The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 02.19.11
“If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing, or sing in writing, then don't write, because our culture has no use for it.” Anaïs Nin
Candies (above) by our featured artists and longtime contributors to the mad gallery, K.R. Copeland and Jeff Crouch, two of over 20 artists currently coloring the virtual walls in Mad Swirl's eclectic electronic collective Mad Gallery.
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we raved at saplings, scoffed at nightmares, breathed in the benevolent breast, followed the blind light, succumbed to somnambulent sorties, evolved the far extinction, then rescued a helpless child - in the nick of time.
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
•••••••••••
Defenseless
he injected her
one time too many, the heroin
was the least of her worries now
an addiction pales in comparison
to infant hunger
post coital chatter,
was devoid of future concepts
yet the wailing needs called out
from the other room
a discarded aversion
I trusted myself to behave
according to guidelines
provided they did as well
ironically, they didn't
opening the door to chaos
his jaw was weaker than expected
her stamina required only words
and the heap of flesh he now held at length
was never going to be replaced
nor was her loss
and now
I stare at the puffing cheeks of tomorrow
his breath, effortless
as should be
a mild bulge in his stomach
told me I was right
I read about Fatherless children
in words written and rung
from a man who swore allegiance
to a child who needed nothing
other than the Love
of a Fatherless man, who cared enough
to kill
when death was calling his name
- Rob Dyer
(1 poem added 02.19.11)
editor's note: It's a good thing this poet was there when they decided to throw out their baby with the bathwater. Good catch, Rob! - mh
•••••••••••
Stopwatch
Everyone is dead.
Slumped against steering wheels,
on the floors of kitchens and bedrooms,
face down in swimming pools.
Bodies litter the malls,
the halls of prestigious universities,
they're in hospitals and sports bars,
at desks in corporate offices.
In the center of the oval office
lays the body of our president,
maggots crawl out
from beneath her eyelids.
The rats beneath the streets
lift their heads and twitch their noses.
Vultures fly off trees
into waves of decay.
Remnants of humanity crumble,
are buried, eroded and grown over.
We are dust and fossils; we are history.
The planet is lush and productive.
Out in an unnamed ocean
a new breed of dolphin is born,
its flippers more like modified claws.
One day, it will use them to grasp the shoreline.
- Jason Sturner
(added 02.18.11)
editor's note: Ah, the hope of apocalypse and eons more evolution to present this world with a new species with a new chance to learn to love, while not ravishing. - mh
•••••••••••
Ridding Self of the Noise
Staying stable for four years gave new hope to everyone,
His recent marriage was the operative factor in his brand new
balance.
Now if he could quit smoking, he could live to seventy like a
normal person.
This is what he heard his family and doctors say.
Personally, he lived for his 3 a.m. awakenings when his family
and doctors were in R.E.M. sleep.
- Sander Blome
(1 poem added 02.17.11)
editor's note: What happens while other's are in R.E.M. is not so scary as what happens when we are in R.E.M. Try to keep that in balance! (Welcome Sander Blome as our newest Contributing Poet! See more of his poems on his page.) - mh
•••••••••••
Phototaxis
A fly
tapped against the glass
of the light bulb and it sounded
just like your fingers
strumming a bare wall.
I saw the warped shadow of the fly—
large
across the yellowing screen and
I remember the way
your eyes looked underneath lamps—
the same yellow—
and the way
you nearly rubbed them out.
Now, there is
an opening in your face—hollow parts
in a white skull.
The fly leads the blind
to light—where you both feel it,
and throw yourselves
against the glass
to stay warm,
navigating a straight line toward the sky.
- Hannah Kerr
(added 02.16.11)
editor's note: No need for vision to know the way up. Just the buzzing of fly wings is enough to confirm we are on a straight line for sure. Nice! - mh
•••••••••••
Against My Skin
Like gentle kisses
rain fell upon my
upturned face.
I leaned forward
no will of my own.
You brushed back
my auburn hair, wet
against my skin.
I laid my cheek in
the palm of your hand.
I closed my eyes...
And breathed you in.
- Paula Dawn Lietz
(1 poem added 02.15.11)
editor's note: Yes, we would breathe in such trust and vulnerability. This is the skin we want to caress. (More from Paula on her new poetry page - welcome our newest Contributing Poet!) - mh
•••••••••••
Nightmares
Are meant for mean old men like Scrooge
who were taught the golden rule:
do not do onto others
before they do unto you
unless
you can get away with it
without
visitations from spirits of the past, present or future.
