
I believe in Gremlins why not Saviors.
Satan capitalized in the dictionary...
Makes me uneasy.
Holly Jaffe
(added 06.17.10)
editor's note: Jackals love to eat what the lions leave behind, if they can wrest it from the hyenas. Satan loves to be named when we do those naughty things that we don't mean to do (or at least when we don't mean to be caught). If you follow Webster for a few pages more, you come to "self. - mh
•••••••••••
God Damn Thing
God damn thing
Rains on my jacket
Stains my clothes red
Finds my bad fortunes for me
Picks open my brain
Crawls up dead inside of me
Caverns a soft pillow
Holds me in sexual positions like a little boy
Guides my hands to disgusting things
Sings a strange melody in my ear
Enormous hell
You’re the devil, I think
You’re the devil when you beat me down
And shave my legs
Call me a girl
Heinous hands
You grasp me and I fall to a half dead state
Wolf Von Blum
(added 06.16.10)
editor's note: Everyone has their "Thing"; makes a mess, takes over, leaves us wondering how that happened and if it might happen again. (Secretly, don't we all hope so?) - mh
•••••••••••
Storyteller
“Is this a poem?”
she asked after handing me a honey dripping piece
of baklava
as I read her swooning lines
of one word couplets,
exclamations of LOVE
and LUST
executed and convicted
in the usual fashion.
The author blinked her baby blues
my way
before entangling our sticky fingers
and whispering, “You know he’s out of my life, right?”
Caught between the devil and the deep
blue sea I replied, “I see”, and returned
to my psychoanalysis on the crayon scrawled musings
and secrets of a loony bin inmate twice removed.
“So – is it poetry?”
Inching closer
on a bench meant for threesomes
of bus patrons on 10th and Central
the nutcase laughed hysterically
as a drunken college student tripped
on the sidewalk and fell
into her boyfriend’s arms.
“If you breathe life into it
– fiction or non –
it’s poetry.”
“Do you know how much I respect your opinion?”
the temptress responded before folding the paper
into a heart – which I did not wish to take.
As good ol’ number 23 pulled up
to the puke-puddled curb
with misfits aboard who gazed out their windows
like zombies searching for just the right brains
I nodded and tucked away the crumpled
blood-pumping verses into my jeans,
kissed her meekly on the cold rosy cheek,
and waved goodbye amongst the living dead
while wondering which questions of
love lost
love gained
in a poetic fashion
would ever come between us . . .
Joseph D. DiLella
(2 poems added 06.15.10)
editor's note: Some more good poems from our friend Joseph D.: Teacher's pet or pet's slave - a cutely crafted couplet can craft the outcome. Be strong, educators everywhere - mh
•••••••••••
Soft Leaves Fleet
Soft leaves fleet like quipu strands
as messengers tread the rope bridges,
these white trees they do adorn you,
we communicate without writing, like thrushes.
The mountain lies alone with the road,
the shadow of eagles forbids our passing,
transforming smoke arises from a simple twig,
I know the radiance escape you breathe.
Sacred women sacrifice cattle on a table of blue sun,
the visceral emblem received commends your birth
and the time emergent is propitious,
I still chew the root you prepared.
John Swain
(1 poem added 06.14.10)
editor's note: Counting knots, divining entrails and learning to communicate like the birds - all to experience the rush of breath that comes from a "radiance escape." I am an egg! Thanks, Mr. Swain! - mh
•••••••••••
Hate
Something that triumphs
Over everything else
Emotions pale in comparison to it
And yet we do not understand
The meaning of it
To grasp with our minds
what concepts have been lost...
Is not a possibility
Not any longer
To see it in its true form
Is terrifying
Something
That we never thought to exist
Crueller than the most inhumane
Primitive forms of torture
The experience...
