The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 11.05.11
“When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries disappear and life stands explained.” Mark Twain
old collection (above) by featured photographer, Eleanor Leonne Bennett, 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 mo' fo' sho' so move that mad mouse of yo's right over here and a-way you'll GO!
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we bobbled seven bounces from beast to beast. There was a plague to parlay, the puissance of the Pack; a jangled, head mangled morning-after japed jackpot; a virtual visit to childhood vagrance; a wrangled revelation of self-emergence into the clear; smack into a dawdling disappointment in flawed deity; only to be riddled with rancour and recriminations, the toppled icon, now erect; finally transformed into Goddess, immolator of monsters, mentor of laughing smiling madness. Who's in charge here? - mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Monsters
I will fight wars beside you
Dig in and perfect myself
So I can stand strong with you
As you slay your haunting hunters
I will wait for you to be brave
I’ll set the example for you
Show you how to conquer your monsters
All those past bodies to which you are clinging
Ghosts of guilt, do not matter; they are illusions-
I am strong enough for both of us
Have faith in my will
My pure heart
I have seen the broken book of stones
See a goddess in me
Believe in my power
Tomorrow I will make your sun rise
With out fear or judgment
I give myself freely to your heart, dreams, and desires.
I will believe and hold you to becoming real
Whenever you go, look to me as true as North
I will manifest love from the creator for you
I will be your little sun goddess
When you are a dark star crying
Into the nothingness of collapse
When all that remains
Is the crave of empty skin
Night I sing to your moon
Ache to your howl
Even if you don’t want to be saved
Even if you are not ready
I will be silent for your weeping
A warrior lion's heart
Worth beating for
Worth the beatings
We receive.
- Desmene M. Statum
(1 poem added 11.05.11)
editor's note: When your goddess offers her strength, it's time to line up your monsters like shooting-gallery ducks and let fly with her dead-eye mojo. Yup, set'em up, knock'em down... epic. - mh
It’s Because Jesus Is Angry With Me
my car is always breaking down
during the holidays.
"this is because Jesus is angry with you" she said.
"you are probably right" I said.
as others walk around self-assured
in their good standing with God
I worry about my soul on a daily basis.
I really do wonder if my car breaking down
during the holidays is a message from God
on the state of my soul: broken down,
out of commission, in one piece, but unable
to transport me from one place to another.
I really wonder if my car breaking down
during the holidays is a wake up call from God
to get fixed, to get a tune up, to stop neglecting
my responsibility as a child of God.
hmm, is God that practical to do such a thing?
or am I just paranoid and self-absorbed?
- Mike Meraz
(1 poem added 11.04.11)
editor's note: I can manage the car through my local mechanic. But, mechanics for the soul; that's another issue - where to find a good shop for repairs? - mh
As You Were
My respect for you
Once was so high
That I put you high above in the sky
Where you did belong
Now, after you act like there is no us
I can hardly speak your name loudly
'Cause what you left is a shame
My respect is lying on the ground
So low
I could crush it
But won't do that
For you did grand things
While you were free of evil
Long time ago when all you knew was good
Long time ago when both of us
Could see
Far beyond and high above...
- Biljana Dodos
(added 11.03.11)
editor's note: Dictate this note through your psychic secretary, a memo to your higher god; "Bring back the grand things please!" - mh
My Therapist’s a Lady
It’s all so simple now,
yet it took 30 years
to begin to understand.
It’s as though someone
stole the primer I had
and gave me another
in my own language.
It’s because you are
who you are
that I’ve begun
to become who I am.
That sounds too dramatic.
All you did, really, was scream
when you opened the bathroom door,
saw me wrapped in a towel,
standing at attention on a mat,
waiting in my thirtieth year
for the steam to clear
from the cabinet mirror,
waiting for someone
to shout, “At ease.”
- Donal Mahoney
(1 poem added 11.02.11)
editor's note: What shouts may come as the steam clears? What image seen in that foggy mirror? Takes therapy to figure that shit out! (Let's welcome Donal to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets - see more of his work on his new poetry page.) - mh
Runaway
I always thought that I appeared by some
strange accident, like those little wild flowers
that pop up unexpectedly sometimes, during harsh
weather, found along motorway roadsides, and with
a propensity to curl over or to fold in on
themselves as a form of self-protection, thriving
in the oozing mud, and commonly overlooked –
not rolling from the womb like supposed; held up
and twisted spectacularly through the air.
Surfacing in the backyard one day –
an eight year old child, grumpy, flush, fully kitted
out in winter coat, winter boots, winter mittens,
little red suitcase in hand. And in that case enough
peanut-butter sandwiches to last a child a
week, a torch, a notebook, half a pencil.
And questioning, questioning (so many bloody
questions, too many, swirling around in my infant
brain). “Are you my real parents?” and “If I
promise to stay will you buy me a rabbit or a
kitten?”
Tears and everything tumbling down my cheeks.
