The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 11.12.11
“How could you live and have no story to tell?.” Fyodor Dostoyevsky
murder in the air (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 slid into seasonal bureaucratic bird feeding, operantly conditioned to pick and peck; we restated our alphabetic out-loud announcement that all should behave circumspectly; we viewed the vibrant womb parade from the sideline, looked but didn't touch; we indulged in a self-mugging, robbed our Peter to pay our Paul, when we always thought those guys worked for free; we held our breath in anticipatory observation of a wild careening race from wicked intent to witness protection; we went home to be the foreigner, stood the stares and stinging stabs from those who stayed; then we went abroad where everything was foreign, eschewed the sweet, longed for the love and richness of home. Click your heals together three times... - mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Waiting Room
The room reflects the ferocious fluorescent tubes
Attacking the sweating palms, smiles stitched with agitating threads,
On the metallic lotus materialistic monks attain Nirvana
Twang! A feminine voice announces 698
I hand over the dreadful passport and the papers
Bearing the gruesome doubtful facade,
I smell of coffee, umbilical urine, gloomy faces masquerading
At Soho Square, I draw out two tangible breaths
One is sucked by a frog, another by a snake,
I kill the glaring eyes with the arrogant head,
And the snake with the majestic fist,
Near the caustic exit I pass the torch of madness
To another applicant,
Tremor—Himalayas laugh putting off their crowns.
London is crisp, jelly-like, melting in the childish mouth,
Twart! The children join in melodious laughter
While adults grin and hesitate to smirk,
An Indian girl looks at me and smiles: I don’t!
Isn’t she mad enough to do that?
London is full of meanings,
Behind a smile there’s a reason,
Behind a stare there’s a reason,
From the place I come we smile for no reasons,
And stare at strangers for no reasons,
We’re free like Yeti and Sherpas in the foothills of Mt. Everest,
Late in life we will peel our lives like boiled potatoes
And grow memories in the ageing soil of love and richness of life!
London is crisp, jelly-like, sweetening not refreshing!
- Arun Budhathoki
(2 poems added 11.12.11)
editor's note: No familiar Nirvana in a metallic lotus; no refreshment in our sickly sweet Western miasma. But, in the company of sherpas, we are the aliens. (Another good one from Arun on his page; the discovery of true love, "Shhhhh!") - mh
Once, When I Went Back to My Hometown
I knew the sceneries did not exist only to welcome a
daydreamer like me. I knew what they looked like once
when I traveled in this spooky place. Way back, the
roads greeted me as if I was back from a long journey.
I thought I didn't see the buildings before and some
new road construction, perhaps it transformed into
stronger, prouder but smaller build after I left this wee
town two scores ago. Probably, I became used to the
cold the west gave me, or it could be another heat which
has been missed for a long time, the sunlight, jeepneys or
some native tongue. My language still did not change,
though I could speak someone else's . I thought I would
be an expected visitor that day - ushered, catered, loved.
Instead, I saw crude facial emotions, some new family
members who called me aunt or an unusual bypasser. I
knew they smiled out of respect, but they were so cold that I
shared stories they can't relate to, or shared images which
they defined nonexistent in this other part of the globe, that
I lived in my own generation, or they were stuck in an olden
time. I thought it would be another two scores to put things
back - so I'd realize snow never existed here in the first place.
- Sarah Gamutan
(1 poem added 11.11.11)
editor's note: Sometimes going back doesn't work for those who moved forward; it doesn't have to snow to be cold. (Let's welcome Sarah to our congress of Contributing Poets - check out her new poetry page.) - mh
Moving a Divorcee and Her Kids across State Lines
The time was five-thirty,
I woke with a start;
Something was following
My mama’s sure cart.
Shifting from “park” to “drive,”
She toggled to speed,
Pumped hard on the gas,
Mom gave little heed.
Behind us a mammoth,
A terror in measure,
With hinged, metal wings,
Which held fast to our treasure
The bulk of that weirdness,
Its preponderance,
Approached our back bumper,
Threatened to compress.
Mom dove and she darted,
She jumped lanes at great pace,
Yet that overgrown beasty
Well matched our pure haste.
With lights like grand eyeballs,
A windshield as mouth,
It adamantly tailgated
Three states to the south.
Then, deep into the night
In a neighborhood new
With that monster behind us,
We kids did construe
A federal license
A driver or more,
Our cash, our possessions,
The complete “country store.”
They’d been able to link
Our past life to the present,
Had managed to help
Make our changeover pleasant.
With wide eyes we watched
The wine being poured
As cartons and boxes
Transversed our front porch.
- KJ Hannah Greenberg
(1 poem added 11.10.11)
editor's note: It's a crime show, an action movie, a soap opera, a documentary - better'n TV or a Gothic novel. I was worried, too, up 'til the wine flowed. All is well when the wine flows. - mh
Thieves In High Places
The hand in your right pocket
and the hand in your left
are both responsible
for stealing your future
and robbing you of your past.
