The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 12.10.11
“If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.” Emily Dickinson
Ludo (above) by featured artist, Christian Millet, 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 got some sun on the beach by the sea myth; we tapped our inner twig, made ready to hold the snow; we mourned a muffed up martyrdom; listened to the void between cricket chirps; ear's sharpened, we strained to hear the faintest sound of destiny; instead, we got an old crone's rant, resentful of our luck; lastly, reminded to check our list on the way home, we picked up some necessaries. Check it twice, 'tis the season. - mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
A Life of Lists
Bin-bags, washing-up liquid, rubber gloves
Strawberry yoghurt to smear over you warmly
Chicken, rice, peas and carrots
A tub of ice cream to eat off your cheeks
Toilet duck, bathroom cleaner, bleach
Mice poison to slip into your tea
Homogenised products
Stacked-up on a shelf
£14.63, authorisation = 072604
CO122 ~ 0188 15:54:52 S000015 R002
- Charles Pitter
(1 poem added 12.10.11)
editor's note: Validate all your transactions with price and time stamp. How else can we measure the worth of our lives? - mh
A sententious old bastard
chest out, jowls low like bird feeders bowing from the weight of one squirrel too many.
A hammered out face, the colour of normality
Spittle gravitating to the corners of a tight mouth with lips pert, bubbling.
A short straight spine, shining pate
Chipped paint from the painted shed
cracks onto a half-made bed
and a little bottle of lemonade supplicating the nocturnal loss of too much acid
A brush and old spice, smell of a disciplined lineage
Sunday action, rise, dress well again, sup down, smoke, get livid, nap
A rhythm in that, however much despised.
A tattoo beat onto indolent cheeks.
Good God! and mumblings,
irritation, every look is an advantage
taken
by underserving languorous youths
'lucky generation
Pulling duvets over their warm full bellies
own bed, own bloody room!'
corroded but unsoftened
both brittle and brutal
chewing only on a sunday
and smiling less than that
with teeth white as cloudburst.
Wheezy from the cigarettes
and living in harsh air
bitter at the stagnation.
A smile that hurts,
that is rigid
That could weep
were it not so invulnerable.
And churches are cold
and the gravestones are always wet
and sadness
is the most sad
when caught at the bottom
of your face.
Like watching a mountain melt
- Christopher Smith
(added 12.09.11)
editor's note: Well, here's a fine portrait of a not-so-jolly fellow. He is always checking his lists; where no one is nice and all will come to naught. Cry for him; especially if sighted in a mirror. - mh
Tune In
For the love of God, man
Slow it down
Take your time
Listen to the signs
I know you hear ‘em
They’re all around
A whispering flow
On where to go
Heed the call
Make no mistake
What you know as true
Is unequaled for you
Life’s too short
To set out so fast
So slow it down
Come back to ground
Listen closely
Open your mind
The future is calling
Your destiny’s waiting
Tune in
Turn it up
Stay tuned
- Jeanette Fields
(added 12.08.11)
editor's note: Ha! Take that, Dr. Tim! - mh
THE SEGUE
The woods shimmer with sound—
chained murmurs, red echoes.
The cricket chirps, the crow caws,
the nighthawk drums its wings.
Wispy mist swirls from the woods.
The wind shushes.
Inside, the house creaks.
Inside the body, blood courses,
air bellows, the pulse beats.
Only the cricket can hear the segue.
Chirping stops. Silence hums.
A shadow floats.
- Robert E. Petras
(1 poem added 12.07.11)
editor's note: Eternal silence between the beats; entire cricket lifetimes happen in that space. Shhh, do you hear them? (Let's welcome Robert to our congress of Contributing Poets. Read more on his new page.) - mh
The Lamenting Soldier
He sits in a bombed bunker
with his gun and bullets feeding his mission.
The heavy suit burdens him with
“Why is he here!”
Once the boiling blood craved
for blood and heads;
for a fountain of red fluids
raping the land of refugees
and now the chance has been utilized
and with it his life too.
His foe and his partners look alike
after death with same bullets
responsible for their fall.
He knows, when he crosses
the border and walks to the land
his army have captured the soils
will too look alike.
“So was this fight to pass some time
in practising revolt against God?”
He is now a sinner, no martyr
in the court of the almighty.
- Sonnet Mondal
(1 poem added 12.06.11)
editor's note: This is the reward for all who battle; the same question, "Is the prize worth the price?" (Welcome, Sonnet, to our creative congress of Contributing Poets. Everyone, check out his new page.) - mh
Sunlight Wanes
tired leaves twist seeking the splendour of the soil
within a tree's core a physical process beyond our ken
upon weathered body carved crevices sustain living realms
in which we will never travel
limbs unburdened by foliage delight in their freedom
ready now to support each snowflake layer by layer
nature leaves nothing to circumstance
- Paula Lietz
(1 poem added 12.05.11)
editor's note: Hmmm, tree rings, thickened bark; if we were trees... Selah! - mh
God From a Grain of Sand
What nature takes,
And most couldn’t tell,
Is God from a grain of sand.
Swimming amid
A sea of truths
Our envious souls protest.
And with no thought
For consequence,
Our burrowing minds submerse
So the spirit alone
Is left to find
The truth within the myth.
And failing, flailing,
Falls head forth
Through galaxies of sand.
© 2008
- Jeremy W. Johnson
(added 12.04.11)
editor's note: Cosmology 101 - go to the beach, get a tan, take a swim, build a castle. The final exam will be multiple choice. - 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...
