The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 02.12.11

“All I'm writing is just what I feel, that's all.” Jimi Hendrix

This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we were greeted with a double-shot o' purple haze that propelled us upward to kiss the sky, got more crazy with some non-sequitur sequitur (there really is no "non" in the Swirl), entered an exit or exited an entrance, could have been both at once (still shaken from that), pondered the taste of forbidden fruit, then, our appetites aroused, took a bite o' cookie from a Hong Kong happy girl (was that a cookie, or a kiss?), and topped it all with a dizzying look back at someone else's memories, finally to reflect upon our own.



I love Newman and his pissy snort
And the way his eyes hood
Like my dad’s did when he was a fool
And not full of us
I watched him talk to a bar of mates
His life shone with before
And I guess he smiled sometimes
But not all white like Paul
Not at all

So together watched The Sting and Butch and Pocket Money
And several others
And he tickled himself
With it going
With it gone into us
But those years of our youth
Were for him to rue
Taken out of our hides
Sometimes with a whiskey smile
And we love those guys
They are nothing to us

He was want to understand what could have been
What became of him
I watch The Prize and wonder
If he ever had it
Or if it is we
That let slip the ball

You can only watch the sun go on
And the moon

- Anthony Murphy

(1 poem added 02.12.11)

editor's note: We let slip the ball, spinning away from our trembling digits. We cannot really grasp it. Instead we watch it in the sky, impersonating our aspirations as the sun and the moon. - mh


i called you my butter cookie

i know them way back, packed
in the supermarket, stacks after stacks
labeled blue, each blue can
our big city's favourite, wrapped in red
spring's warmest gift.

it must have been your baby blues, or me
overwhelmed in a scent
so flattering, in a way
so sweet, it caters my court,
your ship.

crunchy touches, sugar on top, taste
on my tongue, the best flavor
unlocked - the best thing i know from your country -
all these golden pieces of loveliness
sink in memories.

- Cherry Rao

(added 02.11.11)

editor's note: If he's your butter cookie, can I be your marmalade? (Great one, delightful! Thanks for taking your first jump into the Swirl, Cherry! Delicious!) - mh



there was a persimmon tree
next to the garden
that was wrapped
in an electrified fence
and i would pick the fruit
unripened, and wait in
anticipation for the sour pangs-
warping my mouth,
chasing off my saliva.
in a few weeks,
they will turn orange
and fill with mush-
i will continue to eat
them, unsatisfied.
they leave a bad taste in my mouth-
soft and easy-
and i feel like i'm
privy to some
horrible secret.

- Jordan Pennington

(added 02.10.11)

editor's note: Forbidden fruit, easily obtained, not so thrilling as expected, almost like rotting flesh, yuk. Better the twinge and tweak of early sap, filling us with root and soil and the sensation of singing - just don't touch the electric fence. - mh



Hit it hard enough,
and the door will deftly yield.
But as the hinges fall, I do not recall,
on which side of it I stand.

Was I clawing my way out,
or begging to be let inside?

- Brent Petroff

(added 02.09.11)

editor's note: It's all a matter of perspective, isn't it? Maybe better to sit in the middle of the room and see who and/or what comes through. - mh


Controlled Insanity

I fell off my rocking chair while reading Carroll Quigley.
We’re all nuts pushed too far out of one’s skull tree.

Hornets from hell march wearing hats that match.
Rabid dogs, hot under the collar, rush
for bats in the belfry, a stew in a lather,
round the bend at the end of a tight rope.
The same rope they’ve been chasing for eternity.

Cockeyed chickens with their head cut off wing off the deep end,
pale and beckoning for lemmings to join a fox in guarding a henhouse.

I am out to lunch to read Hamlet and eat fruitcake by a river filled with tea,
bought and paid for by the Moneyed One Eye.
(Sore oats and kissing her, the big new breeze in skis.)

- James Jason Dye

(1 poem added 02.08.11)

editor's note: Could anything in recent days be more insane than this poem? I think not. Here's what Carroll Quigley had to say fifty-odd years ago, "The history of the last century shows, as we shall see later, that the advice given to governments by bankers, like the advice they gave to industrialists, was consistently good for bankers, but was often disastrous for governments, businessmen, and the people generally." Now is "later." - mh


Bold as Love and Snoozing

My left calf muscle twitches
between the cool, sleek wall
and scrunched up sheets.
His fingers are lethargic
as they play guitar on my back.

Hushed words mean
nothing until his warm breath
is on my skin.
We hum the chorus together,
and fade back to sleep.

His fingers are mid-note
on my torso; my leg
clamped between his
and the wall.
Ten measures pass.
Jimi’s guitar solo, again.

- Britney Lipton

(added 02.07.11)

editor's note: Hendrix again (and so sensuously seducing us into wanting to take up the guitar)? Wherefore come such coincidences? Are there such things in the stir of the Swirl? Jimi said it, "Just ask the axis!" - mh



Electric carnation pinned to bare
skinned chest, a glass transparency,
framed in blood red. Distorted sounds
wane back and forth, pendulum-like,
lost forever in an unknown
water, its riders nowhere
at all, long since gone.

Violent explosions
from the inside let loose.
Snare rolls and wired nylon
ascension. Nothing underneath,
nothing above and the fire
burns every color and it burns
each time new and always will.

Stand next to its heat.
Rise alongside the flame.
Feel the calm smoke graze
against cloudless sky,
long gray streaking waves
calling out in these
hushed whispers
for you and I, for us.

- Willie Nunnery

(added 02.06.11)

editor's note: So, that's what was beneath the haze, lifting the wing and conjuring the voodoo! I knew it! - 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...

Feelin' It,

Johnny O

MH Clay
Poetry Editor


Popular Posts