These outlaws seldom ride together.
Both have bounties on their heads.
When things get hot they disappear
into sand and sagebrush.
It's been said one's in Mexico;
the other hiding out in Greece.
If they ever get brought to justice,
notify me, please.
I'd like to see the trial.
I'd like to hear the pleas.
I'd like to hear the judgment
and the sentence for these creeps.
Then I'll slip back to my shack
where a better house once stood,
and I'll eat a can of cat food
and drink to the gone neighborhood.
- Joseph Farley
(added 11.09.11)
editor's note: Anyday, in any future, the thieving country could be yours. Let's drink to the gone neighborhood while we can. - mh
Blue Portland
junkies & thieves—jazz & sirens—
everyone is beautiful in monochrome
we gave our flesh for bits of food
& burned like cherries under whoreflesh skies
how long do you stop & stare
at all the pretty shells
& the poison on their spines?
we drank all night & cut our hair
wandered the streets looking for roses
or good drugs, or warm flesh—
all we found was cardboard & broken glass
at sunrise the carnival will end
& we will turn to plastic again
we are all fragmented children
grasping for hands in the womb parade
- Ray Barklow
(added 11.08.11)
editor's note: Yes, only glass and cardboard; lest one in the parade is moved to offer them a hand. - mh
Grammar School Proverb
Always Be Content,
Don’t Ever Feel GREAT,
Have In Justice Kindness,
Love Mostly Nobody.
Obey Prejudices Quietly;
Rest, Since Those
Undulating Vices Will
X Your Z
- Kelly Thompson
(added 11.07.11)
editor's note: The mad ones will opt for those undulating vices everytime. Yes, twinkle your star with, "X Your Zs!" - mh
The Aberdeen Bird Feeder
Everyone from the DMV gathers during the fall
to see the Aberdeen Bird Feeder work his way through the parking lot.
People are beset in the fall with definite ideas:
like Colombina
who hides chicken feet
between stacks of paper around her desk
and Tom the cashier
who refuses to give out one dollar bills.
He looked at me once
and noticed my glasses had changed.
Then his face fogged over
and his eyes dribbled out the window.
An abandoned cherry picker sat
face to face with my automobile
feeding water to birds with its hands.
- Patrick Sugrue
(added 11.06.11)
editor's note: The cashier gave me four dollars change in quarters and I still got bird shit on my car. - 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...
Story Tellin',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
murder in the air (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 slid into seasonal bureaucratic bird feeding, operantly conditioned to pick and peck; we restated our alphabetic out-loud announcement that all should behave circumspectly; we viewed the vibrant womb parade from the sideline, looked but didn't touch; we indulged in a self-mugging, robbed our Peter to pay our Paul, when we always thought those guys worked for free; we held our breath in anticipatory observation of a wild careening race from wicked intent to witness protection; we went home to be the foreigner, stood the stares and stinging stabs from those who stayed; then we went abroad where everything was foreign, eschewed the sweet, longed for the love and richness of home. Click your heals together three times... - mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Waiting Room
The room reflects the ferocious fluorescent tubes
Attacking the sweating palms, smiles stitched with agitating threads,
On the metallic lotus materialistic monks attain Nirvana
Twang! A feminine voice announces 698
I hand over the dreadful passport and the papers
Bearing the gruesome doubtful facade,
I smell of coffee, umbilical urine, gloomy faces masquerading
At Soho Square, I draw out two tangible breaths
One is sucked by a frog, another by a snake,
I kill the glaring eyes with the arrogant head,
And the snake with the majestic fist,
Near the caustic exit I pass the torch of madness
To another applicant,
Tremor—Himalayas laugh putting off their crowns.
London is crisp, jelly-like, melting in the childish mouth,
Twart! The children join in melodious laughter
While adults grin and hesitate to smirk,
An Indian girl looks at me and smiles: I don’t!
Isn’t she mad enough to do that?
London is full of meanings,
Behind a smile there’s a reason,
Behind a stare there’s a reason,
From the place I come we smile for no reasons,
And stare at strangers for no reasons,
We’re free like Yeti and Sherpas in the foothills of Mt. Everest,
Late in life we will peel our lives like boiled potatoes
And grow memories in the ageing soil of love and richness of life!
London is crisp, jelly-like, sweetening not refreshing!
- Arun Budhathoki
(2 poems added 11.12.11)
editor's note: No familiar Nirvana in a metallic lotus; no refreshment in our sickly sweet Western miasma. But, in the company of sherpas, we are the aliens. (Another good one from Arun on his page; the discovery of true love, "Shhhhh!") - mh
Once, When I Went Back to My Hometown
I knew the sceneries did not exist only to welcome a
daydreamer like me. I knew what they looked like once
when I traveled in this spooky place. Way back, the
roads greeted me as if I was back from a long journey.
