The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 08.28.10
“We're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad.” Lewis Carroll
House of Cards (above) by mad illustrator Shelly Pinder, 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...
•••••••••••
LET EARTH
Let Earth welcome us
like a friend
not an unwanted visitor.
Let Earth shelter us
like a house
and trust us to be human.
Do not trust in war
machines, guns, and bombs.
Love the human race.
Feel the dry branches
and green leaves.
Do not turn your back on the lame.
Let Earth heal our pain,
bring us joy,
and comfort for the rest of our lives.
Let Earth feed our thirst,
hunger, and
what our souls and hearts crave.
Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
(3 poems added 08.28.10)
editor's note: Yes, let's let Earth do all of these things. Let's not make her twitch like a horse plaqued by flies, lest we fly off into the stratosphere, with no where left to stand. Thanks, Luis!! - mh
•••••••••••
The Equinox
every age there is a dawn
the chrysalis sun
bloats within the birth cloud
waiting for transformation
the metamorphosis of the red giant
the great mask of death slips o'er the face of god
and nods for the grande applause
Nicholas Martin
(1 poem added 08.27.10)
editor's note: Could be death deserves applause, but the butterfly sun gets a standing ovation. - mh
•••••••••••
LINES WRITTEN FOR FRANK O’HARA’S BIRTHDAY
Little papaya junky with the saffron winglets,
because every day’s your birthday honeysuckle
rare birds sing at breakfast and azure goats grin
out on the southern linai. We’ll build Buddha blue
totems, eat tangerines and toss horse shoes listening
to Rachmaninoff then get sloshed on more blueberry
blueness. Squash blossoms and myrrh.
Bananas Foster outside Santa Fe, thrilling pineapple of sunset.
Tea-chugging angels wearing freaky hiking boots,
marshmallows’ gleeful paranoia in morning sunlight.
KISSES
Eskimo kisses and butterfly kisses and French kisses
and ooh la telepathic kisses. Kissing after pie!
Thought’s luminous ballet, meteors in Sweden.
Jingling Ferris wheel and city of peacock fireworks.
There’s a nebulous purr in your pockets full of pearls.
Vanilla seaflowers and buttery wildflowers–
at the rodeo you can wear your philosophical corsage
(working hard like salmon or god),
your poems zap our eyes with their perfect diamonds,
we love your glistening earlobes of truth,
so woolly, so dazzling
you are beautiful like melting chocolate and hot sparking mica
in city sidewalks, you’re mistletoe above bejeweled umbrellas.
I wanna take you to La Brea Tar Pits and we’ll look at
cowgirls and dinosaurs, ride our mountain bikes up to the moon.
Kallima Hamilton
(added 08.26.10)
editor's note: Hey, Frank! Did you get that? I wish such a birthday eulogy for all who approach another year still living! Thank you, Kallima! (Not sure who Frank O'Hara is? Google is a wonderful resource.) - mh
•••••••••••
Can't Feel My Feet
Security officer, inaudible, towering over the homeless tears. Thick balmy air, with patches of cigarette smoke, loitering amongst the traffic graveyard.
I'm walking but cannot feel my feet.
Ancient eyes fixated on the floor, CAUTION: WET FLOOR, as rat maze toddlers scurry about with little or no regard for direction. Missing limbs, missing minds and missing hearts pollute the reception area.
I'm walking but cannot feel my feet.
Craigslist one-night stands hover about the medicine cabinet of my mind, as a collage of frowns, glares and insecure grins shoot by either side of my head. I'm barely able to say my name through the commotion, which has now reached a two-ringed circus pitch. Bearded ladies, lobster clawed children and exaggerated mimes inch me onward to this thing called "love."
I'm walking but cannot feel my feet.
"You are the strong man," they cry out! A strong man, though I feel about as strong as a skeleton king. Jeweled encrusted gold crown dangling around my flesh removed neck.
I'm still walking
But still can't feel my feet.
