The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 07.16.11
A Poem In Red (above) by featured artist and fellow mad one, Rob Tokarz, one of over 20 artists currently coloring the virtual walls in Mad Swirl's eclectic electronic collective Mad Gallery. We know you'll wanna see more fo' sho' so move that mad mouse of yo's right over here and a-way you will GO!
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we started with the search for meaning by taking out the garbage, a clean slate for the week; we considered the stars, increased our meaningful perspective, and strained for hope in the light; we enjoyed a brief time-out on the heavenly bus; we tweaked our perspectives inward, weighed the difference twixt a song and a smile; we progressed to the cycles of fortune, reincarnation could be pay-up or pay-out; we let karma sit on the porch while we smoked one and considered our options; then we wound up our seven-day slide with a bit o' caveman logic, the base instincts are best... sometimes.
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Since I have to hunt
I would rather
bring to the bedrock
read my lips
or the symbols
I have drawn
on the granite
I really need
us to rub twigs
and create fire
or I am
invent the wheel
and roll on
out of here
- Ivan Jenson
(2 poems added 07.16.11)
editor's note: Here is the quintessential pick-line! Even Neanderthals got straight to the point. Perhaps the male libido was genetically infected with Cro-Magnon proclivities from the start. Yes, ladies, we hear your resounding, "Ya think? Sunny Boy?" (Another great proposition from Ivan on his page, plus info on a new book - check it out!) - mh
the pouring rain
don't guess that i'll
the girl just yet
perhaps i should
just leave her there
i am sure
that she'll be fine
And the morning comes
it always does
it always has
and the sun will rise
it always does
it always has
and the way we were
on the day before
we began to lie
just a reflection
in a tiny little tear drop
- Jesse Doughty
(1 poem added 07.15.11)
editor's note: Shhhh, listen... hear the whispered splash; get out a towel and your lighter. Open the door. - mh
Too many times
sign says ANY KINDNESS
like this concussion—
I’ve just come around
of my ninth life
I’m pretty sure
or I’ll be pretty sure
yeah. I’ve just
wheeled around the edge
steeled for the fall
by a few too many glasses
I’ll catch this next time
pull myself up
clutching the same sign—
and wishing I could take it back
- Catherine McQuade
(1 poem added 07.14.11)
editor's note: We all see the sign, held by an empty (to us) soul, looking for our help. We can decide which side of the sign we want to be; or maybe Karma will work it out for us... (We welcome Genevieve to our crazy conclave of Contributing Poets with this, her third work to post to the Forum. Check out her new page!) - mh
between musicians and
is like this:
You're Pet Sounds.
Complex without ever being
kid friendly on
the rare wednesdays
you find your
The disclaimer said to
keep it legal.
It was referring to
the sketch, above the mailbox, of you
holding a water gun, I assume, to
the writer who slipped in a
An album for people who
It was referring to
the writers, those SMiLE fans,
parking in droves behind the
music hall. all four corners of their
covered in tickets, all of the pages
in their notebooks
covered in ideas
He should've been a scientist.
he should've played french horn.
I do not have
a teenage symphony.
I do not own a copy of
SMiLE. I never understood
the Beach Boys.
Not on June 12.
Not in June.
I do not have the whispers of
my writer friends
on record, nor do I want them.
You are not a scientist.
You are not an opera.
You are a scholar in the summer,
when there are no scholars,
warm, welcoming, begging
for five hours of my attention
when all I have is a
- Amanda Harris
editor's note: Composition or contrivance, considered and confounding. Two bits says, we don't have to understand neither the writer nor the musician; all we need know is what makes us SMiLE. - mh
ASKING HEAVEN FOR A TRANSFER TO THE IN-BETWEEN PLACE
so I have to wonder if this condition
is abnormal if some person puts
labor in place of love in the same way
a sexless worker bee puts buzz
ahead of lust the flood of the rose
walking down my center takes over
my medulla rushes in past all my
defenses and shakes me to the spine
I forget that my where am I is right
here and I cannot believe the only
thing which remains is pure necessity
and I collect the scattered pieces
of my shattered blessings all the while
asking heaven for a transfer to
the in-between place so’s I can have
some time to catch my breath
(2 poems added 07.12.11)
editor's note: We can all use a breather from our condition, a heavenly transfer. Of course, that requires the bus to stop so's we can get off. (Another great ponderance from satnrose on his page - check it out!) - mh
That Brownian Motion which has super-sized particles
Triggers exhibition of earth's passive resistance
Traces of mobility scrape the land and where
Membranes manufacture propane and butane
Making sure Krakatoa falls behind
Where blood dripped from carbon-dated skeletons
In which it labeled Mozart's Historical Death
Of being impish and awry doesn't
Mean this soul sees no music
It has resonating eye movement under
Regeneration stages of Milky Way Galaxy
Curdling suds of evolutionary tides
Decomposing sediments of calcium carbonates
From a perfectionist to whiten these blemishes
Stripes and circles of armaments with mist ripples
Across the ocean she wades through
Intermixed dates and cosmic structure
Bleached with titanium oxide suffocate
Nostrils of humans getting only very
Minimal hope from that ray of light
- Sarah Gamutan
editor's note: This proves that random molecular constructs may refract visible light, but will not show us the soul of God. He may have created this saturated solution, teetering upon crystallization; but it's up to us to create the hope that such will be a good thing. - mh
Back From a Jog
It’s spiritual out my window.
Time to think of the universe
and how we are but hackey sacks
at the cosmic Bonnaroo concert.
So small, so meaningless, so many,
kicked around for no reason
but the entertainment of our high Gods.
Sweat drips from my nose
to the wooden floor
where hundreds of ants crawl
over the peel of my grapefruit.
I scoop it up and toss it,
ants and all,
into the garbage.
- Alex L. Swartzentruber
(2 poems added 07.10.11)
editor's note: Einstein said God doesn't play dice with the universe. We disagree! Apparently, God just didn't play with Einstein, but we've seen him play with us. (Another one on home economics on Alex's page - check it out.) - 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...