The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 12.25.10
“And so this is Christmas / I hope you have fun / The near and the dear ones / The old and the young / A very merry Christmas / And a happy New Year / Let's hope it's a good one / Without any fear.” John & Yoko
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste of the poetry we featured this week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum...
•••••••••••
Autumn Leaves
I roll spite
and light it
with your confession
and my hungover fumes.
My mind's smoke;
seethed by pictures
of your explicit sin,
pounds and hammers
at my sickened heart
and pours out in glares
from wide bloodshot eyes.
Your dried flower words
will not let me sleep.
No,
in these dawn streets
waking beneath my feet,
the loneliness
of your lust and mine
blows yesterday's
paper promises of
our plans away
and replaces Spring's fresh hope
and Summer's warm embrace
with the wait for Winter's solitary chill.
Yes, desire has stripped
all love from this trunk of bones
and left it alone to sway and watch
Autumn's tears falling with the leaves.
J. H. Martin
(added 12.25.10)
editor's note: Little consolation comes from poets' pens when words form bitter memory and love lost is a simile. Sigh another sigh, write another verse. - mh
•••••••••••
Jacob's Ladder?
Clergy shout it
behind the pulpit
to those below them
in the rows of repentance -
the way for the righteous
is up
one step at a time
to the big meet and greet
with the deity of sublime resolve.
My little lost cowgirl of splendor and grace
the one with the knee high boots
and knockout smile
always reminded me
of biblical admonitions
while roping steers
"God looks down upon us
no matter where we were
even in the pastures" she said
as we stole away moments
of pleasure
under the watchful eye.
One late afternoon in the barn
stacking hay loads
in pens meant for cows, pigs
I borrowed a twenty footer
and up I went
to meet her. Hours later
on my way down
I slipped on a rotted wooden rung
and fell ass first
onto the finest dairy milker of the bunch
breaking my fall
but breaking her back.
"Why did you kill my Bessy?"
daddy dearest snarled as he caressed the diary's best
in his calloused hands. "What were you doin' upstairs?"
Reflecting on the man upstairs
and his words of wisdom I replied,
"The crane dumped over the excess hay.
I tried to push 'em in, even and straight
but they fell on the poor thing."
The haggard rancher stood over me
looked deep into the eyes of his daughter
before saying, "Next time
you help yourself to the milk,
you'd better be prepared to buy the whole cow -
or you'll climb up Jacob's ladder
much sooner than you think."
The next day
I left farming all together
- right after I kissed the girl of my lonely nights goodbye
to take up door to door solicitation
of Gideon's finest bibles
for those non-believers
who think being scared straight
is only for wicked.
Joseph D. DiLella
(2 poems added 12.24.10)
editor's note: Repentence, righteousness and a roll in the hay. Tenets of faith to sustain us, enough to leave the farm - but take the cow along. (Another good one from Joseph on his page - check it out.) - mh
•••••••••••
Ricochet
While busy running the sun to sleep
I think about pinballing myself
into warm, open arms,
and how, cold and reflective,
I bounce back, fast as I came
Cradled only for a moment, then away,
into the lights,
and the trenches beneath the garish joy.
Emily E. Riggert
(2 poems added 12.23.10)
editor's note: Is it the velocity of that silver ball, or the resilience of those bumpers that hazard our pursuit of love? Don't know, but I gotta get some more quarters. And while you're bouncing around our forum, check out another great poem from our newest contributing poet's page. - mh
•••••••••••
The Triangle
In front of me, the smart windmill,
turning obediently to Aeolus’ authority.
Behind me, the wonderful sunflowers,
shimmering passionately on the green carpet.
Above me, fervent ravens,
aiming for the limitless sky.
Standing at the base of this triangle
I knew I had to follow
only one of these three routes:
either turning the turbines of the present
to grind the past into oblivion,
or striving to shine in this green jealous world,
or reach the stars by surrendering.
I decided to toss a coin.
Amit Parmessur
(added 12.22.10)
editor's note: Such choices; grinding, shining or flying - two out of three aren't bad. Now, if I could just find a three-sided coin... - mh
•••••••••••
It's Always Dia De Los Meurtos In My Head
It's always
day of the dead
in my head,
stay awhile,
and visit,
I have some
sugar skulls,
marigolds,
we can
drink mezcal
and ride
my Andalusian
horse in a parade
down Santa Maria La Ribera,
We'll wear
tissue paper flowers
in our hair,
it's so much fun
but you
have to stay
forever
Melanie Browne
(added 12.21.10)
editor's note: So, another something to fill in the blank "_______ is forever." Why not sign up for some eternal fun? (Another good one from Melanie on her page - check it out.) - mh
•••••••••••
Dying Alive
Life was hanging jagged
on the last limb,waiting
for the Fall, wanting to flutter
away before the coming cold of Winter.