Knowin' It,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Ludo (above) by featured artist, Christian Millet, 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 got some sun on the beach by the sea myth; we tapped our inner twig, made ready to hold the snow; we mourned a muffed up martyrdom; listened to the void between cricket chirps; ear's sharpened, we strained to hear the faintest sound of destiny; instead, we got an old crone's rant, resentful of our luck; lastly, reminded to check our list on the way home, we picked up some necessaries. Check it twice, 'tis the season. - mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
A Life of Lists
Bin-bags, washing-up liquid, rubber gloves
Strawberry yoghurt to smear over you warmly
Chicken, rice, peas and carrots
A tub of ice cream to eat off your cheeks
Toilet duck, bathroom cleaner, bleach
Mice poison to slip into your tea
Homogenised products
Stacked-up on a shelf
£14.63, authorisation = 072604
CO122 ~ 0188 15:54:52 S000015 R002
- Charles Pitter
(1 poem added 12.10.11)
editor's note: Validate all your transactions with price and time stamp. How else can we measure the worth of our lives? - mh
A sententious old bastard
chest out, jowls low like bird feeders bowing from the weight of one squirrel too many.
A hammered out face, the colour of normality
Spittle gravitating to the corners of a tight mouth with lips pert, bubbling.
A short straight spine, shining pate
Chipped paint from the painted shed
cracks onto a half-made bed
and a little bottle of lemonade supplicating the nocturnal loss of too much acid
A brush and old spice, smell of a disciplined lineage
Sunday action, rise, dress well again, sup down, smoke, get livid, nap
A rhythm in that, however much despised.
A tattoo beat onto indolent cheeks.
Good God! and mumblings,
irritation, every look is an advantage
taken
by underserving languorous youths
'lucky generation
Pulling duvets over their warm full bellies
own bed, own bloody room!'
corroded but unsoftened
both brittle and brutal
chewing only on a sunday
and smiling less than that
with teeth white as cloudburst.
Wheezy from the cigarettes
and living in harsh air
bitter at the stagnation.
A smile that hurts,
that is rigid
That could weep
were it not so invulnerable.
And churches are cold
and the gravestones are always wet
and sadness
is the most sad
when caught at the bottom
of your face.
Like watching a mountain melt
- Christopher Smith
(added 12.09.11)
editor's note: Well, here's a fine portrait of a not-so-jolly fellow. He is always checking his lists; where no one is nice and all will come to naught. Cry for him; especially if sighted in a mirror. - mh
Tune In
For the love of God, man
Slow it down
Take your time
Listen to the signs
I know you hear ‘em
They’re all around
A whispering flow
On where to go
Heed the call
Make no mistake
What you know as true
Is unequaled for you
Life’s too short
To set out so fast
So slow it down
Come back to ground
Listen closely
Open your mind
The future is calling
Your destiny’s waiting
Tune in
Turn it up
Stay tuned
- Jeanette Fields
(added 12.08.11)
editor's note: Ha! Take that, Dr. Tim! - mh
THE SEGUE
The woods shimmer with sound—
chained murmurs, red echoes.
The cricket chirps, the crow caws,
the nighthawk drums its wings.
Wispy mist swirls from the woods.
The wind shushes.
Inside, the house creaks.
Inside the body, blood courses,
air bellows, the pulse beats.
Only the cricket can hear the segue.
Chirping stops. Silence hums.
A shadow floats.
- Robert E. Petras
(1 poem added 12.07.11)
editor's note: Eternal silence between the beats; entire cricket lifetimes happen in that space. Shhh, do you hear them? (Let's welcome Robert to our congress of Contributing Poets. Read more on his new page.) - mh
The Lamenting Soldier
He sits in a bombed bunker
with his gun and bullets feeding his mission.
The heavy suit burdens him with
“Why is he here!”
Once the boiling blood craved
for blood and heads;
for a fountain of red fluids
raping the land of refugees
and now the chance has been utilized
and with it his life too.
His foe and his partners look alike
after death with same bullets
responsible for their fall.
He knows, when he crosses
the border and walks to the land
his army have captured the soils
will too look alike.
“So was this fight to pass some time
in practising revolt against God?”
He is now a sinner, no martyr
in the court of the almighty.
- Sonnet Mondal
(1 poem added 12.06.11)
editor's note: This is the reward for all who battle; the same question, "Is the prize worth the price?" (Welcome, Sonnet, to our creative congress of Contributing Poets. Everyone, check out his new page.) - mh
Sunlight Wanes
tired leaves twist seeking the splendour of the soil
within a tree's core a physical process beyond our ken
upon weathered body carved crevices sustain living realms
in which we will never travel
limbs unburdened by foliage delight in their freedom
ready now to support each snowflake layer by layer
nature leaves nothing to circumstance
- Paula Lietz
(1 poem added 12.05.11)
editor's note: Hmmm, tree rings, thickened bark; if we were trees... Selah! - mh
God From a Grain of Sand
What nature takes,
And most couldn’t tell,
Is God from a grain of sand.
Swimming amid
A sea of truths
Our envious souls protest.
And with no thought
For consequence,
Our burrowing minds submerse
So the spirit alone
Is left to find
The truth within the myth.
And failing, flailing,
Falls head forth
Through galaxies of sand.
© 2008
- Jeremy W. Johnson
(added 12.04.11)
editor's note: Cosmology 101 - go to the beach, get a tan, take a swim, build a castle. The final exam will be multiple choice. - 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...
Knowin' It,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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