The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 10.15.11
“If a poet is anybody, he is somebody to whom things made matter very little - somebody who is obsessed by Making.” e. e. cummings
oh my! (above) by featured artist, halo jones, 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 wound a few tales, tied some knots. It started with watching a witch walloping; we walked quietly 'round a wolf's were-whiles; we savored the spirits of the silver screen; we sneaked a peak at the poor, who peeked back; we heaped our plates high with some vanity pie; and then bumped bags with a cowboy's bitch; to lastly make an end with a manged cat's meow. Wow! Knots untied, I'm just plain happy to be here! - mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Mindful of the Mind, the Meaning of Meows
Under a porch swing hung by rusted chains
a cat lay in decay, lapping itself.
On its head, a little fur, mostly the remains of a face.
From ear to eye, all can see what’s inside.
Mange exposed skull, veins, discolored muscle.
Flies land and try to suck at the musky surface
but the feline moves to lick where she carries
a tumor like a love song, never purring, never playful,
just lucky the eye stays in its socket.
Licking, she found decay not tasty, but a habit
like laying on concrete. Only her owner didn’t ignore her
as she inspected her pet’s rot.
“This cat is falling apart. It must be the heat.”
“Worthless pet. Do you know what we did when it was hot?”
No one does.
“Dead or dying, we picked more cotton.”
Armed with a fly swatter, she smacks the tumor.
The cat left behind blood spots and bad memories.
Minutes later, she asked, “Where is my beautiful cat?”
No one answered. They lick on good memories while they can
while looking deep into their iced tea, pretending
their days aren’t all decay, inside and out.
- Tyler Malone
(2 poems added 10.15.11)
editor's note: Wow! It's a game of "Tumor! Tumor! Who's got the tumor?" Only, I think the cat is not the one infected. - mh
The Man With the Jack-in-the-Box Bag
slid it over the table top, greasy trail and all,
to the edge, next to my over-sized envelop
with his boss' name on it. He reached - I covered the manilla 8x10
before saying, "It's all here? Exactly
what I asked for?"
Cowboy hat tipped down, the words,
"Aren't they always? Don't you ever trust me?"
This time, the drop off location was more lively
than usual amidst the biker gang
bangers throwing packets,
open HOT secret sauce hand grenades
at the fry cooks beyond the counter.
Applause from the patrons
jeered the especially bad tasting Tacos.
"But this is the last one, amiga - no more left
in the desert or the safe," he added before slipping his hand
to my inner thigh, rubbing me down as if we were on a date
at a drive in. Learned in the YWCA Defense Class, I bent his index
finger backwards
until he cried, "Uncle!" and I slipped my package
across the chipped table surface
into his lap.
"Never call me again, Bitch, or I'll set the Doberman's after you,"
he muttered, rubbing his middle digit
before using it on me
as he stumbled out of the joint.
Turned away, staring out the picture window
towards the parking lot where my old man told stories
of the road as if he were Kerouac himself,
I uncrumpled the easy-to-carry paper carry all
scooped the gel from the unmarked jar
that radiated like the Sun on a 100 degree day
in the Barrio, rubbed it across my sunburned face,
and closed my eyes...
- Joseph D. DiLella
(2 poems added 10.14.11)
editor's note: Much ado about sun block. There must be an easier way for a girl to protect herself. (Another one about a popular icon - a real nut-job - on Joseph's page. Check it out!) - mh
Vanity Plates
The pretty boy in cheap blazer
just back from the bathroom,
parts his hair to the left
with Herculean effort
and gets lost in his own reflection.
While the ceiling fan
looks down on the world
and I follow two girls
with hand held mirrors
and little else
out into a parking lot
full of vanity plates
and power steering:
K8 4 EVR
UNCL TOM
#1 MOM
DIVA 22
LOADED
SUPR GRL
BIG DOG
THE MAN...
The sun is self-absorbed.
The summer birds are preening.
Even the freshly paved asphalt
cannot stop admiring
itself.
- Ryan Quinn Flanagan
(2 poem added 10.13.11)
editor's note: You gotta be impressed with yourself, even if no else is. NOPLT4ME. (Another one from Ryan on his page - check it out!) - mh
Gazing Through the Mud Hole
Through a narrow hole
in the mud wall of a hut
I see broken planks of house
of the richest man in the city.
While winter and summer creeps
in to turn the hut into a hell,
the broken window of the mansion
has gathered a crowd
to set it in same design.
The hole indicates the stature of the poor
and the life suitable for them in a
so called third world country.
They are just meant to gaze
at rich wonders here.
- Sonnet Mondal
(added 10.12.11)
editor's note: Hmmm. Adds a different spin to when we toast each other with, "Here's mud in your eye!" - mh
Ghosts in the theater
There is a whisper in the auditorium,
Fair voices of ancient beings
Long ravaged by the decay of time.
