The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 08.20.11

Words are but pictures of our thoughts.” John Dryden

Red Sketch (above) by featured artist and fellow mad one, Ana Vohryze, 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... was a bit o' the ole poetry pinball; first, flowers with no happy ending; then, a face saving farce, fiercely smeared our wan reflection; a spoken word fire prevention promotion; a high pitched howl to make do with what does; a dive to duck the disappointments that the gods afford; a hunting guide for how not be the prey; lastly, a heartfelt hack at hubrus to home in on hard times. May we all be the wiser! - mh

Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...

Hard Times

has so many meanings
transfixed on difficulties, times of
economies in dumpsters,
ex-CEO's dumpster diving
finding remnants, crumbs of existence
once given to them on silver, platinum
card, platters filled with heads
of enemies vanquished.

For the working class,
heartache spreads to field workers
picking, squatting, bending over
taking it in
the behind
from bosses Cool Hand Luke
would smile that charming grin
before fleeing to parts unknown
only to return to entertain his mates
with grandiose stories,
eggs, dozens and dozens of eggs,
before taking his final reward
right between the eyes.

If Gabriel ever asks me
to play my trumpet
I'll tell him I don't blow it
anymore for I blew it
on Earth when
I left her in an alley
behind the all night cafe
in a nice, tidy lettuce box
filled with cooling green leafs,
hot sun rising across the valley.

On my deathbed, as I float away,
my heart will be with her
- if she lives
in a simple adobe,
fancy mansion tall,
or workin’ through the hard times
on the streets, short skirts, knee highs
in fear of abandonment
from lovers,
and God.

- Joseph D. DiLella

(2 poems added 08.20.11)

editor's note: So, you can't blow it if you blew it? Let's hope not. We'll just suck it in and blow through it! (The body is 90+% water; sometimes, so is the soul. See how in another poem from Joseph, on his page - check it out!) - mh

Knives in ice

Inuits bury them, handles down,
blades up, add water,

let each freeze solid,
daub the tips with blood.

Lust lopes in before dawn --
wolves believe they've found

seals asleep, streams full of salmon,
caribou laid out end to end.

They lap up the offering,
ignore it is their own blood

they drink to fullness,
to weakness, to sleep.

Curled frozen on red ice,
frosted furs offer Inuits hope,

life with color, warmth at night.
Arctic wind retains howling rights.

- Timothy Pilgrim

(added 08.19.11)

editor's note: This time, we'll shun the puns and cut to the chase: What knives do we approach with scent-crazed appetites, oblivious to any danger or to the hidden hunter awaiting our demise? - mh

sick sick sick

of seriousness
the universe is
a labyrinth in my
ear ear ear
I am deaf from it
there is no sure
melody in these
crazy strains

deaf deaf deaf
dumb blinded
loosening mind
for just 1 moment
to a maze of human
dilemma absurd

gone gone gone
everything is
senselessly gone
running thru rooms
marked no exit
crying out in
no voice

dance dance dance
on the barbed wire
of time feet raw
raw raw bleeding
blood blood blood

- Joan McNerney

(added 08.18.11)

editor's note: Shhhh, listen! Hear life's faint music of madness; sing along, tap your feet in time to that raging rhythm. Um, also, somebody, please call an ambulance! - mh


I love you
What does that mean
Does it mean more than
Why are we here
Or where the hell are we
And all the old jokes
And wish washy philosophies
To stand atop a vantage point
Yodel ‘You’ll do!’
Is that what we are about
Us men
We women
Seeking an echo
Is that the reason for our insanity

- Anthony Murphy

(1 poem added 08.17.11)

editor's note: Is that the mountain side echo, our lovesick lout's refrain? Hmmm, I guess we do make do, but what's wrong with that, if what you do joins with the "who" you love? It doesn't need to be fate, just fact. - mh

Fire and Rain Running: Saying “No” to an Intimate’s Manipulations

Bespeak softly, Dear; see fire and rain running
Jointly insane. Not even your quick cunning
Could have dulled this pain. It’s better I explain
Why, when blended, flame plus hail stuns.

Eye Light, Northern Blaze, Sweet Hazy Glow,
Flashing Sentiment, Bane of Darkness, My Heart’s Show,
Your bright, coal orbs heat so-so, meet
My needs in part, but beyond your rage, you know

Combined with raindrops, those tears that glisten,
That rioting of viscera makes me listen,
Search, seek, implore for more and better
Means to push away your clouds plus prevent your misting.

Fire plus rain, Darling, dizzies, corrupts, stains,
Water-fed conflagrations, confused parts, remain
Difficult, like acid, send me raving, turn me mad
Heat, water, jiggered together, tend to strain.

- KJ Hannah Greenberg

(1 poem added 08.16.11)

editor's note: See, just a calm conversation, a little reasoning and the decimating storm is turned aside. All is well - so long as one doesn't stop talking or turn one's back. - mh

The Face Keeper

I've kept your face intact, spotless, polishing it for 25 years.
I’ve kept it in the hour hand, in the monotonous creaks,
Under the dismembered shelf, on the scratched table,
Through the eye of a sewing sanguine needle
The face travels, swims, walks, flies,
The face acts like a face
The face is not a face,
Oh, yes, I’ve kept your face intact.

I’ve kept your face hidden, imprisoned, amputated it for 25 years.
I’ve kept it in the butcher’s knife, inside the mystified slaughterhouse,
Between the pig’s jaws, tinkling from the cowbell,
The sewing machine cutting and stitching the face,
Royal apparel, purple is the colour best,
I’ve used clothing chemicals, detergents, washing powders,
The face remains intact,
The face is a brutal history,
Oh, yes, I’ve kept your face intact.

I’ve nine fingers, one is an abomination,
I’ve drawn your face with that finger,
Drawn on the slopes of Himalayas, in the trails of Annapurna,
Blew it off in the dusts of Mustang,
Floated it on Koshi River,
The face is the number one stalker,
The face boasts for being evergreen, perpetual, inexhaustible,
The face is a history gone wrong,
Oh, yes, I’ve kept your face intact.

I’ve kept your face intact
And have smeared mine.

- Arun Budhathoki

(1 poem added 08.15.11)

editor's note: Face up, face time, save face, face-to-face, put a good face on it, across the face of time. - mh

The Flowers

A woman brought me flowers and told me to treat them as if they were her.
Orange-yellow flaming flowers, I parted her lips.
She was not lonely, she said. She had baseball... students... coworkers...

Her legs ran down my bed like green stalks and shivered at my touch.
I am the wind, I whispered in her ear. And she replied curiously,
I will never drink the poison.

- Nathaniel Kostar

(added 08.14.11)

editor's note: Strange the voluptuous vixen. Jumps into the water; never drinks, never swims - only floats. Strange and irresistable to all who swallow everything whole. - 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...

Snappin' Pictures,

Johnny O

MH Clay
Poetry Editor


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