The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 07.31.10
“Everything can change, but not the language that we carry inside us, like a world more exclusive and final than one's mother's womb.” Italo Calvino
The Magic Hour (above) by mad painter Jimmy Ovadia, 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 a taste of the poetry we featured this week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum...
•••••••••••
Disaster Relief
A cart of just bread and peanut butter is
all that’s claimed to calm an empty stomach.
A palm’s in a puddle of pocket lint, but I’m in good
company with great miracles & super market trinkets.
Leaflets sell-out which stars wear plastic tits, or
announce who’s dried in rehab: skinny addicts to fat-as-ticks.
Tabloids, the saviors of print,
sponsors selling miracles saving man.
Outside,
only criminals, thick puddles, and tough postmen
are on the streets, they each cross condom boxes,
on road sides pulled apart like cardstock crosses.
Inside,
the aisle advertises Low Calorie Lasagna for Me,
packets of chemicals and chocolate consumption
sugared morsels that invite ‘Vitis
as the line grows long, like a corpse's cuticles.
Recession’s on our mind, and together
we forget how to laugh.
In the holy union of human togetherness,
we stare into what’s placed
in private baskets —
the gross miracle of man makes the line
a stain on our minds, as
shoppers seek assurance like
they select frozen peas.
Wisely, we know about nothing but information
Not a nugget in any noggin of wisdom.
Just information.
I flex my ass cheek to check if my
wallet’s still there—
It’s pulled out to pay; my money’s given to
a slick and soggy foreheaded kid, who quips,
a quick slightly mixed question and demand,
‘Would you like to donate $1 for Disaster Relief?’
Only the miracle
will save man.
So I save my dollar.
Tyler Malone
(2 poems added 07.31.10)
editor's note: Just a trip to the grocery store is all it takes for a poet to go off on a tangent. This is a delightful one! Surely, some disaster somewhere can be relieved a little by this "disaster" poem. (Another new from Tyler on his page - check it out.) - mh
•••••••••••
I love the children with the dirty faces and uncombed hair
I love the children with the dirty faces and uncombed hair
I was that child, with uncombed hair
playing amongst the other children.
I was that child, reaching up to finger
the oddities, being pushed away by older brothers.
I was that child, who stares at my hirsute, smiling face
and is unsure.
I was that child, being pulled away by a crazy woman, a
crazy mother, yelling out and wanting to play more.
I was that child with the pigtails bouncing up and down
in opposition to her shoulders.
I was that child, with the dirty face sipping the cola
greedily, with pocketfuls of toys and secret playthings.
I was that child, lonely in the corner with no one to lead
or follow, no one to hold hands with.
I was that child, yelling louder and bolder at wins;
fisting against the air the losses.
I was that child, there, holding daddy’s hand and
lightly crying, there, racing to the bathrooms, there,
asking for more quarters, there, eating the garbage they
called food, there, wondering and wondering.
I was that child.
Jhon Baker
(added 07.30.10)
editor's note: Here's to the dirty-faced children we have all been and will be, yet. These are the pictures that we remember when a poet brings them to the page. This poet has served us well! - mh
•••••••••••
An Ode to (formal) Education. An Epitaph to (informal) Fun.
Tick, tock, goes the
clock,
Your futures in your hands.
Tick, tock, goes the
clock,
It’s time to be a man.
Tick, tock goes the
clock,
They say we’ve got it easy,
but tick, tock, goes the
clock,
And this pressure's got me queasy.
Paul Donnachie
(added 07.29.10)
editor's note: By golly, that Master's Degree better pay off with the big bucks - unless it's an MFA, in which case, keep writing and submitting and starving, but feeling good about your art. Yeah! Love artists! - mh
•••••••••••
Fairy-Time in Shadowland
A gasp from snow-white,
with pale idioms and might
from the fiddle fie faces
that took Hamlet’s oath
without any traces, IGNITES
a breath of fire in my soul
as I see the desperate loath.
A blizzard in shadowland
covered up what’s planned
which my silhouette discovered
frozen in the starry night.
In every butchered nation
every love is conquered
in the fairy time of night.
I’m on a map of tiger tears
now and forever sheared
by a gigantic orb of light!
And on- and on- anon-
cutting me from the sight.
In the twenty-first of centuries-
full of pointless miseries-
we’re all, we’re full of fright
under the aegis of the night.
