The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 08.07.10
“In the dime stores and bus stations, people talk of situations, read books, repeat quotations, draw conclusions on the wall.” Bob Dylan
untitled (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 a taste of the poetry we featured this week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum...
•••••••••••
Hot’n Spicy
Lots of rich
Cheddar cheese -
Just a hint of Jalapeno,
A dash -
Of chili pepper
With a blend of
Zesty tastes and textures,
Born of the sun,
For coy
People
Who want a little spice
In their lives.
I bought a dozen boxes,
Should have filled
My cart I thought. They promised me
Pleasure…
Something new and bold
And I was desperate,
Needed a little variety
In my somber life.
So I took a chance, spent
Forty dollars,
On the red hot boxes
And smiled
A saucy smile
As I stashed them in my
Cupboard
Unopened.
I wasn’t really hungry
After all.
Sheree La Puma-Watson
(added 08.07.10)
editor's note: Yeah, if you have the shelf space, buy that hot stuff anyway. Everybody likes that hot stuff! You will be hungry later. - mh
•••••••••••
VOICES OF THE HOLOCAUST
At night, they come to me, speaking softly at first,
sometimes in a whisper, as they reach out across
Time and Space, searching for a loving soul who
remembers.
Buried in the darkness of unfathomable dreams,
in a wooden coffin of my own creation, I listen
to the voices of the Holocaust.
“Why?” the bewildered voices ask me in unison.
I imagine the phantom faces, dark wounded eyes
mounted on bony flesh peering at me from the
other side of the shattered universe, and I can’t
utter one word of comfort.
The ghosts are still trapped and wandering in the
death camps, I think. Lost souls of Yesterday
seeking peace of mind.
“I’m trying to understand,” I confess.
“We all are. Yet no one knows.
The Holocaust is incomprehensible.
It’s the reason I lost my faith.
And yet, it is why I search for
Hashem.
“Someday, perhaps, we will understand.
Until then, I will listen to your voices
at night and inhale your anguished
souls.
“And we shall be one.”
Mel Waldman
(2 poems added 08.06.10)
editor's note: Another reminder from Dr. Mel: Let's strive to eliminate the kind of thinking that has made history's holocausts possible. Yeah, why not - let's change history. Words have power. Let's speak peaceful, happy, thoughtful, accepting, consoling, provocative words and call it poetry!! - mh
•••••••••••
Butterfly Prophets
Butterflies soar out of our mouths
And make their way toward a cobalt sky
We hold hands and dance freely
In gloriously imperfect circles
Human daffodil wings sprout from our backs
We have no time to marvel evolution
Everything is forward momentum
There is no looking back
No arguing for tired equations
No longing for past lives
No admiring old loves
No denying our true emptiness
And in that state find ever dying life
And in that place live fully alive
Jesus is here with us
As is Buddha
And Lao Tzu
All the prophets representing the present
Stand here at the shadow of existence
Offering another way
As they hold luminary butterflies to their cardinal hearts
Kevin Del Principe
(added 08.05.10)
editor's note: All the same gaps; we fill them with different things to pass the same time and in the end, we have the same questions... What comes next? - mh
•••••••••••
Bones.
My sincere apologies.
You have fallen, I'm afraid, in love with broken bones, which can only repay in dust.
What's left of them bowing before you, they are too weak to follow orders, too rigid to entertain.
They grimly stand at your feet, awaiting any requests, although they cannot follow through.
The skin has been taken, the organs melted away, and even the heart has decayed by now.
Deteriorating with every move, the dust piling up at bony feet, only these old bones are left.
Standing useless, prostrated by the cruel fractures and breaks of life, and the disease which has ravaged them so far.
They are what is left of a death sentence handed down from doctor to patient, like a grim heirloom of mortality.
They may be suitable for some sort of morbid wind-chime, clanking together with hollow thuds every time a breeze blows.
The powder they make may be a suitable aphrodisiac, like elephant tusks, and may help you or another in ways they could never help their master.
Maybe you can string them up and make a bone marionette, a puppet to play with, a metaphor of what has been, and sadly, still is.
But they cannot remain your servant, as they are quite useless and can no longer succumb to your every whim.
And please, do not place them in the dark closet in an attempt to be rid of a way to deal with them.
They'll clank together something awful, like something out of a ghost story, and you won't be able to sleep.