- A. Swimmer
(1 poem added 11.01.11)
editor's note: That's all it takes; a rabbit or a kitten? Tears and everything! - mh
The reason that drunks don’t recycle
Humiliation, morning seven am embarrassment.
The clanking of cans
chirping clank, too many bottles compete for space.
Hang dog slide down the fire escape. gotta wait. for the right moment
No neighbors in the hall
smiling maintenance guy. judgment eyes
party in a one room apartment, 105 no ones invited!
Clink clang click…nothing good ever comes in or goes out in a black bag.
Porn and booze and bodies.
Space out the symphony with folded pizza boxes.
Sunday morning functioning, the church bells of shame
But Wednesday, that’s another thing entirely.
Rock paper scissors, who gets the job? Three days a week of pile up and stock up
Gotta go.
Gotta go down all five flights no matter how careful the tip toe
The side step
Still the shame-siren wails in the parking lot
Neighbor’s pit bull head cock. No chicken bones, or other forbidden goodies.
No food for days, just bang-smash the bottles and cans…I can identify the brand
the sound of opening, parlor trick in a parlor-less walk up…but still.
the old woman who swims the dumpster for these lost fortunes
one more guilty verdict for her jackpot.
Think about global warming, the trash island.
Guilty gap mouthed purple plastic is giving me the eye again,
While I feed it’s too-full neighbor up with all that broken music.
- Jenny Catlin
(added 10.31.11)
editor's note: For that perpetual morning after, be the dumpster! - mh
ZIDANE'S DREAM, Part Two
paintings of decadent food to music that would melt
people often disappeared
experimented on to see the results
many lead their normal lives
unable to stop the inevitable
an hour before the exhibition was going to begin
the “scare” started
a piece of news popped on the radio
he wore a surgeon's mask
and had a pump in his hand
he heard a man yell
people began to run
but it was too late…
he pushed out the back door
and collapsed on the ground
he woke in a hospital bed
blurred in his eyes
he tried to move his arms
wings
a state of shock
survived the chemical spray
“Dark Children”
half bat
the tubes pulling out
a voice from behind the curtains
calm
a nurse had walked in
bursting out in tears again
more beast than human
many times in the mirror
a violinist who one day wanted to see the world
but would never play again
wouldn’t eat
wanted to die…
telling him to seek out a “free city”
called Midian and The Pack
fate uncertain…
- Michael Ian Sattler
(added 10.30.11)
editor's note: Can't play the violin? That's tragic. But, now you can fly? Beat wings, find your safe city. (Remember Part One? Check our archives, September 11) - 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...
Rememberin',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
old collection (above) by featured photographer, Eleanor Leonne Bennett, 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 mo' fo' sho' so move that mad mouse of yo's right over here and a-way you'll GO!
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we bobbled seven bounces from beast to beast. There was a plague to parlay, the puissance of the Pack; a jangled, head mangled morning-after japed jackpot; a virtual visit to childhood vagrance; a wrangled revelation of self-emergence into the clear; smack into a dawdling disappointment in flawed deity; only to be riddled with rancour and recriminations, the toppled icon, now erect; finally transformed into Goddess, immolator of monsters, mentor of laughing smiling madness. Who's in charge here? - mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Monsters
I will fight wars beside you
Dig in and perfect myself
So I can stand strong with you
As you slay your haunting hunters
I will wait for you to be brave
I’ll set the example for you
Show you how to conquer your monsters
All those past bodies to which you are clinging
Ghosts of guilt, do not matter; they are illusions-
I am strong enough for both of us
Have faith in my will
My pure heart
I have seen the broken book of stones
See a goddess in me
Believe in my power
Tomorrow I will make your sun rise
With out fear or judgment
I give myself freely to your heart, dreams, and desires.
I will believe and hold you to becoming real
Whenever you go, look to me as true as North
I will manifest love from the creator for you
I will be your little sun goddess
When you are a dark star crying
Into the nothingness of collapse
When all that remains
Is the crave of empty skin
Night I sing to your moon
Ache to your howl
Even if you don’t want to be saved
Even if you are not ready
I will be silent for your weeping
A warrior lion's heart
Worth beating for
Worth the beatings
We receive.
- Desmene M. Statum
(1 poem added 11.05.11)
editor's note: When your goddess offers her strength, it's time to line up your monsters like shooting-gallery ducks and let fly with her dead-eye mojo. Yup, set'em up, knock'em down... epic. - mh
It’s Because Jesus Is Angry With Me
my car is always breaking down
during the holidays.
"this is because Jesus is angry with you" she said.
"you are probably right" I said.
as others walk around self-assured
in their good standing with God
I worry about my soul on a daily basis.
I really do wonder if my car breaking down
during the holidays is a message from God
on the state of my soul: broken down,
out of commission, in one piece, but unable
to transport me from one place to another.
I really wonder if my car breaking down
during the holidays is a wake up call from God
to get fixed, to get a tune up, to stop neglecting
my responsibility as a child of God.
hmm, is God that practical to do such a thing?
or am I just paranoid and self-absorbed?