So, the whole cob-world alone,
wearing a slumbering millstone,
goes topflight over the cuckoo nest,
for expert pilots felt this is best.
Comets cascade Bottomward-
dead like halcyon- out of order
like the fall of Rome- unbordered
with a bulls-eye on a crown of thorns
on mice and men with horns.
In royal costumes, angels fall
over the top; wherewithal,
we are authorized to persist
if written on a stranger’s list
below a stranger cosmos
below deep phantoms walking in their sleep
below the castle the drowsy sweep
afloat in the air whilst counting sheep.
THE END
James Jason Dye
(1 poem added 07.28.10)
editor's note: Who can say whether that ill fitting jacket hides a set of fairywings or just bad posture. Keep counting those sheep... (See James' new poetry page!) - mh
•••••••••••
Young Love
Ben called and asked me to be his girlfriend.
I said no.
He said it was opposite day.
I hung up.
Kyle, the fattest kid in the fifth grade,
gave me an eraser shaped like an ice cream cone.
The other kids laughed and teased us—
he smelled like old cheese and I rejected him.
Kaitlin Monier
(added 07.27.10)
editor's note: Damn poets! Bringing up the painful past, reminding us of all those rejections... I want some cheese! - mh
•••••••••••
The Roulette Wheel
I put my hands into a mental box
A Golden Pyramid opened between my
eye brows and winked at me with a
one quarter turn
The North American continent
opened up beneath me
So I asked for help:
“Where do I need to go?”
“What do I need to know?”
“Protect and Guide me”.
Beneath me . . .
Two dim lights switched on
Looking more like pins
stuck into a Global Map
beneath the horizon
One light was Chicago
the other was New Orleans
So I refocused my intention:
“I am looking for a lifetime
that glows brighter than these
two put together”
I then reached out with my
transparent hands and took hold
of the Earth’s mantle
and pulled her face toward me
a gentle one quarter turn
The night scape of the Europe coast line
came into view and Paris, France
glowed brightly like a harvest moon
I settled down alongside the shadows
of the Eiffel Tower and begun walking
along the cobble stones of the urban city
looking for a residence of gentry
I was about to knock at a door
When I hesitated
I found myself instead musing
wondering about who lived
in this grand old house?
“Time Lord” I asked
“what year is this?”
My answer came in the form of
a spinning roulette wheel
and a bouncing ball
that fail out and stopped
in a slot that read 19 hundred and 12
Written in Gold Letters
Then I was mentally transported
into a dark forest, I was walking along path
that led off into the woods
toward a country Chateau
On my way through the night’s shadows
A small explosion
a bolt of white light
over took me
That is when I found myself
propped up in bed
being trended to
by a madame
a mistress
whom I don’t recall
whom I am greatly
thankful to
I spent my last
few breaths alone
until the pain
and suffering
from my deep
chest wound
was no more
After a few moments
I was moved beyond this
space and time
and taken to a cloud
for rejuvenation
Another moment past
And I found myself seated
on a park bench in
a vast open garden
It was welcoming in every detail
Rolls of flowers was
cut through by a cobble stone path
Their blooms were all
open to the light
To my left
walking toward me was
My Time Lord . . .
I recognized the old man,
he was dressed in his usual
turn of the century
brown suit and coat
and was wearing an aura
glowing white hair and indigo eyes
He took hold of my hands
and placed his forehead onto mine
Then I awakened seeing
concentric rippling
waves of light
moving between us
se à la vie
Claude Barrett
(1 poem added 07.26.10)
editor's note: The whole mystery of life on this big blue swirlin' orb we call home is nothing but a crap shoot anyway... why not call the shots?! Around the world in a day dream please! - jo
•••••••••••
What Can You Say Against Grandchildren
Upon your children you may heap
Quite a bit of deep
Language and abuse
But when grandchildren come
Thats the end of you
They are so intelligent
And they do such good deeds
And of course they learnt this from
The little misses and me
They step on the dogs and that's an accident
They drop the orange juice
and that's just meant
and if you don't understand
All I can say is
That's just grand
'Cause grandchildren can do no wrong
That's the fault of the dad and mom
Hey look at that
My mother was not wrong
G David Schwartz
(added 07.25.10)
editor's note: Ah, the wonderful warped perspective of once removed! Not so close to the subjects, able to offer acceptance of everything, indulge anything for a little while. Just to return them for the parents to undo all that work. Grandparenthood! - 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...
