The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 12.24.11
“We live at the edge of the miraculous.” Henry Miller
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we sang along to some songs of the Season, the eccentric season of the Swirl. We considered the consequences of unchecked consumption - you better watch out, you better not cry; then stepped to a bar filled with jazz and drunk jeers, knocked back our shots and chased'em with beers - jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way; we curled by a fire, kissed a doll, watched by many - baby, it's cold outside, I really must go; we suffered a stretch of time, strained to discern the sound of a voice - go tell it on the mountain, over the hills and everywhere; instead we heard a sound unexpected, the whisper of aboreal wisdom - O christmas tree, o christmas tree; we re-tooled our concepts of what makes a man big - here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus, comin' down Santa Claus Lane; then, on this Eve of eves, we mixed our magic morning expectations with a bit o' stark reality, not everyone gets the pony or the ring - peace on earth, good will toward men. - mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Waiting For Santa
She spent her last dollars
on milk and cookies,
arranged on a spotless
chipped plate, liquid
in a re-washed paper cup
(the only set she had).
Fell asleep on the rug
a gift of salvation
along with two rough chairs,
a candle in the dark,
Sterno and a couple of matches.
Fist of awakening rubbed from eyes,
maybe it was the absence of a tree,
one bare stocking taped on the wall,
the heating coal must have fallen
from the holey sock, powdered
from the drop, wind blown away.
She had written an unanswered letter,
not asking much: money for the lights,
fuel for the fire, and, if it wasn't too presumptuous,
somehow, someway, to have a way out.
© 2011
- Rose Morales
(2 poems added 12.24.11)
editor's note: 'Tis the Season, deck the halls, chestnuts roastin' - now to find the right colored paper and the perfect box within which to wrap a way out. God rest ye merry! (Another good one from Rose on her page - out with the old in with the new.) - mh
A Big Human
Resembles human
Different when talks,
Language doesn’t speak
Arrogance barbs
Like wild lion
A colossal human!!
An idealess heavy head
With a huge crown of dishonor
Visionless eyes hidden under skin
Views the Everest very small
Doesn’t see the human figure
Steps on the head of every human
A cold heart inside the rib cage
A brain damped by the severity of arrogance
A statue of flesh and blood: lack of feelings and emotions
It is not an animal in structure
It doesn’t have human behavior
A miniature of big fish
A resemblance of human
In the nature of a big ferocious shark!!!
Thinks himself a great scholar
By the visionless eyes
Inside no Abraham Lincoln or Gandhi
But within resides Idi Amin of Uganda
Big person remains big
Doesn’t know how to become generous
Generous doesn’t know how to become big.
- LP Bastola
(1 poem added 12.23.11)
editor's note: Hmmm, we thought bigger was better, but better is served with small actions; no fanfare, no notice or praise. Hard to achieve when living large. - mh
Winter Trees
Ice falls and tumbles,
coating our lives
lovely shimmering clear.
Sparkling limbs
sag and bend
under the weight
of solid water.
I listen to the moan, the sad
beautiful music of trees
as they splinter.
I imagine you
in your ice covered
house. Do you sleep
through the cracks and sharp
sounds? Or do you listen
as the winter takes branches
held in shiny brilliance
crashing downward?
If you hear the splendor
and sorrow of frozen trees,
give me the acorn you have
hidden in the snow.
I will hold it gently
in my palm
until it thaws.
- Elizabeth Glass
(1 poem added 12.22.11)
editor's note: Hush those carolers, still those bells... listen to the whispering of trees, telling us secrets of solstice. (Also, welcome Elizabeth to our crenelated crowd of Contributing Poets. She has more great poems on her new page.) - mh
Mending Reality
There is the sleep
of your tongue so
dormant over the
months, words that
are lost because you
haven’t spoken; the
verbs and syllables
of your speech that
decline all in one
breath. The phone
on the table gathers
dust on sunny days
before they go grey.
What happened to
the sound of your
voice? Years have
heaped their withered
hours on my nerves
and time is so elastic
depending on when
you deign to speak;
it stretches and it
shrinks. I want to
trap your voice
inside a box, punch
a hole in at the top
and listen to it wake
up from its sleep,
but that’s not mending
reality. It’s when you
choose to appear.
- Bobbi Sinha-Morey
(added 12.21.11)
editor's note: Yes, a dose of one to mend the other. Reparation repartee! - mh
Mistletoe Moment
Good faith in bad beer coming my way
on holiday, celebrated on a couch
as intricate as a Jewish banker’s vest dreamt
in a German-designed lucid bad dream.
Our curled toes greeted space heater coils,
as she strategically placed a coaster on the
last scrap of wood from Heinrich Steinweg’s first piano,
At that moment I make it a mistletoe moment.