We stared at all the signs,
billboards counting down
Doomsday minutes,our eyes
forever surrendering to "Buy more Coke".
And we mainlined corn syrup,
hoping for a new recipe, our
final betrayal seeming simply Classic.
My lips moved as you passed the bottle,
mouthing platitudes in the drunken dawn,
anything to make the coming daylight bright,
a reason for waking to another day.
You wheezed a phlegm plagued cough,
a sign of tubercular rumblings, deep in
your throat to bring words out breathing:
"I think I'm dying".
I glanced at our surroundings;
the needles of sun highlighting
the ruin of our days, smoke
cascading, frozen in the chilling room.
I grabbed your empty head, proof against meaning,
"Honey, we all die sometime"
Rose Morales
(2 poems added 12.20.10)
editor's note: Put that way, it doesn't much matter how one greets the sunrise - we're all headed to the same end... in the end, at the end of the end. (Another great one from Rose on her page; suggests "To be, or not to be" is not a valid question.) - mh
•••••••••••
HOW SPELT IS WEAT
Her hair crumbles like applesauce in autumn
Her breath smells as felt
She sucks up my senses
I’m a tactile dyslexic
Like fingering fish that is smelt
Her laughter is conical
Her body atonal
She beckons me like a square
I’m an ophthalmic moron
An aural goofball
Whenever she is near me
I hear sponges and mushrooms
And loud zesty lemons
I see colours that do not exist yet
I feel daytime and spring
And panic and lovely
Amongst other intangible things
And what do I do
Now that I’m twisted?
Rearrange myself?
I could chop off my hands
With a circular saw
And stick eyeballs on my wrist stumps
Shove a trumpet down my oesophagus
Hop some ears on top my knees
Stuff my tongue where it is tasteless
And cause my testicles to sneeze
Or distance myself
I could touch nothing at all
Curl myself into a ball
Inside a swaddle of cotton wool
Deprive myself in a tank
Like the altered state of
William Hurt
And then
I guess
It won’t
Be senseless
Anthony Murphy
(1 poem added 12.19.10)
editor's note: What a delightful love poem! Not yer garden variety, bouquet and chocolates, rhymes with "heart" concatenation of words here, but the real deal - outta control, can't help it, crazy 'bout her love - kinda poem. Ahhhh, romance! - 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...
With Mad Merriment,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste of the poetry we featured this week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum...
•••••••••••
Autumn Leaves
I roll spite
and light it
with your confession
and my hungover fumes.
My mind's smoke;
seethed by pictures
of your explicit sin,
pounds and hammers
at my sickened heart
and pours out in glares
from wide bloodshot eyes.
Your dried flower words
will not let me sleep.
No,
in these dawn streets
waking beneath my feet,
the loneliness
of your lust and mine
blows yesterday's
paper promises of
our plans away
and replaces Spring's fresh hope
and Summer's warm embrace
with the wait for Winter's solitary chill.
Yes, desire has stripped
all love from this trunk of bones
and left it alone to sway and watch
Autumn's tears falling with the leaves.
J. H. Martin
(added 12.25.10)
editor's note: Little consolation comes from poets' pens when words form bitter memory and love lost is a simile. Sigh another sigh, write another verse. - mh
•••••••••••
Jacob's Ladder?
Clergy shout it
behind the pulpit
to those below them
in the rows of repentance -
the way for the righteous
is up
one step at a time
to the big meet and greet
with the deity of sublime resolve.
My little lost cowgirl of splendor and grace
the one with the knee high boots
and knockout smile
always reminded me
of biblical admonitions
while roping steers
"God looks down upon us
no matter where we were
even in the pastures" she said
as we stole away moments
of pleasure
under the watchful eye.
One late afternoon in the barn
stacking hay loads
in pens meant for cows, pigs
I borrowed a twenty footer
and up I went
to meet her. Hours later
on my way down
I slipped on a rotted wooden rung
and fell ass first
onto the finest dairy milker of the bunch
breaking my fall
but breaking her back.
"Why did you kill my Bessy?"
daddy dearest snarled as he caressed the diary's best
in his calloused hands. "What were you doin' upstairs?"
Reflecting on the man upstairs
and his words of wisdom I replied,
"The crane dumped over the excess hay.
I tried to push 'em in, even and straight
but they fell on the poor thing."
The haggard rancher stood over me
looked deep into the eyes of his daughter
before saying, "Next time
you help yourself to the milk,
you'd better be prepared to buy the whole cow -
or you'll climb up Jacob's ladder
much sooner than you think."