Exclusively,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
The Magic Hour (above) by mad painter Jimmy Ovadia, 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 a taste of the poetry we featured this week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum...
•••••••••••
Disaster Relief
A cart of just bread and peanut butter is
all that’s claimed to calm an empty stomach.
A palm’s in a puddle of pocket lint, but I’m in good
company with great miracles & super market trinkets.
Leaflets sell-out which stars wear plastic tits, or
announce who’s dried in rehab: skinny addicts to fat-as-ticks.
Tabloids, the saviors of print,
sponsors selling miracles saving man.
Outside,
only criminals, thick puddles, and tough postmen
are on the streets, they each cross condom boxes,
on road sides pulled apart like cardstock crosses.
Inside,
the aisle advertises Low Calorie Lasagna for Me,
packets of chemicals and chocolate consumption
sugared morsels that invite ‘Vitis
as the line grows long, like a corpse's cuticles.
Recession’s on our mind, and together
we forget how to laugh.
In the holy union of human togetherness,
we stare into what’s placed
in private baskets —
the gross miracle of man makes the line
a stain on our minds, as
shoppers seek assurance like
they select frozen peas.
Wisely, we know about nothing but information
Not a nugget in any noggin of wisdom.
Just information.
I flex my ass cheek to check if my
wallet’s still there—
It’s pulled out to pay; my money’s given to
a slick and soggy foreheaded kid, who quips,
a quick slightly mixed question and demand,
‘Would you like to donate $1 for Disaster Relief?’
Only the miracle
will save man.
So I save my dollar.
Tyler Malone
(2 poems added 07.31.10)
editor's note: Just a trip to the grocery store is all it takes for a poet to go off on a tangent. This is a delightful one! Surely, some disaster somewhere can be relieved a little by this "disaster" poem. (Another new from Tyler on his page - check it out.) - mh
•••••••••••
I love the children with the dirty faces and uncombed hair
I love the children with the dirty faces and uncombed hair
I was that child, with uncombed hair
playing amongst the other children.
I was that child, reaching up to finger
the oddities, being pushed away by older brothers.
I was that child, who stares at my hirsute, smiling face
and is unsure.
I was that child, being pulled away by a crazy woman, a
crazy mother, yelling out and wanting to play more.
I was that child with the pigtails bouncing up and down
in opposition to her shoulders.
I was that child, with the dirty face sipping the cola
greedily, with pocketfuls of toys and secret playthings.
I was that child, lonely in the corner with no one to lead
or follow, no one to hold hands with.
I was that child, yelling louder and bolder at wins;
fisting against the air the losses.
I was that child, there, holding daddy’s hand and
lightly crying, there, racing to the bathrooms, there,
asking for more quarters, there, eating the garbage they
called food, there, wondering and wondering.
I was that child.
Jhon Baker
(added 07.30.10)
editor's note: Here's to the dirty-faced children we have all been and will be, yet. These are the pictures that we remember when a poet brings them to the page. This poet has served us well! - mh
•••••••••••
An Ode to (formal) Education. An Epitaph to (informal) Fun.
Tick, tock, goes the
clock,
Your futures in your hands.
Tick, tock, goes the
clock,
It’s time to be a man.
Tick, tock goes the
clock,
They say we’ve got it easy,
but tick, tock, goes the
clock,
And this pressure's got me queasy.
Paul Donnachie
(added 07.29.10)
editor's note: By golly, that Master's Degree better pay off with the big bucks - unless it's an MFA, in which case, keep writing and submitting and starving, but feeling good about your art. Yeah! Love artists! - mh
•••••••••••
Fairy-Time in Shadowland
A gasp from snow-white,
with pale idioms and might
from the fiddle fie faces
that took Hamlet’s oath
without any traces, IGNITES
a breath of fire in my soul
as I see the desperate loath.
A blizzard in shadowland
covered up what’s planned
which my silhouette discovered
frozen in the starry night.
In every butchered nation
every love is conquered
in the fairy time of night.
I’m on a map of tiger tears
now and forever sheared
by a gigantic orb of light!
And on- and on- anon-
cutting me from the sight.
In the twenty-first of centuries-
full of pointless miseries-
we’re all, we’re full of fright
under the aegis of the night.
So, the whole cob-world alone,
wearing a slumbering millstone,
goes topflight over the cuckoo nest,
for expert pilots felt this is best.