Bad dreams have never been
a money thing with me
but more of a reminder
that I'm not good enough
to live in my own skin. Why? I'm not sure
but I always find ways to re-live my worst fears
of taking those final exams without preparation
not having the proper qualifications for the best job
or being kicked out of my parent's home for being - adopted.
The best of the lot are the macabre
a murder I did not commit
or one that was recently found out
and I run like the wind
away from the authorities
men in old time police uniforms driving keystone cop wagons
who close in on me in abandoned warehouses
sirens blaring, speaker phones as loud as civil sirens.
I check my handgun
for the number of bullets left in the cartridge
but the damn thing always jams and I'm cornered.
I fail to escape the fuzz but it's always fun
to nearly exchange fire with Elliot Ness
before I'm handcuffed
and thrown inside a paddy wagon
headed for downtown booking and beatings.
Still, the one I'll never forget
the one that awoke me
to a heart racing sweat
was not for an electric chair execution
but a visitation of a man long departed.
While boarding abroad
sleeping in my grandfather's bed
in Cerreto Sannita, a small Italian mountain town
that sent hundreds of immigrants to the good U.S. of A.
in the 30's to live in small isolated neighborhoods
only to lose their lives in dye mills and steel plants
instead of living the American dream
a man from my past gave me the message:
"Tell your father I understand
why he never returned to our home
. . . and I forgive him."
I wonder if nightmares
are simply fears played out
in black and white
sometimes color
or simply a nudge from souls departed
to tell us to live our lives
to the fullest without hurting others.
Sleep on it
and if you find out
let me know
what Christmas future
has in store for me, okay?
- Joseph D. DiLella
(2 poems added 02.14.11)
editor's note: Never thought about nightmares this way. Makes sense, Joseph! We're just giving ourselves a good talking to. Something's amiss; work it out in the sopor of sleep. Now, wake up! (Another good one from Joseph on his page - artfully posted.) - mh
•••••••••••
dwarf pines
the cold months came and
still you’re out
sizing yourself up against
the saplings in your backyard:
jealous of their roots
and the ability to bear fruit,
shouting at the wind
for stripping all the leaves
from their branches
and waving your hands in the air
like the ring-leader of
a circle of children around
a wounded bird,
poking at it with sticks,
refusing to let it die.
- Andrew Chmielowiec
(added 02.13.11)
editor's note: There's more than vicarious voyeurism in this; there is cause and effect. Without the tenacious gardener, the most beautiful roses never bloom. - 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...
Singin',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Candies (above) by our featured artists and longtime contributors to the mad gallery, K.R. Copeland and Jeff Crouch, two of over 20 artists currently coloring the virtual walls in Mad Swirl's eclectic electronic collective Mad Gallery.
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we raved at saplings, scoffed at nightmares, breathed in the benevolent breast, followed the blind light, succumbed to somnambulent sorties, evolved the far extinction, then rescued a helpless child - in the nick of time.
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
•••••••••••
Defenseless
he injected her
one time too many, the heroin
was the least of her worries now
an addiction pales in comparison
to infant hunger
post coital chatter,
was devoid of future concepts
yet the wailing needs called out
from the other room
a discarded aversion
I trusted myself to behave
according to guidelines
provided they did as well
ironically, they didn't
opening the door to chaos
his jaw was weaker than expected
her stamina required only words
and the heap of flesh he now held at length
was never going to be replaced
nor was her loss
and now
I stare at the puffing cheeks of tomorrow
his breath, effortless
as should be
a mild bulge in his stomach
told me I was right
I read about Fatherless children
in words written and rung
from a man who swore allegiance
to a child who needed nothing
other than the Love
of a Fatherless man, who cared enough
to kill
when death was calling his name
- Rob Dyer
(1 poem added 02.19.11)
editor's note: It's a good thing this poet was there when they decided to throw out their baby with the bathwater. Good catch, Rob! - mh
•••••••••••
Stopwatch
Everyone is dead.
Slumped against steering wheels,
on the floors of kitchens and bedrooms,
face down in swimming pools.
Bodies litter the malls,
the halls of prestigious universities,
they're in hospitals and sports bars,
at desks in corporate offices.
In the center of the oval office
lays the body of our president,
maggots crawl out
from beneath her eyelids.
The rats beneath the streets
lift their heads and twitch their noses.
Vultures fly off trees
into waves of decay.
Remnants of humanity crumble,
are buried, eroded and grown over.
We are dust and fossils; we are history.
The planet is lush and productive.
Out in an unnamed ocean
a new breed of dolphin is born,
its flippers more like modified claws.
One day, it will use them to grasp the shoreline.
