The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 05.19.12
“I'm for truth, no matter who tells it.” Malcolm X
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we remembered, not to repeat what we've forgotten; we gave a listen to sound advice; we wove more words in wiley weavings, stuck on structure, lost the meanings; we survived sad seas, adrift on a sliver of red; we considered the lot of a cosmic custodian (a lot to consider, for sure); we wondered, awe struck, at the spin of his wheel; we snuggled in nostalgic revery, caressed by sweet recall. In the scheme of things, a good week for all, ideas large and comforts small. - mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Paranoid Tendencies And Delusions//The Song Remains the Same
Fear conquers our mood
It awakens us like a bump in the night
and invades our dreams
screaming in our ears with violet shades
of remorse
Images of what is ..what could be.. can we differentiate
should we warn those closest to us
to take cover, or merely lock the doors
with fifteen locks and bar the windows
We can't breathe.. we pace the floors back and forth
checking on sleeping children
to make sure they are still breathing and
there wasn't a holocaust in the middle of this god-awful nightmare
I saw her.. lying strapped to that metal table
cutting her slowly in half and she screamed at me to GET OUT
I couldn't..
I tried to help her off the table but hands reached at my hair pulling
me back into the darkness
I woke up drenched in sweat..
Fear reminds me of what was
it comes in the disguise of an ADT salesman
warning me of home invasion
watching him take inventory of what can be carried away
counting windows and points of entry
I take his badge number and phony name..
Rocky Flowers
with a Maryland license and smug smile of he'll be back
when I least expect it
or maybe he was hired
by the one who has wished me dead all these years.
Paranoid tendencies created by the hundreds of
messages that I failed to erase.
(thanks Carolyn..)
•••••••
This is a round table
with cubic chairs.. and around it sit the plastic people
with plastic smiles
they are replaying scenes they weren't truly a part of as children
saying :you werent invited to this soiree
They put my name into this mess
found me in this social network god knows how
Even though not one of them kept in touch
over the last twenty or so years..
they dont know my childrens' names or
what I ended up doing for a living
or any detail at all of my life since then
They didn't sit on the barstool next to me on
any given day
after we tossed those yellow taselled pieces of
cardboard in the air..
nor have they tried to call me now
that these grand plans of recreating our senior prom
are underway
a luau .. and we can count on one hand how many went to
Hawaii or knows someone who can tell fake from fiction
Pretentious dogma for those still wanting to replay
what they missed the first time.
You cant step back and press replay
the song remains the same.
•••••••
We hold on to the memories that suit us
the pictures of stability
the mauve carpeting in my bachlorette days..
with the twinkle lights on the screened in balcony
drinking pitchers of sangria listening to
the bootleg tapes of Grateful Dead tours when Jerry was still
kicking
black light tributes to Phish
with friends coming and going at all hours..
those who bang on the door at 2 am
who drove all night because he was drunk and lost
and
forgot we were no longer together..
it was easy then
to pick up where we left off..
to drive in donuts in a parking lot..
jump in an open jeep on a Sunday afternoon
and just go.. maybe canoe
maybe just walk in the woods
before life became work and
home and hearth were caring for others
just a bed ...
a chair and mauve carpet
with you climbing up to sit on the roof
to wonder the meaning of life on the road to where..
get into your car and drive on Christmas eve to end up
in New Orleans...
jump from the coast to the boiling steam-pot of crawfish
and bayou Rum Runners
what a long strange trip it was 'til the car ran out of gas
should have stayed in the art district
listening to jazz with my windows thrown open
over an antique store..
didn't need the lights on
pure magic in the moonlight
a loaf of bread, a hunk of cheese and a bottle of Pinot Grigio
with a notebook in my lap.
- Diana Rose
(1 poem added 05.19.12)
editor's note: A long, sweet "Howdy!" from Diana: Life as/is a poem; a string of events, all tied to us and therefore tied together. We make our own continuity. Nice to have you back, Diana! - mh
The Wheel
These nights, they are alive
As these ancient watch-fires burn overhead
We are told "be slow - unyielding"
We burn for a reason, and our time only.