What's left of the skull, smiles at you for eternity, or at least until he loses his jaw.
Perhaps they can aid in the magic spell of some witch, some potion, some boiling cauldron in need of lonely bones.
I see you cling to them tightly, not wanting what remains of the remains to remain anything other than yours.
Look at them, how they emulate Shakespeare, holding the skull just so, and posing dramatically; what a card!
They want only to serve you, entertain you, be next to you.
They refused even the grave, not wanting to lie in a pine box waiting to become dust.
The dust that has accumulated already, you store in a small wooden box.
How curious, that you rub it on your skin, and sprinkle a bit on your pillow, almost like you were a woman Death dated.
Your love remains constant, while your mind seems to be ever fading.
You cannot be serious, the event would be a travesty, like a wedding mixed with a funeral.
You cannot get married to a pile of bones!
Oh, listen to me, I sound like your mother on the day before that first wedding of yours!
Anyway, those bones are no more fit to be husband of any sort, as you are to be a wife to what is left of a skeleton.
For God's sakes, tie them on the back of the car, like cans, and drag them along when you get married to a real man!
But no, look at you, putting each piece of bone in it's place, lining them up the way you think he went, on the honeymoon bed.
Once again, I say, you cannot be serious!
These bones are certainly not going to do the trick, this is an exercise in sheer futility.
If he was barren and dry before, he certainly is no different now.
But here you go, turning off the lights, playing with the skull, holding a crumbling hand, teasing old bones that cannot fulfill.
Another metaphor snaps into place, a useless, bony man who cannot fulfill, a woman who is out of her mind, and a narrator watching from above that no one heeds.
It's like three years ago, all over again!
Well, at least this time, you can't do any more damage to him than what's already been done.
All you can do at this point is, make twisted Death get a hard on, and grind that skeleton into a fine powder.
My sincere apologies.
You have fallen in love with broken bones, which can only repay in dust.
What's left of them awkwardly sprawled underneath you, they are too weak to follow orders, too rigid to entertain.
Or maybe, just rigid enough.
Enjoy.
James Rodehaver
copyright 2010
(added 08.04.10)
editor's note: Feeling uncomfortable in your skin? Lose it and dance to the music of your own clacking. Like it? - mh
•••••••••••
POLITIKAL KORREKTNESS
Politikal korrektness
Is fraught with zero tolerance
With zero tolerance
We find unadulterated intolerance
Politikal korrektness
Is an absurd parody
Of what it supposedly
Opposes
Politikal korrektness
Means zero diversity
It is truly globalization
Corporate and greedy
Masquerading as diversity
While delivering promises
To build a perfect Utopia
(Which all fascism
And dictatorships were built on)
If you read this
And accusatorily call me a right-wing hatemonger
Politikal korrektness has done its job and you've missed the point
Kyle Segars
(2 poems added 08.03.10)
editor's note: Why, he kan't kall me stupid - I get the point. Point is: if you don't talk to me nicely and never challenge me with language that kalls me plainly what I am, you won't be allowed to exist near me. Doesn't everyone want to be near me? I know I do. (Another "smacker" from Kyle on his page - check it out.) - mh
•••••••••••
Dark Tunnel
A morose mongoose climbs to the
top of the tree and bays at the moon.
It's an illusion conjured up by a little
old lady eating green snow.
The world revolves around severed
limbs as gangrene sets in.
Anxiety is a grassy field; home of a
flock of orange myna birds.
The dam burst, spilling rivets and
flowers. The flowers sing ribald songs.
The pea has a princess under its pillow.
It's cries in the night are obscene.
A tunnel to nowhere is dark; stories
sung by idiots, down on the farm.
Mike Berger
(1 poem added 08.02.10)
editor's note: More idiots, please! - mh
•••••••••••
GOONE
Sometimes I think
He has been
Listening since the womb
And I wonder if he will
Ever find the peace
Of those who care less
It may take a while
I remember
When she said you tell him
And he bounded in
His golden head
All smiles
He sat down
He paid attention to his dad
He always did
I said I am leaving
He crumpled
And now there are days
When he pats me on the back
That youth of me dry
Gone into him
He smiles more
Or less
Things pass
Into water
Anthony Murphy
(2 poems added 08.01.10)
editor's note: We grow older, we remember younger. The young grow older, they remember younger still. We all grow into oblivion, until everyone forgets. Thanks, Mr. Murphy! (Another new one from Anthony on his page - check it 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 here...