I married a doll; many, actually. Dozens displayed
spot-free in wicker hats, plastic plump cheeks,
like babies winking in hot wax. I found a coaster:
a binder, pictures of people dead in their beds.
Hair spread to the side like tea bag tag strings,
tucked into Sunday best. Bed sheets for all eternity.
- Tyler Malone
(1 poem added 12.20.11)
editor's note: Holiday hijinx and homage to German ingenuity; sleep until magic morning openings reveal... another doll. Jingle bells! - mh
12 Aspirins and a bottle of scotch
Torrents of whisky wash away the flavour of nicotine.
Smoke hangs in the air, men drink at a rum soaked bar.
The floor glows like liquid silver from spilt beer.
A match is lit, the flame moves like mercury.
Charlie Parker and Louis Armstrong play jazz throughout the bar.
A mature woman drinks an elegant martini, she plays with the
green olives as her blond hair dances to the groove.
A man in the corner chews on a cocktail stick, the aroma of sweet
perfume and musky cologne lingers in the air.
A saxophone is played in the toilet.
Drums beat to the beatniks.
A man in a purple hat flips a coin.
Heads or tails?
Heads or tails?
Shots of gin are swallowed, rivers of Smoky bourbon flow,
men with goatees and women with custard coloured berets kiss and flirt.
The cool dames and the crazy cats swing all night long.
Sitting in an old brown leather chair
Tom Waits writes another
cool jazz song.
- Luke Ritta
(1 poem added 12.19.11)
editor's note: Happening in a bar near you - join in, call it Holiday Cheer. Santa brings aspirin with the egg nog! - mh
Collage Sonnet 35.
This might seem to bode ill
for anyone living in a gated community—
unless you think of consumption as passive.
Plainly, however, the weak economy
is no different from its opposite
in that the future remains deliberately vague.
As such, speculation becomes perilous
and, in some cases, expensive.
On the other hand, we have tended
to consume without compunction,
pouring funds into durables
and embracing the start-up.
Given the risks, one marvels
at our ceaseless willingness to gamble.
- Thomas Cochran
(added 12.18.11)
editor's note: Well, the Holiday Season is a bit of a crap-shoot. We offer our loved ones the fruit of our consumption and wonder, "Should I have gotten her/him the red one, after all?" - 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...
Livin' on the edge,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we sang along to some songs of the Season, the eccentric season of the Swirl. We considered the consequences of unchecked consumption - you better watch out, you better not cry; then stepped to a bar filled with jazz and drunk jeers, knocked back our shots and chased'em with beers - jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way; we curled by a fire, kissed a doll, watched by many - baby, it's cold outside, I really must go; we suffered a stretch of time, strained to discern the sound of a voice - go tell it on the mountain, over the hills and everywhere; instead we heard a sound unexpected, the whisper of aboreal wisdom - O christmas tree, o christmas tree; we re-tooled our concepts of what makes a man big - here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus, comin' down Santa Claus Lane; then, on this Eve of eves, we mixed our magic morning expectations with a bit o' stark reality, not everyone gets the pony or the ring - peace on earth, good will toward men. - mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Waiting For Santa
She spent her last dollars
on milk and cookies,
arranged on a spotless
chipped plate, liquid
in a re-washed paper cup
(the only set she had).
Fell asleep on the rug
a gift of salvation
along with two rough chairs,
a candle in the dark,
Sterno and a couple of matches.
Fist of awakening rubbed from eyes,
maybe it was the absence of a tree,
one bare stocking taped on the wall,
the heating coal must have fallen
from the holey sock, powdered
from the drop, wind blown away.
She had written an unanswered letter,
not asking much: money for the lights,
fuel for the fire, and, if it wasn't too presumptuous,
somehow, someway, to have a way out.
© 2011
- Rose Morales
(2 poems added 12.24.11)
editor's note: 'Tis the Season, deck the halls, chestnuts roastin' - now to find the right colored paper and the perfect box within which to wrap a way out. God rest ye merry! (Another good one from Rose on her page - out with the old in with the new.) - mh
A Big Human
Resembles human
Different when talks,
Language doesn’t speak
Arrogance barbs
Like wild lion
A colossal human!!
An idealess heavy head
With a huge crown of dishonor
Visionless eyes hidden under skin
Views the Everest very small
Doesn’t see the human figure
Steps on the head of every human
A cold heart inside the rib cage
A brain damped by the severity of arrogance
A statue of flesh and blood: lack of feelings and emotions
It is not an animal in structure
It doesn’t have human behavior
A miniature of big fish
A resemblance of human
In the nature of a big ferocious shark!!!
