The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 03.26.11
“For my part I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream.” Vincent Van Gogh
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we awoke to a reminder to live from a lost love, threw life's liquid on a woman of substance, spoke no words to remember volumes, passed on regret but took some tea (with lemon, no sugar), missed the bus (barely), put in an edge-wise word before the channel was changed, then slumbered in a psychic zoo to get our inner-animal on.
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
•••••••••••
Lion, Snake, Frog
(for Leroy Roper & Tiffany Diamond)
The words of a photography shaman
from beauty, words of native healing
I shed my skin for them, flayed awake
I am not a sheep
I do not adorn my lion’s mane in wool
I want to paint him
This lion taking over me
His stealth is only equaled
by his roar
I quietly listen
but force my jaws of fangs wide
in a bored yawn
against futility of society
and their attempted sheep dominance
When before, I covered myself in wool
to hide among the herd
but I was not hunting
I hadn’t any clue
I was not sheep, goat, or cattle
I did not belong to a large body of
mindless followers
rather a small pride of equals
instead of stifling and hiding in my roars
I embrace my spirit
scratch my claws in the dirt
raise dust
and transform
into serpent
shedding as many skins as it takes
after wearing them to frazzle
heavy magic I hear my mother whisper
creative fertility awakens
I lay many eggs
leave them to become their own magic
I slither experience and oneness
with the cosmic all
burning off my skins of scaly dragons breath
wholly embracing the fire
becoming rust
I effect and change them slowly
I am frog
My water fuels the cleanse
in with the good
out with the good
all breath is sacred
airs to another
our exahale
the breath of trees
sacrosanct stages
so that I may sing
personal power arias
and call the rain
- Desmene Statum
(2 poems added 03.26.11)
editor's note: Transformation as metaphor as spiritual identity with all; one sea, many rivers. Dez conducts our tour of the divine zoo; we all come out closer to the Goo! (Another great one from Dez on her page - check it out!) - mh
•••••••••••
Observation
Your hair curls out at the ends. This is an observation.
There is a question of what
trots upon your subconscious. The currents
flow AC/DC within wires of contemplation.
With you I can’t tell. This is a way
of saying “I don’t really care to know”
This is hitting the nail upon the head:
only martyrs keep silent
your fingers hover before the remote
The pictures start and start up again.
- Kimberly Lundblom
(added 03.25.11)
editor's note: Deciphering the currents of subconsciousness is tricky enough without the object of observation changing channels all the time. Who's the martyr here? - mh
•••••••••••
KISSES
By the curb
but off it
she shoved me
a bus almost hit
me. So I shoved
back so she could
feel what it’s
like
it’s a little con-
fusing after that
because I was
so drunk
but I figured hey
we’re even Steven
then another bus
hopped the curb.
- Gordon Hilgers
(1 poem added 03.24.11)
editor's note: You can jump the curb, but not the bus. Better to stand aside... - mh
•••••••••••
The House of Your Regrets
I visit the small house of your regrets,
where a tea kettle whistles dry
in the next room.
They are on a coffee table in a lazy
Susan, gilded at the edges. Dig
in, you say, spinning it slowly.
No thanks, I tell you. I'm full.
And anyway these look strikingly like
something I had earlier for lunch.
But, I'll bet the fillings are different,
you insist. No doubt, I say, and as
you fill a takeout bag, I jump through
the open window, taking your scream
along with me—immediately
regret doing so.
- Robert Scotellaro
(added 03.23.11)
editor's note: So, this is the house from which I received that invitation I failed to answer, it concluded with "R.S.V.P, regrets only." Now I'm glad I didn't, especially not now. Thanks for the tip, Robert! - mh
•••••••••••
Recollections
Dried prom flowers, worn photographs,
Ticket fragments, echoed laughs
Crumpled scripts, paper slips
Fragmented leaves, snail shells
Belled mirrors with tinsel stars,
Tufts of alley cat fur.
Antimacassars, all, opposed to making space,
Thwarting, efficiently, existent
Computer communications,
Unflinching deterring drunk chip activity
By dint of forgotten pasttimes’
Brittle hurt of subversive words,
Such unavoidable contexts terminate
Talk; they might even rhetorically stymie
Whimsy’s wayward, positive social function
Impoverishing, en route,
Core dilemmas’ resolute sister,
Whose many small virtues easily collapse.
Recollections weigh in as gold
When society's dirty work remains
Incomplete, supped together
With open source publishing,
Demoralized conversations,
Gap years, and lost dreams.