Scott Howell
(added 08.25.10)
editor's note: Let's knock bones on brick, our hollow-bong prayer to the king of skeletons. Flick pointed bone fingers across xylophone teeth to hum our ossified obeisance...we don't need to feel anything. - mh
•••••••••••
A Flawless Intuition of Grammar
I burn candles without you, become air,
cellophane our first caress, preserve
that powder intimacy, your smile:
a smudge of petals as intentionless
as drizzle. Fire forged form, so your ears
and smallest fingers are a mouthful
of crayons. We crumble, gears of separate
machines grinding vectors of whirring spheres.
As a girl, did you anticipate me
in déjà vu, dining on woman throat,
your ankles and wrists so awkwardly long
for such a small thing? And when I wake
up naked each morning with your name
in my mouth, I want to conquer the world.
Michael Constantine McConnell
(2 poems added 08.24.10)
editor's note: Man, oh, man! We never can see those deja vus comin', but savor their happenstance as the sweet memories they are. No wonder we are strong! (Another great one from Michael on his page, too, another deja vu.) - mh
•••••••••••
Four is greater than pi
Numbers always elude me
yet I think I have it now.
There are three hundred
puke green cinder blocks
in this place where death and life collide,
four windows with bars
to keep what, spirits in or out?
A radar blip
every two seconds to confirm
air is still given
and taken.
One bed so shiny
the glare hurts my eyes,
one three by six device in my palm
holding four words
that broke me in two.
But pulse rates over a hundred
do not kill,
So
I counted two hundred three steps
to the car that took three left turns,
passed four green lights
a lone police car watching
to arrive at one house
where the message
repeats like that awful remainder
in algebra,
Have a great life.
Counting has stopped.
Lynne Hayes
(added 08.23.10)
editor's note: I can't count on any scale the deep yawning empty fullness these words create. But, I know one thing for sure - I'm getting a new calculator. - mh
•••••••••••
dig
each freckle
on my tired arms
each mole
on my aching back
a tiny hole
where someone tried
to 'dig a bit deeper'
dropped their shovel
and ran
Zach Ogden
(1 poem added 08.22.10)
editor's note: See the blade turn your fresh earth. See the look of dismay or disgust. See your expression in the mirror. Try to distinguish one from the other and your's from their's. - 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...
Curiouser & Curiouser,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
House of Cards (above) by mad illustrator Shelly Pinder, 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...
•••••••••••
LET EARTH
Let Earth welcome us
like a friend
not an unwanted visitor.
Let Earth shelter us
like a house
and trust us to be human.
Do not trust in war
machines, guns, and bombs.
Love the human race.
Feel the dry branches
and green leaves.
Do not turn your back on the lame.
Let Earth heal our pain,
bring us joy,
and comfort for the rest of our lives.
Let Earth feed our thirst,
hunger, and
what our souls and hearts crave.
Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
(3 poems added 08.28.10)
editor's note: Yes, let's let Earth do all of these things. Let's not make her twitch like a horse plaqued by flies, lest we fly off into the stratosphere, with no where left to stand. Thanks, Luis!! - mh
•••••••••••
The Equinox
every age there is a dawn
the chrysalis sun
bloats within the birth cloud
waiting for transformation
the metamorphosis of the red giant
the great mask of death slips o'er the face of god
and nods for the grande applause
Nicholas Martin
(1 poem added 08.27.10)
editor's note: Could be death deserves applause, but the butterfly sun gets a standing ovation. - mh
•••••••••••
LINES WRITTEN FOR FRANK O’HARA’S BIRTHDAY
Little papaya junky with the saffron winglets,
because every day’s your birthday honeysuckle
rare birds sing at breakfast and azure goats grin
out on the southern linai. We’ll build Buddha blue
totems, eat tangerines and toss horse shoes listening
to Rachmaninoff then get sloshed on more blueberry
blueness. Squash blossoms and myrrh.
Bananas Foster outside Santa Fe, thrilling pineapple of sunset.
Tea-chugging angels wearing freaky hiking boots,
marshmallows’ gleeful paranoia in morning sunlight.
KISSES
Eskimo kisses and butterfly kisses and French kisses
and ooh la telepathic kisses. Kissing after pie!
Thought’s luminous ballet, meteors in Sweden.
Jingling Ferris wheel and city of peacock fireworks.
There’s a nebulous purr in your pockets full of pearls.