It takes all sanity from within
And turns the world upside down
As you begin to lose control
Drowning in your own pitiful sorrow
And self-consciousness
Which brings out the sympathy
In others
And the worst
In ourselves
Mixes into the blend
Creating an illusion of fear
The result is a web of lies
A disguise that shields
Nothing but the pure simplicity
Of insanity
People reach out to help
But everything's become a blur
Words taken
From broken promises
Spoken by loved ones
Echo within the mind
Screaming
Endlessly
To the point of psychotic thoughts
Of ways to make it stop
To end the pain
Push the sickening feeling away
When the only thing to do is run
The world has become
Nothing but an old, deserted home
Your life
Nothing but a cluttered mess
Fragments
Remnants of a nightmare
The life you've left behind
Now only a conformity
To their sociopathic ways
The people there
Lying and deceitful monsters
But in reality...
You have become your own monster
All because of one little word:
Hate
Lindsey Tolman
(added 06.13.10)
editor's note: Turn over the moldiest rock in your garden and you will see this description of the one emotion that only you can control from within. Wouldn't it be great if we could remove it from our hearts and our vocabularies? - 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...
Chaotically Yours,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Flotsam (above) by mad painter Jon Marquette , 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...
•••••••••••
Sayings
You couldn’t even say hi:
she stayed tucked between
her black scarf and gothic collar
that sat like a pointy statue.
When she wasn’t out, she finger-licked
the finer things: the gloss and haze
from the blurred city window
in her one-bedroom apartment
between the streets. Pine viewed her
from outside that window
and it flooded the room, knocked
out the litter box’s odor
she despised. She believes that
what doesn’t kill you makes you hate
whatever that was; makes you want
more until you’re (actually) dead
Richelle Dodaro
(added 06.19.10)
editor's note: Love those little watchwords for living, we all have them. How about, "Everyday, in everyway, things are getting better and better" -or- "You get what you pay for." But, here, a watchword for dying? Reminds me of another, "Be careful what you ask for..." - mh
•••••••••••
The Widow
He lives in the crow’s feet around her eyes.
Calmly folding up his freshly ironed sweaters and tucking them into those big gray bags, he proceeds to relax. He reclines on the bridge of her brow, grabs a newspaper, sips his tea. He pours the dregs into her iris. The murky brown blends and masks the blue, washing out any trace of vibrancy. He’s tired. He pulls the lid of her eye down and blankets himself with her lashes. They sleep together.
Jen Monte
(2 poems added 06.18.10)
editor's note: He is a real squatter, he is. Hope he doesn't find me - Life, keep him at bay! Alas, in time he will come to all. (This one comes from a new voice on our list of Contributing Poets. Welcome Jen Monte! See more good poems on her page.) - mh
•••••••••••
Every 5 years my brain
Every 5 years my brain
pulls a jackal out of its magic hat.
While eating a donut
or brushing my teeth.
No warning.
No matter what I tell it.
"We’re okay, friend
remember blue hydrangea,
and cream-cicles"
And I know I’m cooked
when the TV can’t cure me
and the dogs start sniffing
around my head and whimper.
Every five years
a disciple yanks me from the hole.
There is one in every
unhappy place.
Every laundry mat
Every waiting room
Every all night grocery.
They appear
like lady bugs
on my hands.
Unexpected
Pleasant
Harmless
And for a
brief moment
I feel
lucky...
Until the verses
are fed to me like
apple sauce,
and like the TV
it’s just noise...
Babble
These preachers
of “the word”
think they know me
as well as they know themselves.
Did they know that I almost
set my church on fire?
These people are smiles and maddening calm.
They are Sugar Plum Fairies and Mr. Rogers
And they promise me peace
to end all.
"How many verses must I recite,
Before I am raised to your holy heights?"
I believe in Gremlins why not Saviors.
Satan capitalized in the dictionary...
Makes me uneasy.
Holly Jaffe
(added 06.17.10)
editor's note: Jackals love to eat what the lions leave behind, if they can wrest it from the hyenas. Satan loves to be named when we do those naughty things that we don't mean to do (or at least when we don't mean to be caught). If you follow Webster for a few pages more, you come to "self. - mh
•••••••••••
God Damn Thing
God damn thing
Rains on my jacket
Stains my clothes red
Finds my bad fortunes for me
Picks open my brain
Crawls up dead inside of me
Caverns a soft pillow
Holds me in sexual positions like a little boy
Guides my hands to disgusting things
Sings a strange melody in my ear
Enormous hell
You’re the devil, I think
You’re the devil when you beat me down
And shave my legs
Call me a girl
Heinous hands
You grasp me and I fall to a half dead state
Wolf Von Blum
(added 06.16.10)
editor's note: Everyone has their "Thing"; makes a mess, takes over, leaves us wondering how that happened and if it might happen again. (Secretly, don't we all hope so?) - mh
•••••••••••
Storyteller
“Is this a poem?”
she asked after handing me a honey dripping piece
of baklava
as I read her swooning lines
of one word couplets,
exclamations of LOVE
and LUST
executed and convicted
in the usual fashion.