And they’re singing.
Singing sad songs of living and being
And being without living,
Strong horrors of the human psyche,
Studded with fear and crippling anxiety.
Dreams without the harbor of hope,
And the foundation of imagination.
Sonnets of faint recitals echoing of the walls
From a forgotten time.
- R.A. Hernandez
(added 10.11.11)
editor's note: All the movies shown in the dark, filling the voices of these ghosts with much more to sing. When the projector shuts off, the stories keep going. Scary! - mh
Night Observatories #15
Ostensible emotion not to show ever and in the smoky nights not to suffer the moist caress of the wolves any more
the heavy leathers of the sick lean in the armchairs of treason and they use their feelings charcoaled by horror as matches
when the shepherds whisper their terrible secrets to the sheep's ears, our hearts spray the greenish lights in the womb of the blasphemies growling the blissful spoken words.
- Walter Ruhlmann
(1 poem added 10.10.11)
editor's note: This wolf-whispered womb of words would breach and bellow blasphemies. Strike your match and lose them. (Welcome Walter to our congress of Contributing Poets - see more of his work on his new page.) - mh
If she were a witch
If she were a witch, I guess you wouldn’t be living.
There was no earthquake in her screams, she was nothing
but wounds all over – red, blue, brown, purple –
bleeding on the junction – a matter of extreme curiosity for kids around
peeping from below your hips, or running after your footsteps.
Perhaps her busted head was a football!
Perhaps your boots, canes and stones were not enough, so
she was yelling at you to drag and thrash her more!
If she were a witch, I guess you wouldn’t be living.
Either she would surely escape flying on her broomstick
or just vanish with a simple click of her fingers right in the beginning
or furiously hurl you into a dark cave where
she would avenge by forcing you to eat human feces
the way you forced her, or, she would hammer your hands and legs
and teach you a lesson by pulling out your teeth
with more force and fury than you used to display your bravado.
If she were a witch, I guess you wouldn’t be living
and your children wouldn’t die of dysentery or of fever. Possession
is what you did to her, not what she did or did not.
She – just a single finger, and you – an entire village,
what a mad swarm of bees stinging a life to almost death!
Neither she spoke scary words nor called a thunder down.
What’s black magic? Why would she only leave the marks of her teeth
on your thighs or arms when she could have the whole of you?
- Haris Adhikari
(added 10.09.11)
editor's note: And since we are living, she can't be, after all. Oh, my! All this blood on our hands. - 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...
Makin' It,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
oh my! (above) by featured artist, halo jones, 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 wound a few tales, tied some knots. It started with watching a witch walloping; we walked quietly 'round a wolf's were-whiles; we savored the spirits of the silver screen; we sneaked a peak at the poor, who peeked back; we heaped our plates high with some vanity pie; and then bumped bags with a cowboy's bitch; to lastly make an end with a manged cat's meow. Wow! Knots untied, I'm just plain happy to be here! - mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Mindful of the Mind, the Meaning of Meows
Under a porch swing hung by rusted chains
a cat lay in decay, lapping itself.
On its head, a little fur, mostly the remains of a face.
From ear to eye, all can see what’s inside.
Mange exposed skull, veins, discolored muscle.
Flies land and try to suck at the musky surface
but the feline moves to lick where she carries
a tumor like a love song, never purring, never playful,
just lucky the eye stays in its socket.
Licking, she found decay not tasty, but a habit
like laying on concrete. Only her owner didn’t ignore her
as she inspected her pet’s rot.
“This cat is falling apart. It must be the heat.”
“Worthless pet. Do you know what we did when it was hot?”
No one does.
“Dead or dying, we picked more cotton.”
Armed with a fly swatter, she smacks the tumor.
The cat left behind blood spots and bad memories.
Minutes later, she asked, “Where is my beautiful cat?”
No one answered. They lick on good memories while they can
while looking deep into their iced tea, pretending
their days aren’t all decay, inside and out.
- Tyler Malone
(2 poems added 10.15.11)
editor's note: Wow! It's a game of "Tumor! Tumor! Who's got the tumor?" Only, I think the cat is not the one infected. - mh
The Man With the Jack-in-the-Box Bag
slid it over the table top, greasy trail and all,
to the edge, next to my over-sized envelop
with his boss' name on it. He reached - I covered the manilla 8x10
before saying, "It's all here? Exactly
what I asked for?"
Cowboy hat tipped down, the words,
"Aren't they always? Don't you ever trust me?"
This time, the drop off location was more lively
than usual amidst the biker gang
bangers throwing packets,
open HOT secret sauce hand grenades
at the fry cooks beyond the counter.
Applause from the patrons
jeered the especially bad tasting Tacos.