- Jason Sturner
(added 02.18.11)
editor's note: Ah, the hope of apocalypse and eons more evolution to present this world with a new species with a new chance to learn to love, while not ravishing. - mh
•••••••••••
Ridding Self of the Noise
Staying stable for four years gave new hope to everyone,
His recent marriage was the operative factor in his brand new
balance.
Now if he could quit smoking, he could live to seventy like a
normal person.
This is what he heard his family and doctors say.
Personally, he lived for his 3 a.m. awakenings when his family
and doctors were in R.E.M. sleep.
- Sander Blome
(1 poem added 02.17.11)
editor's note: What happens while other's are in R.E.M. is not so scary as what happens when we are in R.E.M. Try to keep that in balance! (Welcome Sander Blome as our newest Contributing Poet! See more of his poems on his page.) - mh
•••••••••••
Phototaxis
A fly
tapped against the glass
of the light bulb and it sounded
just like your fingers
strumming a bare wall.
I saw the warped shadow of the fly—
large
across the yellowing screen and
I remember the way
your eyes looked underneath lamps—
the same yellow—
and the way
you nearly rubbed them out.
Now, there is
an opening in your face—hollow parts
in a white skull.
The fly leads the blind
to light—where you both feel it,
and throw yourselves
against the glass
to stay warm,
navigating a straight line toward the sky.
- Hannah Kerr
(added 02.16.11)
editor's note: No need for vision to know the way up. Just the buzzing of fly wings is enough to confirm we are on a straight line for sure. Nice! - mh
•••••••••••
Against My Skin
Like gentle kisses
rain fell upon my
upturned face.
I leaned forward
no will of my own.
You brushed back
my auburn hair, wet
against my skin.
I laid my cheek in
the palm of your hand.
I closed my eyes...
And breathed you in.
- Paula Dawn Lietz
(1 poem added 02.15.11)
editor's note: Yes, we would breathe in such trust and vulnerability. This is the skin we want to caress. (More from Paula on her new poetry page - welcome our newest Contributing Poet!) - mh
•••••••••••
Nightmares
Are meant for mean old men like Scrooge
who were taught the golden rule:
do not do onto others
before they do unto you
unless
you can get away with it
without
visitations from spirits of the past, present or future.
Bad dreams have never been
a money thing with me
but more of a reminder
that I'm not good enough
to live in my own skin. Why? I'm not sure
but I always find ways to re-live my worst fears
of taking those final exams without preparation
not having the proper qualifications for the best job
or being kicked out of my parent's home for being - adopted.
The best of the lot are the macabre
a murder I did not commit
or one that was recently found out
and I run like the wind
away from the authorities
men in old time police uniforms driving keystone cop wagons
who close in on me in abandoned warehouses
sirens blaring, speaker phones as loud as civil sirens.
I check my handgun
for the number of bullets left in the cartridge
but the damn thing always jams and I'm cornered.
I fail to escape the fuzz but it's always fun
to nearly exchange fire with Elliot Ness
before I'm handcuffed
and thrown inside a paddy wagon
headed for downtown booking and beatings.
Still, the one I'll never forget
the one that awoke me
to a heart racing sweat
was not for an electric chair execution
but a visitation of a man long departed.
While boarding abroad
sleeping in my grandfather's bed
in Cerreto Sannita, a small Italian mountain town
that sent hundreds of immigrants to the good U.S. of A.
in the 30's to live in small isolated neighborhoods
only to lose their lives in dye mills and steel plants
instead of living the American dream
a man from my past gave me the message:
"Tell your father I understand
why he never returned to our home
. . . and I forgive him."
I wonder if nightmares
are simply fears played out
in black and white
sometimes color
or simply a nudge from souls departed
to tell us to live our lives
to the fullest without hurting others.
Sleep on it
and if you find out
let me know
what Christmas future
has in store for me, okay?
- Joseph D. DiLella
(2 poems added 02.14.11)
editor's note: Never thought about nightmares this way. Makes sense, Joseph! We're just giving ourselves a good talking to. Something's amiss; work it out in the sopor of sleep. Now, wake up! (Another good one from Joseph on his page - artfully posted.) - mh
•••••••••••
dwarf pines
the cold months came and
still you’re out
sizing yourself up against
the saplings in your backyard:
jealous of their roots
and the ability to bear fruit,
shouting at the wind
for stripping all the leaves
from their branches
and waving your hands in the air
like the ring-leader of
a circle of children around
a wounded bird,
poking at it with sticks,
refusing to let it die.
- Andrew Chmielowiec
(added 02.13.11)
editor's note: There's more than vicarious voyeurism in this; there is cause and effect. Without the tenacious gardener, the most beautiful roses never bloom. - 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...
Singin',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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