Thinks himself a great scholar
By the visionless eyes
Inside no Abraham Lincoln or Gandhi
But within resides Idi Amin of Uganda
Big person remains big
Doesn’t know how to become generous
Generous doesn’t know how to become big.
- LP Bastola
(1 poem added 12.23.11)
editor's note: Hmmm, we thought bigger was better, but better is served with small actions; no fanfare, no notice or praise. Hard to achieve when living large. - mh
Winter Trees
Ice falls and tumbles,
coating our lives
lovely shimmering clear.
Sparkling limbs
sag and bend
under the weight
of solid water.
I listen to the moan, the sad
beautiful music of trees
as they splinter.
I imagine you
in your ice covered
house. Do you sleep
through the cracks and sharp
sounds? Or do you listen
as the winter takes branches
held in shiny brilliance
crashing downward?
If you hear the splendor
and sorrow of frozen trees,
give me the acorn you have
hidden in the snow.
I will hold it gently
in my palm
until it thaws.
- Elizabeth Glass
(1 poem added 12.22.11)
editor's note: Hush those carolers, still those bells... listen to the whispering of trees, telling us secrets of solstice. (Also, welcome Elizabeth to our crenelated crowd of Contributing Poets. She has more great poems on her new page.) - mh
Mending Reality
There is the sleep
of your tongue so
dormant over the
months, words that
are lost because you
haven’t spoken; the
verbs and syllables
of your speech that
decline all in one
breath. The phone
on the table gathers
dust on sunny days
before they go grey.
What happened to
the sound of your
voice? Years have
heaped their withered
hours on my nerves
and time is so elastic
depending on when
you deign to speak;
it stretches and it
shrinks. I want to
trap your voice
inside a box, punch
a hole in at the top
and listen to it wake
up from its sleep,
but that’s not mending
reality. It’s when you
choose to appear.
- Bobbi Sinha-Morey
(added 12.21.11)
editor's note: Yes, a dose of one to mend the other. Reparation repartee! - mh
Mistletoe Moment
Good faith in bad beer coming my way
on holiday, celebrated on a couch
as intricate as a Jewish banker’s vest dreamt
in a German-designed lucid bad dream.
Our curled toes greeted space heater coils,
as she strategically placed a coaster on the
last scrap of wood from Heinrich Steinweg’s first piano,
At that moment I make it a mistletoe moment.
I married a doll; many, actually. Dozens displayed
spot-free in wicker hats, plastic plump cheeks,
like babies winking in hot wax. I found a coaster:
a binder, pictures of people dead in their beds.
Hair spread to the side like tea bag tag strings,
tucked into Sunday best. Bed sheets for all eternity.
- Tyler Malone
(1 poem added 12.20.11)
editor's note: Holiday hijinx and homage to German ingenuity; sleep until magic morning openings reveal... another doll. Jingle bells! - mh
12 Aspirins and a bottle of scotch
Torrents of whisky wash away the flavour of nicotine.
Smoke hangs in the air, men drink at a rum soaked bar.
The floor glows like liquid silver from spilt beer.
A match is lit, the flame moves like mercury.
Charlie Parker and Louis Armstrong play jazz throughout the bar.
A mature woman drinks an elegant martini, she plays with the
green olives as her blond hair dances to the groove.
A man in the corner chews on a cocktail stick, the aroma of sweet
perfume and musky cologne lingers in the air.
A saxophone is played in the toilet.
Drums beat to the beatniks.
A man in a purple hat flips a coin.
Heads or tails?
Heads or tails?
Shots of gin are swallowed, rivers of Smoky bourbon flow,
men with goatees and women with custard coloured berets kiss and flirt.
The cool dames and the crazy cats swing all night long.
Sitting in an old brown leather chair
Tom Waits writes another
cool jazz song.
- Luke Ritta
(1 poem added 12.19.11)
editor's note: Happening in a bar near you - join in, call it Holiday Cheer. Santa brings aspirin with the egg nog! - mh
Collage Sonnet 35.
This might seem to bode ill
for anyone living in a gated community—
unless you think of consumption as passive.
Plainly, however, the weak economy
is no different from its opposite
in that the future remains deliberately vague.
As such, speculation becomes perilous
and, in some cases, expensive.
On the other hand, we have tended
to consume without compunction,
pouring funds into durables
and embracing the start-up.
Given the risks, one marvels
at our ceaseless willingness to gamble.
- Thomas Cochran
(added 12.18.11)
editor's note: Well, the Holiday Season is a bit of a crap-shoot. We offer our loved ones the fruit of our consumption and wonder, "Should I have gotten her/him the red one, after all?" - 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...
Livin' on the edge,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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