The author blinked her baby blues
my way
before entangling our sticky fingers
and whispering, “You know he’s out of my life, right?”
Caught between the devil and the deep
blue sea I replied, “I see”, and returned
to my psychoanalysis on the crayon scrawled musings
and secrets of a loony bin inmate twice removed.
“So – is it poetry?”
Inching closer
on a bench meant for threesomes
of bus patrons on 10th and Central
the nutcase laughed hysterically
as a drunken college student tripped
on the sidewalk and fell
into her boyfriend’s arms.
“If you breathe life into it
– fiction or non –
it’s poetry.”
“Do you know how much I respect your opinion?”
the temptress responded before folding the paper
into a heart – which I did not wish to take.
As good ol’ number 23 pulled up
to the puke-puddled curb
with misfits aboard who gazed out their windows
like zombies searching for just the right brains
I nodded and tucked away the crumpled
blood-pumping verses into my jeans,
kissed her meekly on the cold rosy cheek,
and waved goodbye amongst the living dead
while wondering which questions of
love lost
love gained
in a poetic fashion
would ever come between us . . .
Joseph D. DiLella
(2 poems added 06.15.10)
editor's note: Some more good poems from our friend Joseph D.: Teacher's pet or pet's slave - a cutely crafted couplet can craft the outcome. Be strong, educators everywhere - mh
•••••••••••
Soft Leaves Fleet
Soft leaves fleet like quipu strands
as messengers tread the rope bridges,
these white trees they do adorn you,
we communicate without writing, like thrushes.
The mountain lies alone with the road,
the shadow of eagles forbids our passing,
transforming smoke arises from a simple twig,
I know the radiance escape you breathe.
Sacred women sacrifice cattle on a table of blue sun,
the visceral emblem received commends your birth
and the time emergent is propitious,
I still chew the root you prepared.
John Swain
(1 poem added 06.14.10)
editor's note: Counting knots, divining entrails and learning to communicate like the birds - all to experience the rush of breath that comes from a "radiance escape." I am an egg! Thanks, Mr. Swain! - mh
•••••••••••
Hate
Something that triumphs
Over everything else
Emotions pale in comparison to it
And yet we do not understand
The meaning of it
To grasp with our minds
what concepts have been lost...
Is not a possibility
Not any longer
To see it in its true form
Is terrifying
Something
That we never thought to exist
Crueller than the most inhumane
Primitive forms of torture
The experience...
It takes all sanity from within
And turns the world upside down
As you begin to lose control
Drowning in your own pitiful sorrow
And self-consciousness
Which brings out the sympathy
In others
And the worst
In ourselves
Mixes into the blend
Creating an illusion of fear
The result is a web of lies
A disguise that shields
Nothing but the pure simplicity
Of insanity
People reach out to help
But everything's become a blur
Words taken
From broken promises
Spoken by loved ones
Echo within the mind
Screaming
Endlessly
To the point of psychotic thoughts
Of ways to make it stop
To end the pain
Push the sickening feeling away
When the only thing to do is run
The world has become
Nothing but an old, deserted home
Your life
Nothing but a cluttered mess
Fragments
Remnants of a nightmare
The life you've left behind
Now only a conformity
To their sociopathic ways
The people there
Lying and deceitful monsters
But in reality...
You have become your own monster
All because of one little word:
Hate
Lindsey Tolman
(added 06.13.10)
editor's note: Turn over the moldiest rock in your garden and you will see this description of the one emotion that only you can control from within. Wouldn't it be great if we could remove it from our hearts and our vocabularies? - 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...
Chaotically Yours,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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