Drawing Conclusions,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
untitled (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 a taste of the poetry we featured this week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum...
•••••••••••
Hot’n Spicy
Lots of rich
Cheddar cheese -
Just a hint of Jalapeno,
A dash -
Of chili pepper
With a blend of
Zesty tastes and textures,
Born of the sun,
For coy
People
Who want a little spice
In their lives.
I bought a dozen boxes,
Should have filled
My cart I thought. They promised me
Pleasure…
Something new and bold
And I was desperate,
Needed a little variety
In my somber life.
So I took a chance, spent
Forty dollars,
On the red hot boxes
And smiled
A saucy smile
As I stashed them in my
Cupboard
Unopened.
I wasn’t really hungry
After all.
Sheree La Puma-Watson
(added 08.07.10)
editor's note: Yeah, if you have the shelf space, buy that hot stuff anyway. Everybody likes that hot stuff! You will be hungry later. - mh
•••••••••••
VOICES OF THE HOLOCAUST
At night, they come to me, speaking softly at first,
sometimes in a whisper, as they reach out across
Time and Space, searching for a loving soul who
remembers.
Buried in the darkness of unfathomable dreams,
in a wooden coffin of my own creation, I listen
to the voices of the Holocaust.
“Why?” the bewildered voices ask me in unison.
I imagine the phantom faces, dark wounded eyes
mounted on bony flesh peering at me from the
other side of the shattered universe, and I can’t
utter one word of comfort.
The ghosts are still trapped and wandering in the
death camps, I think. Lost souls of Yesterday
seeking peace of mind.
“I’m trying to understand,” I confess.
“We all are. Yet no one knows.
The Holocaust is incomprehensible.
It’s the reason I lost my faith.
And yet, it is why I search for
Hashem.
“Someday, perhaps, we will understand.
Until then, I will listen to your voices
at night and inhale your anguished
souls.
“And we shall be one.”
Mel Waldman
(2 poems added 08.06.10)
editor's note: Another reminder from Dr. Mel: Let's strive to eliminate the kind of thinking that has made history's holocausts possible. Yeah, why not - let's change history. Words have power. Let's speak peaceful, happy, thoughtful, accepting, consoling, provocative words and call it poetry!! - mh
•••••••••••
Butterfly Prophets
Butterflies soar out of our mouths
And make their way toward a cobalt sky
We hold hands and dance freely
In gloriously imperfect circles
Human daffodil wings sprout from our backs
We have no time to marvel evolution
Everything is forward momentum
There is no looking back
No arguing for tired equations
No longing for past lives
No admiring old loves
No denying our true emptiness
And in that state find ever dying life
And in that place live fully alive
Jesus is here with us
As is Buddha
And Lao Tzu
All the prophets representing the present
Stand here at the shadow of existence
Offering another way
As they hold luminary butterflies to their cardinal hearts
Kevin Del Principe
(added 08.05.10)
editor's note: All the same gaps; we fill them with different things to pass the same time and in the end, we have the same questions... What comes next? - mh
•••••••••••
Bones.
My sincere apologies.
You have fallen, I'm afraid, in love with broken bones, which can only repay in dust.
What's left of them bowing before you, they are too weak to follow orders, too rigid to entertain.
They grimly stand at your feet, awaiting any requests, although they cannot follow through.
The skin has been taken, the organs melted away, and even the heart has decayed by now.
Deteriorating with every move, the dust piling up at bony feet, only these old bones are left.
Standing useless, prostrated by the cruel fractures and breaks of life, and the disease which has ravaged them so far.
They are what is left of a death sentence handed down from doctor to patient, like a grim heirloom of mortality.
They may be suitable for some sort of morbid wind-chime, clanking together with hollow thuds every time a breeze blows.
The powder they make may be a suitable aphrodisiac, like elephant tusks, and may help you or another in ways they could never help their master.
Maybe you can string them up and make a bone marionette, a puppet to play with, a metaphor of what has been, and sadly, still is.
But they cannot remain your servant, as they are quite useless and can no longer succumb to your every whim.
And please, do not place them in the dark closet in an attempt to be rid of a way to deal with them.
They'll clank together something awful, like something out of a ghost story, and you won't be able to sleep.
What's left of the skull, smiles at you for eternity, or at least until he loses his jaw.