- KJ Hannah Greenberg
(added 03.22.11)
editor's note: Sometimes a quiet walk down Memory Lane serves better than a cacophonous wobble down today's unknown paths. Nice! - mh
•••••••••••
re-animate-her
she came in like a shadow
with black fingernails
black hair
and two black eyes
her jeans were really blue
but so black too
with oil, grease and good clean dirt
that if i'd thrown a pitcher of water at her
it would have shattered
in the air
around her legs
making her quite substantial, after all
- Walter Conley
(added 03.21.11)
editor's note: How convenient, an ethereal visit, a divine delivery from our subconscious catalog store. Here she is, your own pre-packaged Pygmalion - just add water. - mh
•••••••••••
The 20th
and so once again the 20th of the month is here.
the days all crowd in
then fall away
time moves swiftly each day, each hour, each minute brings me to my death
and to you.
Some times I long so,
not for the past so much though that is part of it;
I long for what can never be.
I cannot go back, the past is gone now
lost in time.
So then what of the future?
We come from darkness so we must return to it:
there is only the present;
this solitary moment that hangs between a long lost past
and a yet to be future.
Just one single moment is all that is left now.
The days still fall withered and worn;
each morning
I wake to greet your face
you remind me the moment must be lived, grasped firmly now;
for though I may hanker for another time
it will not wait for me in its dash to be gone.
Though in so many ways you are still with me
in a moment of knowing: the scent of flowers, a cool breeze, a song;
that tender flow of feeling calm and strong.
This temple of words I erect in your honor;
for you have given me the words
to heal my sorrowed heart
when the night was darkest and all hope seemed to be lost
you were there with me, guiding me.
Without your love
I would be lost to this world:
a part of me died and was buried with you
a part of you still lives with me
you are my center, the still point of my life.
In the quiet of autumn time in the evening
as the sun is fading behind the horizon
I think of you;
heart to heart, my love goes with you,
your love stays here with me
a mirror that magnifies
this is all that really matters now
there is nothing else left now.
The spider Goddess weaves her web
and so our hearts become entangled
in that place of stillness and calm.
Each tear drop may fall, each beat of the heart may thump
but in the silence between the stars,
the silence between the thump of each heart beat or the fall of one tear drop,
in that silence there I find you.
- John Najjar
(1 poem added 03.20.11)
editor's note: Yes, find that stillness, move forward through the missing and the pain. - 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...
Dreamin',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we awoke to a reminder to live from a lost love, threw life's liquid on a woman of substance, spoke no words to remember volumes, passed on regret but took some tea (with lemon, no sugar), missed the bus (barely), put in an edge-wise word before the channel was changed, then slumbered in a psychic zoo to get our inner-animal on.
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
•••••••••••
Lion, Snake, Frog
(for Leroy Roper & Tiffany Diamond)
The words of a photography shaman
from beauty, words of native healing
I shed my skin for them, flayed awake
I am not a sheep
I do not adorn my lion’s mane in wool
I want to paint him
This lion taking over me
His stealth is only equaled
by his roar
I quietly listen
but force my jaws of fangs wide
in a bored yawn
against futility of society
and their attempted sheep dominance
When before, I covered myself in wool
to hide among the herd
but I was not hunting
I hadn’t any clue
I was not sheep, goat, or cattle
I did not belong to a large body of
mindless followers
rather a small pride of equals
instead of stifling and hiding in my roars
I embrace my spirit
scratch my claws in the dirt
raise dust
and transform
into serpent
shedding as many skins as it takes
after wearing them to frazzle
heavy magic I hear my mother whisper
creative fertility awakens
I lay many eggs
leave them to become their own magic
I slither experience and oneness
with the cosmic all
burning off my skins of scaly dragons breath
wholly embracing the fire
becoming rust
I effect and change them slowly
I am frog
My water fuels the cleanse
in with the good
out with the good
all breath is sacred
airs to another
our exahale
the breath of trees
sacrosanct stages
so that I may sing
personal power arias
and call the rain
- Desmene Statum
(2 poems added 03.26.11)
editor's note: Transformation as metaphor as spiritual identity with all; one sea, many rivers. Dez conducts our tour of the divine zoo; we all come out closer to the Goo! (Another great one from Dez on her page - check it out!) - mh
•••••••••••
Observation
Your hair curls out at the ends. This is an observation.
There is a question of what
trots upon your subconscious. The currents
flow AC/DC within wires of contemplation.
With you I can’t tell. This is a way
of saying “I don’t really care to know”
This is hitting the nail upon the head:
only martyrs keep silent
your fingers hover before the remote
The pictures start and start up again.