I thought I didn't see the buildings before and some
new road construction, perhaps it transformed into
stronger, prouder but smaller build after I left this wee
town two scores ago. Probably, I became used to the
cold the west gave me, or it could be another heat which
has been missed for a long time, the sunlight, jeepneys or
some native tongue. My language still did not change,
though I could speak someone else's . I thought I would
be an expected visitor that day - ushered, catered, loved.
Instead, I saw crude facial emotions, some new family
members who called me aunt or an unusual bypasser. I
knew they smiled out of respect, but they were so cold that I
shared stories they can't relate to, or shared images which
they defined nonexistent in this other part of the globe, that
I lived in my own generation, or they were stuck in an olden
time. I thought it would be another two scores to put things
back - so I'd realize snow never existed here in the first place.
- Sarah Gamutan
(1 poem added 11.11.11)
editor's note: Sometimes going back doesn't work for those who moved forward; it doesn't have to snow to be cold. (Let's welcome Sarah to our congress of Contributing Poets - check out her new poetry page.) - mh
Moving a Divorcee and Her Kids across State Lines
The time was five-thirty,
I woke with a start;
Something was following
My mama’s sure cart.
Shifting from “park” to “drive,”
She toggled to speed,
Pumped hard on the gas,
Mom gave little heed.
Behind us a mammoth,
A terror in measure,
With hinged, metal wings,
Which held fast to our treasure
The bulk of that weirdness,
Its preponderance,
Approached our back bumper,
Threatened to compress.
Mom dove and she darted,
She jumped lanes at great pace,
Yet that overgrown beasty
Well matched our pure haste.
With lights like grand eyeballs,
A windshield as mouth,
It adamantly tailgated
Three states to the south.
Then, deep into the night
In a neighborhood new
With that monster behind us,
We kids did construe
A federal license
A driver or more,
Our cash, our possessions,
The complete “country store.”
They’d been able to link
Our past life to the present,
Had managed to help
Make our changeover pleasant.
With wide eyes we watched
The wine being poured
As cartons and boxes
Transversed our front porch.
- KJ Hannah Greenberg
(1 poem added 11.10.11)
editor's note: It's a crime show, an action movie, a soap opera, a documentary - better'n TV or a Gothic novel. I was worried, too, up 'til the wine flowed. All is well when the wine flows. - mh
Thieves In High Places
The hand in your right pocket
and the hand in your left
are both responsible
for stealing your future
and robbing you of your past.
These outlaws seldom ride together.
Both have bounties on their heads.
When things get hot they disappear
into sand and sagebrush.
It's been said one's in Mexico;
the other hiding out in Greece.
If they ever get brought to justice,
notify me, please.
I'd like to see the trial.
I'd like to hear the pleas.
I'd like to hear the judgment
and the sentence for these creeps.
Then I'll slip back to my shack
where a better house once stood,
and I'll eat a can of cat food
and drink to the gone neighborhood.
- Joseph Farley
(added 11.09.11)
editor's note: Anyday, in any future, the thieving country could be yours. Let's drink to the gone neighborhood while we can. - mh
Blue Portland
junkies & thieves—jazz & sirens—
everyone is beautiful in monochrome
we gave our flesh for bits of food
& burned like cherries under whoreflesh skies
how long do you stop & stare
at all the pretty shells
& the poison on their spines?
we drank all night & cut our hair
wandered the streets looking for roses
or good drugs, or warm flesh—
all we found was cardboard & broken glass
at sunrise the carnival will end
& we will turn to plastic again
we are all fragmented children
grasping for hands in the womb parade
- Ray Barklow
(added 11.08.11)
editor's note: Yes, only glass and cardboard; lest one in the parade is moved to offer them a hand. - mh
Grammar School Proverb
Always Be Content,
Don’t Ever Feel GREAT,
Have In Justice Kindness,
Love Mostly Nobody.
Obey Prejudices Quietly;
Rest, Since Those
Undulating Vices Will
X Your Z
- Kelly Thompson
(added 11.07.11)
editor's note: The mad ones will opt for those undulating vices everytime. Yes, twinkle your star with, "X Your Zs!" - mh
The Aberdeen Bird Feeder
Everyone from the DMV gathers during the fall
to see the Aberdeen Bird Feeder work his way through the parking lot.
People are beset in the fall with definite ideas:
like Colombina
who hides chicken feet
between stacks of paper around her desk
and Tom the cashier
who refuses to give out one dollar bills.
He looked at me once
and noticed my glasses had changed.
Then his face fogged over
and his eyes dribbled out the window.
An abandoned cherry picker sat
face to face with my automobile
feeding water to birds with its hands.
- Patrick Sugrue
(added 11.06.11)
editor's note: The cashier gave me four dollars change in quarters and I still got bird shit on my car. - 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...
Story Tellin',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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