The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 11.19.11
“Too much sanity may be madness and the maddest of all, to see life as it is and not as it should be.” Miguel de Cervantes
ice and mesh (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...whipped through seven like a run-on, randomly worded sonnet. Infatuation and familiarity focused love; love left a naked stand and took the bread; a slashed seven-to-ten split took a turn to tumble next to godliness (immaculately conceived); finally to culminate with an elevated view, looking down from a stake. Head between my knees, deep breaths to stop this spinning. - mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Fake Spasm
Ordain a cell be-nerved,
Keep a smooth countenance,
Crack open my setting tongue
Blistered at its tip;
Sizzling stirrups - past mare ride
Sally...,
And with showers of red rays,
Good hope crashes.
Rising eastward to whittle away soil
From shores of technocrats
Stroke and gasp,
Masculine make.
Send off to begin
Bright dawn, cross-eyed restraint.
Unapologetically mount my stake.
- Sander Blome
(1 poem added 11.19.11)
editor's note: A life-defining moment, a grand opus; or, another day in the workaday world; either way, "stroke and grasp." Make them believe it! - mh
Mantra
My cleaning mantra is
“immaculate”
whispered in an endless chant
and given to me
by the tough women
who raised me
as a child of 5
and again as a
stuttering man-child of 24
I drank the bar
and went swimming
for a number of years
and they stowed me away
beneath the trees of
a rehab rest home
high on a hill,
away from all of the liquors
I had many morning chores
and I took them
very seriously,
mumbling “immaculate”
over and over again
I was often given kudos
finger snaps at morning
group for making
the men’s toilets sparkle
I was soon elected
President of the
Inpatient Rehab Council
in the fastest sanitarium
social ladder ascendancy
ever reported at that
particular facility,
and I would pretend I was in
high school,
with my pen and pad,
dressed in a
regal lettermen jacket
a temporary superstar
in my bottle cap crown
- Kevin Ridgeway
(added 11.18.11)
editor's note: It's the American Dream as "immaculate" conception - baptized in the brew, crucified by cleanliness, resurrected in white jacket and clipboard. Hallelujah! - mh
Six afraid of seven
Pendulum dagger
dangling from a chain
strike shallow and several
four
five
six chimes
the clock no cross
or symbol
to ward
away
some evil or
thusly swung
some
sudden notion
this
unclasped and deadly
means offense
in cold and bloodless
silence
left
without a death
or hint of naught
else but this
poetic desperate
misery
to crawl and curl
within
and then
only the moon
in the gutter ticks
the seven
eight
the nine
- Jesse Doughty
(2 poems added 11.17.11)
editor's note: Beware, solitary dawdlers! When the count is "one, two . .", better skedaddle before "three." If you hear, "four" - the moon counts the end. (See another one from Jesse on his page - a bit of a Pandora's Box, that one.) - mh
Starry Night
Musing;
veils of the mind open.
Is it peridy
or an elegant madness?
Hand full of sand
tossed by a peevish boy.
The cockatoo sings
of earthly delights.
Perishing for want of bread.
- Mike Berger
(1 poem added 11.16.11)
editor's note: I choose madness. Not even a cockatoo's song can turn sand into bread. Woe, the peevish boy! - mh
Love Letters
That white sheet with green floral print
We spent the cool summer nights on
Still carries the stains of our communion.
The autumn leaves have fallen
I stand perched upon them--
Yellow leaves--
Under the semi naked tree
With your letters.
The slogans in the streets do not affect me
Nor do the cries of the starved
I’m nobody
Mannequins in the shop stare at me
With their dead eyes.
Mocking me, they strip me naked.
I try to hide my ugliness;
I’m ashamed.
These letters are the fictional half of my life
The other half is the reality--
Hideous as the shrunken penis after orgasm.
The memories of the past haunt me.
Of the times we were together
Rebellious, non-believers,
We believed in words
How ignorant we were!
My mind can’t stop thinking
Just like a clock that keeps ticking
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-
As you lay naked in my bed
The first rays of morning light
Fell upon your breast
As it rose and fell
With every breath you took.
Now with you gone I read those letters
Again and again trying to figure out
What went wrong
The world we fought against so hard
Has engulfed you in it
And now you’ve become a part of it
You are just chasing your dreams you say
While I stand naked in the sun robbed of mine.
- Prashant Das
(added 11.15.11)
editor's note: Not even a prenuptial agreement can safeguard the investment of one's soul. What went wrong? Why ask, "Why?" - just clean those stains, make your bed for a clean sleep. - mh
Knowing
Letting that emotion win, Again & Again
Now & Then, we still take it in the chin,
Defending until the End…
This, too, we will mend
All I have is Love to send
I will never, ever pretend…
Knowing this knows that showing this grows
The Heart that stands tall against Love’s foes
- Michael R. King
(1 poem added 11.14.11)
editor's note: Thanks for this "how to", Michael! We could all stand to grow our hearts a little. - mh
Behold My Love
Behold my love the astounding entertainer who is exceptional from the crown of his head to the very fair amazing feet he dances upon. His hair is like soft black wavy strands of yarn. His eyes are deep and mystifying like the night sky with twinkles of starlight. His lips are like beds of cotton rolls that open passage to his charming melodious voice. His teeth are like white gated pearls that glisten each time he smiles. His cheeks are like soft cups of chocolate with a hint of caramel dashed as a dimple. His presence pleasant and captivating like the nature of his voice. He sings with refinement and significance that makes him a joy to behold. Behold my love the astounding entertainer.
- Tameka Sharrette
(added 11.13.11)
editor's note: This is nothing but obssessive fan-fawning over a media-magnified celebrity, unattainable and therefore infallible; perfect in every way. Right? Oh, but we common folk long to be loved like this; so we share the same obssession, don't we? Yes, perfect! - 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...
