The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 03.24.12
Ghost (above) by featured photographer, Sheri L. Wright, 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 ready to roll with spandex and gel; we flattened time into a pane of glass; we declared peace, dropped closely held enemies to grasp at life instead; we dodged the fang and snarl of wolfish dreams, dared to breathe anyway; we bore the buzz of bumbling barfly, rebuffs forgotten; we dolled up a delightful kinder, indulged a doddering dame's nolstalgia; we tripped on cosmic backyard flotsam, stardust disgused as dogbone or chaise. - mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
What Have You Got In Your Backyard?
Garbage bins, a crippled rocking chair,
Weedy flowerbeds, yawning cats,
Lizards drinking the sunshine,
Dirt, barking dogs, busy ants.
How about a star exploding, a supernova
Spilling out its luminous star guts
Just a million light years away,
Right in your backyard.
So what have you got in your backyard?
- Irena Pasvinter
(2 poems added 03.24.12)
editor's note: It's the backyard of the mind; trip over a wagon or a fallen star. (Another one from Irena on her page. Check it out, it's heavy.) - mh
Put on make-up, paint the child
Make Mommy’s younger face
Sequined costumes curve beneath Mommy’s envious stare
Pin up the curls, such pretty hair
Little dolls that mommies make
So leap and soar, spin and fly
Mommy can do it no more
She’ll sit on her hands, hold her breath
Pop a pill, wish for wine
Her hands will shake more than yours
She dreams, she lives, and she holds it all
The spotlight is on you, little doll
Can you feel it?
- Sarah Clark Monagle
editor's note: When the spotlight shines, dolls gotta dance. Work out those Mommy issues with your own dolls, later. - mh
When You Get Down to It
With his Dada pantomime he moves smoothly
across a stage he imagines for himself
at the Beulahland Bar.
He glides and spills his beer
near the chummy stool. The Hale's Ale
hits the gum-smack residue
on the floor. The numbers on pool balls
behind him signal years missed.
He wants to unsheathe crayons,
crumble Burnt Sienna into the mix
of a woman's drinking, graffiti
her heart's desires. I won't have it,
she tells him. Leave me alone.
He wants the journey to her eye's color:
coal black with cobalt blue flecks
near the pupil. He offers quarters
to rack them up, the tunes or some dance
with a cue stick. He'd scream, strut,
and moon the sun with a big, bare ass
for just one smile, but she's no taker
and tells him to give it a rest
when the night's late
and the band dissolves
back into the pavement. Her heels
click for home
and she's out the door
like a surgeon.
This clown asks,
What's magic? The last call
rings through him: no skate dorks
around to answer, no smiling freaks
with no teeth, no Situationist nude belly dancers,
no Coltrane muse, no umbrellas of soul
raining down. Just a Vitamin "V" Vodka
and a flame that licks the memory
all the way out of his system.
- Aaron Brand
editor's note: Bar fly flops, fizzles and floats away on stale AM air. If she'd only given a smile, no tellin' what there'd be to remember. - mh
and it comes
back and attacks you,
like a wolf in the night.
the poor sometimes see
their misery hanging
on their sleeve,
and it saves them.
but the rich can’t believe
as the wolf snarls at them
in the night.
‘how could this happen to me?’
while the wolf
they really thought
the american dream
was going to save them.
and save nobody.
- Carl Kavadlo
editor's note: Salvation? Maybe not, but sustenance, for sure. Without air, we cannot breathe. - mh
Coming to terms
Making peace with the terms of oneself,
Understanding the confusion that
Boils inside you like soup,
Delicious, but unsatisfying.
Believing your self to be the hero
Of your own cowardly story,
Understanding your enemies are
Merely projections of yourself
Knowing death is always lurking
Around the corner.
Trusting life and vigor
Over murder and suicide.
- R.A. Hernandez
(1 poem added 03.20.12)
editor's note: I'll take a bubbling bowl of "life and vigor" over a tepid tureen of "murder and suicide" any day. (We welcome Robert to our congress of Contributing Poets! Check out some of his other poems on his new page.) - mh
Rain ticks at the window pane.
over the centuries
Death can be beat. Time
Just give me time
tonight to hear my fill
of the rain, the Mozart,
the resistance of the pane.
- Willie Smith
(1 poem added 03.19.12)
editor's note: Death can be beat! Keep that harmonica humming, don't throw stones. - mh
READY TO ROLL
and the chilly crinkling
of aluminum foil
under a tee shirt
borrowed spandex tights
and two big gooey
gel – one for the hair on
for the rest.
straps on his spiky
out into the urban field
passes through the
like a jungle cat
- Jeffrey Park
editor's note: Yessir! It's not where you go, it's how you travel there. We suggest Mega-Hold Gel for all forms of transportation. - 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...