"But this is the last one, amiga - no more left
in the desert or the safe," he added before slipping his hand
to my inner thigh, rubbing me down as if we were on a date
at a drive in. Learned in the YWCA Defense Class, I bent his index
finger backwards
until he cried, "Uncle!" and I slipped my package
across the chipped table surface
into his lap.
"Never call me again, Bitch, or I'll set the Doberman's after you,"
he muttered, rubbing his middle digit
before using it on me
as he stumbled out of the joint.
Turned away, staring out the picture window
towards the parking lot where my old man told stories
of the road as if he were Kerouac himself,
I uncrumpled the easy-to-carry paper carry all
scooped the gel from the unmarked jar
that radiated like the Sun on a 100 degree day
in the Barrio, rubbed it across my sunburned face,
and closed my eyes...
- Joseph D. DiLella
(2 poems added 10.14.11)
editor's note: Much ado about sun block. There must be an easier way for a girl to protect herself. (Another one about a popular icon - a real nut-job - on Joseph's page. Check it out!) - mh
Vanity Plates
The pretty boy in cheap blazer
just back from the bathroom,
parts his hair to the left
with Herculean effort
and gets lost in his own reflection.
While the ceiling fan
looks down on the world
and I follow two girls
with hand held mirrors
and little else
out into a parking lot
full of vanity plates
and power steering:
K8 4 EVR
UNCL TOM
#1 MOM
DIVA 22
LOADED
SUPR GRL
BIG DOG
THE MAN...
The sun is self-absorbed.
The summer birds are preening.
Even the freshly paved asphalt
cannot stop admiring
itself.
- Ryan Quinn Flanagan
(2 poem added 10.13.11)
editor's note: You gotta be impressed with yourself, even if no else is. NOPLT4ME. (Another one from Ryan on his page - check it out!) - mh
Gazing Through the Mud Hole
Through a narrow hole
in the mud wall of a hut
I see broken planks of house
of the richest man in the city.
While winter and summer creeps
in to turn the hut into a hell,
the broken window of the mansion
has gathered a crowd
to set it in same design.
The hole indicates the stature of the poor
and the life suitable for them in a
so called third world country.
They are just meant to gaze
at rich wonders here.
- Sonnet Mondal
(added 10.12.11)
editor's note: Hmmm. Adds a different spin to when we toast each other with, "Here's mud in your eye!" - mh
Ghosts in the theater
There is a whisper in the auditorium,
Fair voices of ancient beings
Long ravaged by the decay of time.
And they’re singing.
Singing sad songs of living and being
And being without living,
Strong horrors of the human psyche,
Studded with fear and crippling anxiety.
Dreams without the harbor of hope,
And the foundation of imagination.
Sonnets of faint recitals echoing of the walls
From a forgotten time.
- R.A. Hernandez
(added 10.11.11)
editor's note: All the movies shown in the dark, filling the voices of these ghosts with much more to sing. When the projector shuts off, the stories keep going. Scary! - mh
Night Observatories #15
Ostensible emotion not to show ever and in the smoky nights not to suffer the moist caress of the wolves any more
the heavy leathers of the sick lean in the armchairs of treason and they use their feelings charcoaled by horror as matches
when the shepherds whisper their terrible secrets to the sheep's ears, our hearts spray the greenish lights in the womb of the blasphemies growling the blissful spoken words.
- Walter Ruhlmann
(1 poem added 10.10.11)
editor's note: This wolf-whispered womb of words would breach and bellow blasphemies. Strike your match and lose them. (Welcome Walter to our congress of Contributing Poets - see more of his work on his new page.) - mh
If she were a witch
If she were a witch, I guess you wouldn’t be living.
There was no earthquake in her screams, she was nothing
but wounds all over – red, blue, brown, purple –
bleeding on the junction – a matter of extreme curiosity for kids around
peeping from below your hips, or running after your footsteps.
Perhaps her busted head was a football!
Perhaps your boots, canes and stones were not enough, so
she was yelling at you to drag and thrash her more!
If she were a witch, I guess you wouldn’t be living.
Either she would surely escape flying on her broomstick
or just vanish with a simple click of her fingers right in the beginning
or furiously hurl you into a dark cave where
she would avenge by forcing you to eat human feces
the way you forced her, or, she would hammer your hands and legs
and teach you a lesson by pulling out your teeth
with more force and fury than you used to display your bravado.
If she were a witch, I guess you wouldn’t be living
and your children wouldn’t die of dysentery or of fever. Possession
is what you did to her, not what she did or did not.
She – just a single finger, and you – an entire village,
what a mad swarm of bees stinging a life to almost death!
Neither she spoke scary words nor called a thunder down.
What’s black magic? Why would she only leave the marks of her teeth
on your thighs or arms when she could have the whole of you?
- Haris Adhikari
(added 10.09.11)
editor's note: And since we are living, she can't be, after all. Oh, my! All this blood on our hands. - 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...
Makin' It,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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