Seein' It,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
ice and mesh (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...whipped through seven like a run-on, randomly worded sonnet. Infatuation and familiarity focused love; love left a naked stand and took the bread; a slashed seven-to-ten split took a turn to tumble next to godliness (immaculately conceived); finally to culminate with an elevated view, looking down from a stake. Head between my knees, deep breaths to stop this spinning. - mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Fake Spasm
Ordain a cell be-nerved,
Keep a smooth countenance,
Crack open my setting tongue
Blistered at its tip;
Sizzling stirrups - past mare ride
Sally...,
And with showers of red rays,
Good hope crashes.
Rising eastward to whittle away soil
From shores of technocrats
Stroke and gasp,
Masculine make.
Send off to begin
Bright dawn, cross-eyed restraint.
Unapologetically mount my stake.
- Sander Blome
(1 poem added 11.19.11)
editor's note: A life-defining moment, a grand opus; or, another day in the workaday world; either way, "stroke and grasp." Make them believe it! - mh
Mantra
My cleaning mantra is
“immaculate”
whispered in an endless chant
and given to me
by the tough women
who raised me
as a child of 5
and again as a
stuttering man-child of 24
I drank the bar
and went swimming
for a number of years
and they stowed me away
beneath the trees of
a rehab rest home
high on a hill,
away from all of the liquors
I had many morning chores
and I took them
very seriously,
mumbling “immaculate”
over and over again
I was often given kudos
finger snaps at morning
group for making
the men’s toilets sparkle
I was soon elected
President of the
Inpatient Rehab Council
in the fastest sanitarium
social ladder ascendancy
ever reported at that
particular facility,
and I would pretend I was in
high school,
with my pen and pad,
dressed in a
regal lettermen jacket
a temporary superstar
in my bottle cap crown
- Kevin Ridgeway
(added 11.18.11)
editor's note: It's the American Dream as "immaculate" conception - baptized in the brew, crucified by cleanliness, resurrected in white jacket and clipboard. Hallelujah! - mh
Six afraid of seven
Pendulum dagger
dangling from a chain
strike shallow and several
four
five
six chimes
the clock no cross
or symbol
to ward
away
some evil or
thusly swung
some
sudden notion
this
unclasped and deadly
means offense
in cold and bloodless
silence
left
without a death
or hint of naught
else but this
poetic desperate
misery
to crawl and curl
within
and then
only the moon
in the gutter ticks
the seven
eight
the nine
- Jesse Doughty
(2 poems added 11.17.11)
editor's note: Beware, solitary dawdlers! When the count is "one, two . .", better skedaddle before "three." If you hear, "four" - the moon counts the end. (See another one from Jesse on his page - a bit of a Pandora's Box, that one.) - mh
Starry Night
Musing;
veils of the mind open.
Is it peridy
or an elegant madness?
Hand full of sand
tossed by a peevish boy.
The cockatoo sings
of earthly delights.
Perishing for want of bread.
- Mike Berger
(1 poem added 11.16.11)
editor's note: I choose madness. Not even a cockatoo's song can turn sand into bread. Woe, the peevish boy! - mh
Love Letters
That white sheet with green floral print
We spent the cool summer nights on
Still carries the stains of our communion.
The autumn leaves have fallen
I stand perched upon them--
Yellow leaves--
Under the semi naked tree
With your letters.
The slogans in the streets do not affect me
Nor do the cries of the starved
I’m nobody
Mannequins in the shop stare at me
With their dead eyes.
Mocking me, they strip me naked.
I try to hide my ugliness;
I’m ashamed.
These letters are the fictional half of my life
The other half is the reality--
Hideous as the shrunken penis after orgasm.
The memories of the past haunt me.
Of the times we were together
Rebellious, non-believers,
We believed in words
How ignorant we were!
My mind can’t stop thinking
Just like a clock that keeps ticking
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-
As you lay naked in my bed
The first rays of morning light
Fell upon your breast
As it rose and fell
With every breath you took.
Now with you gone I read those letters
Again and again trying to figure out
What went wrong
The world we fought against so hard
Has engulfed you in it
And now you’ve become a part of it
You are just chasing your dreams you say
While I stand naked in the sun robbed of mine.
- Prashant Das
(added 11.15.11)
editor's note: Not even a prenuptial agreement can safeguard the investment of one's soul. What went wrong? Why ask, "Why?" - just clean those stains, make your bed for a clean sleep. - mh
Knowing
Letting that emotion win, Again & Again
Now & Then, we still take it in the chin,
Defending until the End…
This, too, we will mend
All I have is Love to send
I will never, ever pretend…
Knowing this knows that showing this grows
The Heart that stands tall against Love’s foes
- Michael R. King
(1 poem added 11.14.11)
editor's note: Thanks for this "how to", Michael! We could all stand to grow our hearts a little. - mh
Behold My Love
Behold my love the astounding entertainer who is exceptional from the crown of his head to the very fair amazing feet he dances upon. His hair is like soft black wavy strands of yarn. His eyes are deep and mystifying like the night sky with twinkles of starlight. His lips are like beds of cotton rolls that open passage to his charming melodious voice. His teeth are like white gated pearls that glisten each time he smiles. His cheeks are like soft cups of chocolate with a hint of caramel dashed as a dimple. His presence pleasant and captivating like the nature of his voice. He sings with refinement and significance that makes him a joy to behold. Behold my love the astounding entertainer.
- Tameka Sharrette
(added 11.13.11)
editor's note: This is nothing but obssessive fan-fawning over a media-magnified celebrity, unattainable and therefore infallible; perfect in every way. Right? Oh, but we common folk long to be loved like this; so we share the same obssession, don't we? Yes, perfect! - 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...
Seein' It,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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