Comets cascade Bottomward-
dead like halcyon- out of order
like the fall of Rome- unbordered
with a bulls-eye on a crown of thorns
on mice and men with horns.
In royal costumes, angels fall
over the top; wherewithal,
we are authorized to persist
if written on a stranger’s list
below a stranger cosmos
below deep phantoms walking in their sleep
below the castle the drowsy sweep
afloat in the air whilst counting sheep.
THE END
James Jason Dye
(1 poem added 07.28.10)
editor's note: Who can say whether that ill fitting jacket hides a set of fairywings or just bad posture. Keep counting those sheep... (See James' new poetry page!) - mh
•••••••••••
Young Love
Ben called and asked me to be his girlfriend.
I said no.
He said it was opposite day.
I hung up.
Kyle, the fattest kid in the fifth grade,
gave me an eraser shaped like an ice cream cone.
The other kids laughed and teased us—
he smelled like old cheese and I rejected him.
Kaitlin Monier
(added 07.27.10)
editor's note: Damn poets! Bringing up the painful past, reminding us of all those rejections... I want some cheese! - mh
•••••••••••
The Roulette Wheel
I put my hands into a mental box
A Golden Pyramid opened between my
eye brows and winked at me with a
one quarter turn
The North American continent
opened up beneath me
So I asked for help:
“Where do I need to go?”
“What do I need to know?”
“Protect and Guide me”.
Beneath me . . .
Two dim lights switched on
Looking more like pins
stuck into a Global Map
beneath the horizon
One light was Chicago
the other was New Orleans
So I refocused my intention:
“I am looking for a lifetime
that glows brighter than these
two put together”
I then reached out with my
transparent hands and took hold
of the Earth’s mantle
and pulled her face toward me
a gentle one quarter turn
The night scape of the Europe coast line
came into view and Paris, France
glowed brightly like a harvest moon
I settled down alongside the shadows
of the Eiffel Tower and begun walking
along the cobble stones of the urban city
looking for a residence of gentry
I was about to knock at a door
When I hesitated
I found myself instead musing
wondering about who lived
in this grand old house?
“Time Lord” I asked
“what year is this?”
My answer came in the form of
a spinning roulette wheel
and a bouncing ball
that fail out and stopped
in a slot that read 19 hundred and 12
Written in Gold Letters
Then I was mentally transported
into a dark forest, I was walking along path
that led off into the woods
toward a country Chateau
On my way through the night’s shadows
A small explosion
a bolt of white light
over took me
That is when I found myself
propped up in bed
being trended to
by a madame
a mistress
whom I don’t recall
whom I am greatly
thankful to
I spent my last
few breaths alone
until the pain
and suffering
from my deep
chest wound
was no more
After a few moments
I was moved beyond this
space and time
and taken to a cloud
for rejuvenation
Another moment past
And I found myself seated
on a park bench in
a vast open garden
It was welcoming in every detail
Rolls of flowers was
cut through by a cobble stone path
Their blooms were all
open to the light
To my left
walking toward me was
My Time Lord . . .
I recognized the old man,
he was dressed in his usual
turn of the century
brown suit and coat
and was wearing an aura
glowing white hair and indigo eyes
He took hold of my hands
and placed his forehead onto mine
Then I awakened seeing
concentric rippling
waves of light
moving between us
se à la vie
Claude Barrett
(1 poem added 07.26.10)
editor's note: The whole mystery of life on this big blue swirlin' orb we call home is nothing but a crap shoot anyway... why not call the shots?! Around the world in a day dream please! - jo
•••••••••••
What Can You Say Against Grandchildren
Upon your children you may heap
Quite a bit of deep
Language and abuse
But when grandchildren come
Thats the end of you
They are so intelligent
And they do such good deeds
And of course they learnt this from
The little misses and me
They step on the dogs and that's an accident
They drop the orange juice
and that's just meant
and if you don't understand
All I can say is
That's just grand
'Cause grandchildren can do no wrong
That's the fault of the dad and mom
Hey look at that
My mother was not wrong
G David Schwartz
(added 07.25.10)
editor's note: Ah, the wonderful warped perspective of once removed! Not so close to the subjects, able to offer acceptance of everything, indulge anything for a little while. Just to return them for the parents to undo all that work. Grandparenthood! - 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...
Exclusively,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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