Vanilla seaflowers and buttery wildflowers–
at the rodeo you can wear your philosophical corsage
(working hard like salmon or god),
your poems zap our eyes with their perfect diamonds,
we love your glistening earlobes of truth,
so woolly, so dazzling
you are beautiful like melting chocolate and hot sparking mica
in city sidewalks, you’re mistletoe above bejeweled umbrellas.
I wanna take you to La Brea Tar Pits and we’ll look at
cowgirls and dinosaurs, ride our mountain bikes up to the moon.
Kallima Hamilton
(added 08.26.10)
editor's note: Hey, Frank! Did you get that? I wish such a birthday eulogy for all who approach another year still living! Thank you, Kallima! (Not sure who Frank O'Hara is? Google is a wonderful resource.) - mh
•••••••••••
Can't Feel My Feet
Security officer, inaudible, towering over the homeless tears. Thick balmy air, with patches of cigarette smoke, loitering amongst the traffic graveyard.
I'm walking but cannot feel my feet.
Ancient eyes fixated on the floor, CAUTION: WET FLOOR, as rat maze toddlers scurry about with little or no regard for direction. Missing limbs, missing minds and missing hearts pollute the reception area.
I'm walking but cannot feel my feet.
Craigslist one-night stands hover about the medicine cabinet of my mind, as a collage of frowns, glares and insecure grins shoot by either side of my head. I'm barely able to say my name through the commotion, which has now reached a two-ringed circus pitch. Bearded ladies, lobster clawed children and exaggerated mimes inch me onward to this thing called "love."
I'm walking but cannot feel my feet.
"You are the strong man," they cry out! A strong man, though I feel about as strong as a skeleton king. Jeweled encrusted gold crown dangling around my flesh removed neck.
I'm still walking
But still can't feel my feet.
Scott Howell
(added 08.25.10)
editor's note: Let's knock bones on brick, our hollow-bong prayer to the king of skeletons. Flick pointed bone fingers across xylophone teeth to hum our ossified obeisance...we don't need to feel anything. - mh
•••••••••••
A Flawless Intuition of Grammar
I burn candles without you, become air,
cellophane our first caress, preserve
that powder intimacy, your smile:
a smudge of petals as intentionless
as drizzle. Fire forged form, so your ears
and smallest fingers are a mouthful
of crayons. We crumble, gears of separate
machines grinding vectors of whirring spheres.
As a girl, did you anticipate me
in déjà vu, dining on woman throat,
your ankles and wrists so awkwardly long
for such a small thing? And when I wake
up naked each morning with your name
in my mouth, I want to conquer the world.
Michael Constantine McConnell
(2 poems added 08.24.10)
editor's note: Man, oh, man! We never can see those deja vus comin', but savor their happenstance as the sweet memories they are. No wonder we are strong! (Another great one from Michael on his page, too, another deja vu.) - mh
•••••••••••
Four is greater than pi
Numbers always elude me
yet I think I have it now.
There are three hundred
puke green cinder blocks
in this place where death and life collide,
four windows with bars
to keep what, spirits in or out?
A radar blip
every two seconds to confirm
air is still given
and taken.
One bed so shiny
the glare hurts my eyes,
one three by six device in my palm
holding four words
that broke me in two.
But pulse rates over a hundred
do not kill,
So
I counted two hundred three steps
to the car that took three left turns,
passed four green lights
a lone police car watching
to arrive at one house
where the message
repeats like that awful remainder
in algebra,
Have a great life.
Counting has stopped.
Lynne Hayes
(added 08.23.10)
editor's note: I can't count on any scale the deep yawning empty fullness these words create. But, I know one thing for sure - I'm getting a new calculator. - mh
•••••••••••
dig
each freckle
on my tired arms
each mole
on my aching back
a tiny hole
where someone tried
to 'dig a bit deeper'
dropped their shovel
and ran
Zach Ogden
(1 poem added 08.22.10)
editor's note: See the blade turn your fresh earth. See the look of dismay or disgust. See your expression in the mirror. Try to distinguish one from the other and your's from their's. - 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...
Curiouser & Curiouser,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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