The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 09.18.10
“Not to transmit an experience is to betray it.” Elie Wiesel
The Migrant (above) by painter Joseph A. Garrison, 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...
•••••••••••
CHILDHOOD
(For Rusty McClain)
Hanging in the closets
of childhood
were secrets
followed by
embarrassments,
and small hand guns,
bluejays
of injustice
cocked
against cool darkness.
And just below the sweatshirt
not worn
in weeks,
slept
the pearl-handled
egalitarian life
you were promised.
As anxiety
carved your
adolescent
grief,
each dawn
you arose
an outcast Phoenix
from the ashes
of your dreams.
Alan Britt
(added 09.18.10)
editor's note: Yes, we remember - all those old clothes, too small, we think, for this grown-up life. Hell, no! Let's burn the whole batch and see what new dreams arise from those old ashes. - mh
•••••••••••
Daydreaming at the Printing Press
Two sisters,
Working at the same printing press,
Both with Chrysler LeBarons,
Both with convertible tops
How I wish I were the same,
One with these convertible tops;
How I wish I could say
To the sisters where I work,
Someday I wish I were the same
One with the two sisters:
Convertible tops.
Sander Blome
(added 09.17.10)
editor's note: One with the convertible tops, one with the two sisters, one with the Chrysler LeBarons, one with the American Dream and the question, "To what should we convert?" - mh
•••••••••••
Yes I Will
To you I say I will
like dewdrops capture the twilight
for you are the essence of love
and not a mere facade
painted upon its expression
once liberated from the fountain
of man's fears
we no longer find comfort there
choosing instead
to breathe with the sun
fall slowly in moonlight
bask upon green clover
and sleep in an ocean's symphony
and of the sweet agony
of understanding why
we'll compose the songs
of hopes and dreams
the sun, moon and rain
would otherwise ignore
never having known the courage
or felt the beauty
of but one embrace
David Worthington
(added 09.16.10)
editor's note: I never realized it took couraged to embrace; never thought about the beauty there is in vulnerability; never did let hopes and dreams bring forth a song. Never knew love, cuz I never said "I will!" Thanks, David W. for making us brave(r)! - mh
•••••••••••
Wisdom Exists On Kitchen Counters
wisdom exists on kitchen counters
when your mother puts a taco
into hot grease and says,
"you should always tell the truth."
wisdom exists underneath old cars
when your father hands you
a crescent wrench and says,
"there is no time for pain."
wisdom exists in grocery store
backrooms while your co-worker
pushes a pallet-jack and says,
"pretty ain't nothin' but a headache."
wisdom exists in old houses
in South Central as your grandmother
pours you a glass of grape juice and says,
"always be yourself."
wisdom exists in bathrooms,
in laundry rooms,
in garages,
and in parked cars.
pure untainted wisdom exists
in the cracks, the corners,
the secret places
of the earth.
Mike Meraz
(2 poems added 09.15.10)
editor's note: Exquisite wisdom, indeed! Not printed in books, not etched in marble, but caught in the air from anyone. I remember ironing-board wisdom from Grandma, in response to my lament over the empty cookie jar - "Well, that's just the way it is." (Another good one from Mike on his page - check it out.) - mh
•••••••••••
The Blank Canvas
A Variation on Peter Meinke's "Liquid Paper"
Clean as snow, this empty canvas
is a picture of bliss. One slight stain
and the effect is gone.
We know of those who wish their lives
were like it, with new possibilities
to create something fresh.
Though it is desired, it
remains a dream.
One time my brother smoked through his worries,
every poisoned puff
turning his mind into a blank slate
until the fog cleared, his mistake
etched in his memory, a permanent blot.
If I had my way, I would want a clean slate
every now and again to start fresh--
becoming someone new while leaving my old self
a dead memory.
We all deserve a clean start
Once in a while
to correct our mistakes
before one stain ruins our chance
and everything goes wrong again.