The next day
I left farming all together
- right after I kissed the girl of my lonely nights goodbye
to take up door to door solicitation
of Gideon's finest bibles
for those non-believers
who think being scared straight
is only for wicked.
Joseph D. DiLella
(2 poems added 12.24.10)
editor's note: Repentence, righteousness and a roll in the hay. Tenets of faith to sustain us, enough to leave the farm - but take the cow along. (Another good one from Joseph on his page - check it out.) - mh
•••••••••••
Ricochet
While busy running the sun to sleep
I think about pinballing myself
into warm, open arms,
and how, cold and reflective,
I bounce back, fast as I came
Cradled only for a moment, then away,
into the lights,
and the trenches beneath the garish joy.
Emily E. Riggert
(2 poems added 12.23.10)
editor's note: Is it the velocity of that silver ball, or the resilience of those bumpers that hazard our pursuit of love? Don't know, but I gotta get some more quarters. And while you're bouncing around our forum, check out another great poem from our newest contributing poet's page. - mh
•••••••••••
The Triangle
In front of me, the smart windmill,
turning obediently to Aeolus’ authority.
Behind me, the wonderful sunflowers,
shimmering passionately on the green carpet.
Above me, fervent ravens,
aiming for the limitless sky.
Standing at the base of this triangle
I knew I had to follow
only one of these three routes:
either turning the turbines of the present
to grind the past into oblivion,
or striving to shine in this green jealous world,
or reach the stars by surrendering.
I decided to toss a coin.
Amit Parmessur
(added 12.22.10)
editor's note: Such choices; grinding, shining or flying - two out of three aren't bad. Now, if I could just find a three-sided coin... - mh
•••••••••••
It's Always Dia De Los Meurtos In My Head
It's always
day of the dead
in my head,
stay awhile,
and visit,
I have some
sugar skulls,
marigolds,
we can
drink mezcal
and ride
my Andalusian
horse in a parade
down Santa Maria La Ribera,
We'll wear
tissue paper flowers
in our hair,
it's so much fun
but you
have to stay
forever
Melanie Browne
(added 12.21.10)
editor's note: So, another something to fill in the blank "_______ is forever." Why not sign up for some eternal fun? (Another good one from Melanie on her page - check it out.) - mh
•••••••••••
Dying Alive
Life was hanging jagged
on the last limb,waiting
for the Fall, wanting to flutter
away before the coming cold of Winter.
We stared at all the signs,
billboards counting down
Doomsday minutes,our eyes
forever surrendering to "Buy more Coke".
And we mainlined corn syrup,
hoping for a new recipe, our
final betrayal seeming simply Classic.
My lips moved as you passed the bottle,
mouthing platitudes in the drunken dawn,
anything to make the coming daylight bright,
a reason for waking to another day.
You wheezed a phlegm plagued cough,
a sign of tubercular rumblings, deep in
your throat to bring words out breathing:
"I think I'm dying".
I glanced at our surroundings;
the needles of sun highlighting
the ruin of our days, smoke
cascading, frozen in the chilling room.
I grabbed your empty head, proof against meaning,
"Honey, we all die sometime"
Rose Morales
(2 poems added 12.20.10)
editor's note: Put that way, it doesn't much matter how one greets the sunrise - we're all headed to the same end... in the end, at the end of the end. (Another great one from Rose on her page; suggests "To be, or not to be" is not a valid question.) - mh
•••••••••••
HOW SPELT IS WEAT
Her hair crumbles like applesauce in autumn
Her breath smells as felt
She sucks up my senses
I’m a tactile dyslexic
Like fingering fish that is smelt
Her laughter is conical
Her body atonal
She beckons me like a square
I’m an ophthalmic moron
An aural goofball
Whenever she is near me
I hear sponges and mushrooms
And loud zesty lemons
I see colours that do not exist yet
I feel daytime and spring
And panic and lovely
Amongst other intangible things
And what do I do
Now that I’m twisted?
Rearrange myself?
I could chop off my hands
With a circular saw
And stick eyeballs on my wrist stumps
Shove a trumpet down my oesophagus
Hop some ears on top my knees
Stuff my tongue where it is tasteless
And cause my testicles to sneeze
Or distance myself
I could touch nothing at all
Curl myself into a ball
Inside a swaddle of cotton wool
Deprive myself in a tank
Like the altered state of
William Hurt
And then
I guess
It won’t
Be senseless
Anthony Murphy
(1 poem added 12.19.10)
editor's note: What a delightful love poem! Not yer garden variety, bouquet and chocolates, rhymes with "heart" concatenation of words here, but the real deal - outta control, can't help it, crazy 'bout her love - kinda poem. Ahhhh, romance! - 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...
With Mad Merriment,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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