- Mike Meraz
(1 poem added 11.04.11)
editor's note: I can manage the car through my local mechanic. But, mechanics for the soul; that's another issue - where to find a good shop for repairs? - mh
As You Were
My respect for you
Once was so high
That I put you high above in the sky
Where you did belong
Now, after you act like there is no us
I can hardly speak your name loudly
'Cause what you left is a shame
My respect is lying on the ground
So low
I could crush it
But won't do that
For you did grand things
While you were free of evil
Long time ago when all you knew was good
Long time ago when both of us
Could see
Far beyond and high above...
- Biljana Dodos
(added 11.03.11)
editor's note: Dictate this note through your psychic secretary, a memo to your higher god; "Bring back the grand things please!" - mh
My Therapist’s a Lady
It’s all so simple now,
yet it took 30 years
to begin to understand.
It’s as though someone
stole the primer I had
and gave me another
in my own language.
It’s because you are
who you are
that I’ve begun
to become who I am.
That sounds too dramatic.
All you did, really, was scream
when you opened the bathroom door,
saw me wrapped in a towel,
standing at attention on a mat,
waiting in my thirtieth year
for the steam to clear
from the cabinet mirror,
waiting for someone
to shout, “At ease.”
- Donal Mahoney
(1 poem added 11.02.11)
editor's note: What shouts may come as the steam clears? What image seen in that foggy mirror? Takes therapy to figure that shit out! (Let's welcome Donal to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets - see more of his work on his new poetry page.) - mh
Runaway
I always thought that I appeared by some
strange accident, like those little wild flowers
that pop up unexpectedly sometimes, during harsh
weather, found along motorway roadsides, and with
a propensity to curl over or to fold in on
themselves as a form of self-protection, thriving
in the oozing mud, and commonly overlooked –
not rolling from the womb like supposed; held up
and twisted spectacularly through the air.
Surfacing in the backyard one day –
an eight year old child, grumpy, flush, fully kitted
out in winter coat, winter boots, winter mittens,
little red suitcase in hand. And in that case enough
peanut-butter sandwiches to last a child a
week, a torch, a notebook, half a pencil.
And questioning, questioning (so many bloody
questions, too many, swirling around in my infant
brain). “Are you my real parents?” and “If I
promise to stay will you buy me a rabbit or a
kitten?”
Tears and everything tumbling down my cheeks.
- A. Swimmer
(1 poem added 11.01.11)
editor's note: That's all it takes; a rabbit or a kitten? Tears and everything! - mh
The reason that drunks don’t recycle
Humiliation, morning seven am embarrassment.
The clanking of cans
chirping clank, too many bottles compete for space.
Hang dog slide down the fire escape. gotta wait. for the right moment
No neighbors in the hall
smiling maintenance guy. judgment eyes
party in a one room apartment, 105 no ones invited!
Clink clang click…nothing good ever comes in or goes out in a black bag.
Porn and booze and bodies.
Space out the symphony with folded pizza boxes.
Sunday morning functioning, the church bells of shame
But Wednesday, that’s another thing entirely.
Rock paper scissors, who gets the job? Three days a week of pile up and stock up
Gotta go.
Gotta go down all five flights no matter how careful the tip toe
The side step
Still the shame-siren wails in the parking lot
Neighbor’s pit bull head cock. No chicken bones, or other forbidden goodies.
No food for days, just bang-smash the bottles and cans…I can identify the brand
the sound of opening, parlor trick in a parlor-less walk up…but still.
the old woman who swims the dumpster for these lost fortunes
one more guilty verdict for her jackpot.
Think about global warming, the trash island.
Guilty gap mouthed purple plastic is giving me the eye again,
While I feed it’s too-full neighbor up with all that broken music.
- Jenny Catlin
(added 10.31.11)
editor's note: For that perpetual morning after, be the dumpster! - mh
ZIDANE'S DREAM, Part Two
paintings of decadent food to music that would melt
people often disappeared
experimented on to see the results
many lead their normal lives
unable to stop the inevitable
an hour before the exhibition was going to begin
the “scare” started
a piece of news popped on the radio
he wore a surgeon's mask
and had a pump in his hand
he heard a man yell
people began to run
but it was too late…
he pushed out the back door
and collapsed on the ground
he woke in a hospital bed
blurred in his eyes
he tried to move his arms
wings
a state of shock
survived the chemical spray
“Dark Children”
half bat
the tubes pulling out
a voice from behind the curtains
calm
a nurse had walked in
bursting out in tears again
more beast than human
many times in the mirror
a violinist who one day wanted to see the world
but would never play again
wouldn’t eat
wanted to die…
telling him to seek out a “free city”
called Midian and The Pack
fate uncertain…
- Michael Ian Sattler
(added 10.30.11)
editor's note: Can't play the violin? That's tragic. But, now you can fly? Beat wings, find your safe city. (Remember Part One? Check our archives, September 11) - 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...
Rememberin',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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