Ignacio J. Fontan
(added 09.14.10)
editor's note: Tabula rasa, as often as it takes. Use soft soap and warm water; must have some surface left for the next scrawl and stain. Or, let it ride and call it Abstract Expressionism - viewers interpret, critics define. (They will anyway.) - mh
•••••••••••
The air sucks in love
slips the knife in along the bone
the sea heaves a pulse
up to the eyelids of balconies
I see how the day is made
pigeons fly up, a twig at a time
what you say always comes into me from there
that outer space around the living
monsters creep friendly into argument
drinks all around for sudden friends
measure salt into the boiling stream
the splash you made by holding still
whiskey pours into the painted corners of a grin
the scent we have of burning for each other
dry from the suds, the vino, the hard stuff
Crows take over your position
growing blacker with the smoke
tell me something of the sun.
Jude Dillon
(added 09.13.10)
editor's note: Snapshot mode, where moments are captured and concatenated, random memories strung together into something we call life, where "monsters creep friendly." Yes, dehydrated, pouring out words, we are thirsty for more of "the suds, the vino, the hard stuff." Thanks, Jude Dillon, for telling us something... - mh
•••••••••••
Second Sitting
You would prefer me
stripped I wonder now,
anatomical definition
for your precision recreation.
Is it so unacceptable
that I retain my own skin,
however thumbed
and cracked it has
since become?
Claire Bircher
(added 09.12.10)
editor's note: The model exposes the artist's true intentions. The artist paints her two eyes on one side of her face; her breasts geometrical, one larger than the other; calls it Cubism. Who has the sharper edges? - 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...
Always Transmitting,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
P.S. Also, if you happened to have missed last Sunday's mad meeting of the swirlin' minds behind MadSwirl on Angelheart's BlogTalk show, well here's another chance to dig the madness. Give it a listen... RIGHT HERE!
And tune in EVERY 2nd Sunday from 12:30 until 2:30 (CST) for MadSwirl Sunday's! Next month's feature, Opalina Salas!
The Migrant (above) by painter Joseph A. Garrison, 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...
•••••••••••
CHILDHOOD
(For Rusty McClain)
Hanging in the closets
of childhood
were secrets
followed by
embarrassments,
and small hand guns,
bluejays
of injustice
cocked
against cool darkness.
And just below the sweatshirt
not worn
in weeks,
slept
the pearl-handled
egalitarian life
you were promised.
As anxiety
carved your
adolescent
grief,
each dawn
you arose
an outcast Phoenix
from the ashes
of your dreams.
Alan Britt
(added 09.18.10)
editor's note: Yes, we remember - all those old clothes, too small, we think, for this grown-up life. Hell, no! Let's burn the whole batch and see what new dreams arise from those old ashes. - mh
•••••••••••
Daydreaming at the Printing Press
Two sisters,
Working at the same printing press,
Both with Chrysler LeBarons,
Both with convertible tops
How I wish I were the same,
One with these convertible tops;
How I wish I could say
To the sisters where I work,
Someday I wish I were the same
One with the two sisters:
Convertible tops.
Sander Blome
(added 09.17.10)
editor's note: One with the convertible tops, one with the two sisters, one with the Chrysler LeBarons, one with the American Dream and the question, "To what should we convert?" - mh
•••••••••••
Yes I Will
To you I say I will
like dewdrops capture the twilight
for you are the essence of love
and not a mere facade
painted upon its expression
once liberated from the fountain
of man's fears
we no longer find comfort there
choosing instead
to breathe with the sun
fall slowly in moonlight
bask upon green clover
and sleep in an ocean's symphony
and of the sweet agony
of understanding why
we'll compose the songs
of hopes and dreams
the sun, moon and rain
would otherwise ignore
never having known the courage
or felt the beauty
of but one embrace
David Worthington
(added 09.16.10)
editor's note: I never realized it took couraged to embrace; never thought about the beauty there is in vulnerability; never did let hopes and dreams bring forth a song. Never knew love, cuz I never said "I will!" Thanks, David W. for making us brave(r)! - mh
•••••••••••
Wisdom Exists On Kitchen Counters
wisdom exists on kitchen counters
when your mother puts a taco
into hot grease and says,
"you should always tell the truth."