- Kimberly Lundblom
(added 03.25.11)
editor's note: Deciphering the currents of subconsciousness is tricky enough without the object of observation changing channels all the time. Who's the martyr here? - mh
•••••••••••
KISSES
By the curb
but off it
she shoved me
a bus almost hit
me. So I shoved
back so she could
feel what it’s
like
it’s a little con-
fusing after that
because I was
so drunk
but I figured hey
we’re even Steven
then another bus
hopped the curb.
- Gordon Hilgers
(1 poem added 03.24.11)
editor's note: You can jump the curb, but not the bus. Better to stand aside... - mh
•••••••••••
The House of Your Regrets
I visit the small house of your regrets,
where a tea kettle whistles dry
in the next room.
They are on a coffee table in a lazy
Susan, gilded at the edges. Dig
in, you say, spinning it slowly.
No thanks, I tell you. I'm full.
And anyway these look strikingly like
something I had earlier for lunch.
But, I'll bet the fillings are different,
you insist. No doubt, I say, and as
you fill a takeout bag, I jump through
the open window, taking your scream
along with me—immediately
regret doing so.
- Robert Scotellaro
(added 03.23.11)
editor's note: So, this is the house from which I received that invitation I failed to answer, it concluded with "R.S.V.P, regrets only." Now I'm glad I didn't, especially not now. Thanks for the tip, Robert! - mh
•••••••••••
Recollections
Dried prom flowers, worn photographs,
Ticket fragments, echoed laughs
Crumpled scripts, paper slips
Fragmented leaves, snail shells
Belled mirrors with tinsel stars,
Tufts of alley cat fur.
Antimacassars, all, opposed to making space,
Thwarting, efficiently, existent
Computer communications,
Unflinching deterring drunk chip activity
By dint of forgotten pasttimes’
Brittle hurt of subversive words,
Such unavoidable contexts terminate
Talk; they might even rhetorically stymie
Whimsy’s wayward, positive social function
Impoverishing, en route,
Core dilemmas’ resolute sister,
Whose many small virtues easily collapse.
Recollections weigh in as gold
When society's dirty work remains
Incomplete, supped together
With open source publishing,
Demoralized conversations,
Gap years, and lost dreams.
- KJ Hannah Greenberg
(added 03.22.11)
editor's note: Sometimes a quiet walk down Memory Lane serves better than a cacophonous wobble down today's unknown paths. Nice! - mh
•••••••••••
re-animate-her
she came in like a shadow
with black fingernails
black hair
and two black eyes
her jeans were really blue
but so black too
with oil, grease and good clean dirt
that if i'd thrown a pitcher of water at her
it would have shattered
in the air
around her legs
making her quite substantial, after all
- Walter Conley
(added 03.21.11)
editor's note: How convenient, an ethereal visit, a divine delivery from our subconscious catalog store. Here she is, your own pre-packaged Pygmalion - just add water. - mh
•••••••••••
The 20th
and so once again the 20th of the month is here.
the days all crowd in
then fall away
time moves swiftly each day, each hour, each minute brings me to my death
and to you.
Some times I long so,
not for the past so much though that is part of it;
I long for what can never be.
I cannot go back, the past is gone now
lost in time.
So then what of the future?
We come from darkness so we must return to it:
there is only the present;
this solitary moment that hangs between a long lost past
and a yet to be future.
Just one single moment is all that is left now.
The days still fall withered and worn;
each morning
I wake to greet your face
you remind me the moment must be lived, grasped firmly now;
for though I may hanker for another time
it will not wait for me in its dash to be gone.
Though in so many ways you are still with me
in a moment of knowing: the scent of flowers, a cool breeze, a song;
that tender flow of feeling calm and strong.
This temple of words I erect in your honor;
for you have given me the words
to heal my sorrowed heart
when the night was darkest and all hope seemed to be lost
you were there with me, guiding me.
Without your love
I would be lost to this world:
a part of me died and was buried with you
a part of you still lives with me
you are my center, the still point of my life.
In the quiet of autumn time in the evening
as the sun is fading behind the horizon
I think of you;
heart to heart, my love goes with you,
your love stays here with me
a mirror that magnifies
this is all that really matters now
there is nothing else left now.
The spider Goddess weaves her web
and so our hearts become entangled
in that place of stillness and calm.
Each tear drop may fall, each beat of the heart may thump
but in the silence between the stars,
the silence between the thump of each heart beat or the fall of one tear drop,
in that silence there I find you.
- John Najjar
(1 poem added 03.20.11)
editor's note: Yes, find that stillness, move forward through the missing and the pain. - 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...
Dreamin',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Comments