Perhaps they can aid in the magic spell of some witch, some potion, some boiling cauldron in need of lonely bones.
I see you cling to them tightly, not wanting what remains of the remains to remain anything other than yours.
Look at them, how they emulate Shakespeare, holding the skull just so, and posing dramatically; what a card!
They want only to serve you, entertain you, be next to you.
They refused even the grave, not wanting to lie in a pine box waiting to become dust.
The dust that has accumulated already, you store in a small wooden box.
How curious, that you rub it on your skin, and sprinkle a bit on your pillow, almost like you were a woman Death dated.
Your love remains constant, while your mind seems to be ever fading.
You cannot be serious, the event would be a travesty, like a wedding mixed with a funeral.
You cannot get married to a pile of bones!
Oh, listen to me, I sound like your mother on the day before that first wedding of yours!
Anyway, those bones are no more fit to be husband of any sort, as you are to be a wife to what is left of a skeleton.
For God's sakes, tie them on the back of the car, like cans, and drag them along when you get married to a real man!
But no, look at you, putting each piece of bone in it's place, lining them up the way you think he went, on the honeymoon bed.
Once again, I say, you cannot be serious!
These bones are certainly not going to do the trick, this is an exercise in sheer futility.
If he was barren and dry before, he certainly is no different now.
But here you go, turning off the lights, playing with the skull, holding a crumbling hand, teasing old bones that cannot fulfill.
Another metaphor snaps into place, a useless, bony man who cannot fulfill, a woman who is out of her mind, and a narrator watching from above that no one heeds.
It's like three years ago, all over again!
Well, at least this time, you can't do any more damage to him than what's already been done.
All you can do at this point is, make twisted Death get a hard on, and grind that skeleton into a fine powder.
My sincere apologies.
You have fallen in love with broken bones, which can only repay in dust.
What's left of them awkwardly sprawled underneath you, they are too weak to follow orders, too rigid to entertain.
Or maybe, just rigid enough.
Enjoy.
James Rodehaver
copyright 2010
(added 08.04.10)
editor's note: Feeling uncomfortable in your skin? Lose it and dance to the music of your own clacking. Like it? - mh
•••••••••••
POLITIKAL KORREKTNESS
Politikal korrektness
Is fraught with zero tolerance
With zero tolerance
We find unadulterated intolerance
Politikal korrektness
Is an absurd parody
Of what it supposedly
Opposes
Politikal korrektness
Means zero diversity
It is truly globalization
Corporate and greedy
Masquerading as diversity
While delivering promises
To build a perfect Utopia
(Which all fascism
And dictatorships were built on)
If you read this
And accusatorily call me a right-wing hatemonger
Politikal korrektness has done its job and you've missed the point
Kyle Segars
(2 poems added 08.03.10)
editor's note: Why, he kan't kall me stupid - I get the point. Point is: if you don't talk to me nicely and never challenge me with language that kalls me plainly what I am, you won't be allowed to exist near me. Doesn't everyone want to be near me? I know I do. (Another "smacker" from Kyle on his page - check it out.) - mh
•••••••••••
Dark Tunnel
A morose mongoose climbs to the
top of the tree and bays at the moon.
It's an illusion conjured up by a little
old lady eating green snow.
The world revolves around severed
limbs as gangrene sets in.
Anxiety is a grassy field; home of a
flock of orange myna birds.
The dam burst, spilling rivets and
flowers. The flowers sing ribald songs.
The pea has a princess under its pillow.
It's cries in the night are obscene.
A tunnel to nowhere is dark; stories
sung by idiots, down on the farm.
Mike Berger
(1 poem added 08.02.10)
editor's note: More idiots, please! - mh
•••••••••••
GOONE
Sometimes I think
He has been
Listening since the womb
And I wonder if he will
Ever find the peace
Of those who care less
It may take a while
I remember
When she said you tell him
And he bounded in
His golden head
All smiles
He sat down
He paid attention to his dad
He always did
I said I am leaving
He crumpled
And now there are days
When he pats me on the back
That youth of me dry
Gone into him
He smiles more
Or less
Things pass
Into water
Anthony Murphy
(2 poems added 08.01.10)
editor's note: We grow older, we remember younger. The young grow older, they remember younger still. We all grow into oblivion, until everyone forgets. Thanks, Mr. Murphy! (Another new one from Anthony on his page - check it 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 here...
Drawing Conclusions,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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