wisdom exists underneath old cars
when your father hands you
a crescent wrench and says,
"there is no time for pain."
wisdom exists in grocery store
backrooms while your co-worker
pushes a pallet-jack and says,
"pretty ain't nothin' but a headache."
wisdom exists in old houses
in South Central as your grandmother
pours you a glass of grape juice and says,
"always be yourself."
wisdom exists in bathrooms,
in laundry rooms,
in garages,
and in parked cars.
pure untainted wisdom exists
in the cracks, the corners,
the secret places
of the earth.
Mike Meraz
(2 poems added 09.15.10)
editor's note: Exquisite wisdom, indeed! Not printed in books, not etched in marble, but caught in the air from anyone. I remember ironing-board wisdom from Grandma, in response to my lament over the empty cookie jar - "Well, that's just the way it is." (Another good one from Mike on his page - check it out.) - mh
•••••••••••
The Blank Canvas
A Variation on Peter Meinke's "Liquid Paper"
Clean as snow, this empty canvas
is a picture of bliss. One slight stain
and the effect is gone.
We know of those who wish their lives
were like it, with new possibilities
to create something fresh.
Though it is desired, it
remains a dream.
One time my brother smoked through his worries,
every poisoned puff
turning his mind into a blank slate
until the fog cleared, his mistake
etched in his memory, a permanent blot.
If I had my way, I would want a clean slate
every now and again to start fresh--
becoming someone new while leaving my old self
a dead memory.
We all deserve a clean start
Once in a while
to correct our mistakes
before one stain ruins our chance
and everything goes wrong again.
Ignacio J. Fontan
(added 09.14.10)
editor's note: Tabula rasa, as often as it takes. Use soft soap and warm water; must have some surface left for the next scrawl and stain. Or, let it ride and call it Abstract Expressionism - viewers interpret, critics define. (They will anyway.) - mh
•••••••••••
The air sucks in love
slips the knife in along the bone
the sea heaves a pulse
up to the eyelids of balconies
I see how the day is made
pigeons fly up, a twig at a time
what you say always comes into me from there
that outer space around the living
monsters creep friendly into argument
drinks all around for sudden friends
measure salt into the boiling stream
the splash you made by holding still
whiskey pours into the painted corners of a grin
the scent we have of burning for each other
dry from the suds, the vino, the hard stuff
Crows take over your position
growing blacker with the smoke
tell me something of the sun.
Jude Dillon
(added 09.13.10)
editor's note: Snapshot mode, where moments are captured and concatenated, random memories strung together into something we call life, where "monsters creep friendly." Yes, dehydrated, pouring out words, we are thirsty for more of "the suds, the vino, the hard stuff." Thanks, Jude Dillon, for telling us something... - mh
•••••••••••
Second Sitting
You would prefer me
stripped I wonder now,
anatomical definition
for your precision recreation.
Is it so unacceptable
that I retain my own skin,
however thumbed
and cracked it has
since become?
Claire Bircher
(added 09.12.10)
editor's note: The model exposes the artist's true intentions. The artist paints her two eyes on one side of her face; her breasts geometrical, one larger than the other; calls it Cubism. Who has the sharper edges? - 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...
Always Transmitting,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
P.S. Also, if you happened to have missed last Sunday's mad meeting of the swirlin' minds behind MadSwirl on Angelheart's BlogTalk show, well here's another chance to dig the madness. Give it a listen... RIGHT HERE!
And tune in EVERY 2nd Sunday from 12:30 until 2:30 (CST) for MadSwirl Sunday's! Next month's feature, Opalina Salas!
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