This, the dust from which we are made
Burns like the wheel
Marking a path in the dirt of generations
a thousand times over.
These waves, an undulating metronome
Hissing out a song across distance
as the whales across miles of open ocean
It's progress - a message in the movement
Calling us back and forth
Along the thread of experience.
The sea remembers nothing, and it forgives;
Yet, even the most obtuse and temeritous are forced
Toward unseen pattern in that presence.
The most important stories are
Sometimes those so easily accessible -
Those supposedly mundane paths
Obfuscate an elemental knowledge.
I am small and in awe against the
subtle rendering drawn by the unseen hand.
- Todd Macaulay
(added 05.18.12)
editor's note: This mystic mandala is a puzzle indeed. Steer it; fall under it... om! - mh
The Perpetual Array
Old perpetual man,
Who's weathered a world revolving,
Who rose with suns and fell to stars,
An eon and a day,
He's hostage to a land,
A weathered world revolving,
That raised the sun and brought the stars
That hold his fears at bay.
But time is in his hand
From problems he's been solving.
And sometimes Venus clings to Mars
And illuminates his way.
And a sunset's auburn spans
For this single man evolving,
And pulls his soul to love and wars,
And the perpetual array.
- Jeremy Johnson
(added 05.17.12)
editor's note: Once you build it, you gotta maintain it. Forever on-call, obey the array! - mh
Ode on a Red Sliver of Paint
A Beach, with
its sands a yellow that is
somehow porous - unforgiving.
Figures move a
long the coast
line
- apparitions -
shadows creeping through existence;
through life.
The Sea
spreads
her cold arms
under
a sky that is somehow equally in
finite.
A Ship coming a
shore - a scab
hanging
on the
side
of the ocean.
Van Gogh, you
painted the sail red be
fore shooting yourself.
- William Wright Harris
(added 05.16.12)
editor's note: Stroke of brush, splash of wave, pull of trigger - all make a lasting impression. - mh
By Now: A Parallel Poem
By now, the words like good
Beautiful, and truth have been so abused
They are meaningless
Reduced to blanks or holes
And the whole language becomes
Insufficient, deformed, absurd:
People are trying to communicate in a dialect
Or, rather, in a series of utterances
Whose meanings are yet to be invented
We have a syntax as powerful as before
But we have no more proper words in the proper place
- Changming Yuan
(1 poem added 05.15.12)
editor's note: Form trumps content these days; the stronger the spin, the emptier the message. We're starving down here! - mh
Advice to the E.Generation
Don’t be a menace to society
Society is the menace
Don’t be venom to anyone close
Be the phenom without anyone close
Don’t think about others
Always come proper
Don’t be under the influence
Be above the movement
Chase impossible dreams
To live in the realest reality
Hustle hard on your grounds
But never under them
Like a monster, strike fear in hearts
But retain a heart of a lion
Never be in a conspiracy
But conspire solo, in secrecy
Live with no regrets,
And die when forgotten.
- Allen Qing Yuan
(added 05.14.12)
editor's note: Good advice to any generation! Let's live not to be forgotten. - mh
Revolution
Revolution is an odd,
yet strong word
It invokes a special spark in our souls when spoken or heard
Revolutions should be remembered,
even the crappy ones.
For if we forget our sins,
we will do them all over again.
- Oliver Moonchild
(added 05.13.12)
editor's note: Yes! Especially the crappy ones! - 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...
Tellin' it like it is!
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we remembered, not to repeat what we've forgotten; we gave a listen to sound advice; we wove more words in wiley weavings, stuck on structure, lost the meanings; we survived sad seas, adrift on a sliver of red; we considered the lot of a cosmic custodian (a lot to consider, for sure); we wondered, awe struck, at the spin of his wheel; we snuggled in nostalgic revery, caressed by sweet recall. In the scheme of things, a good week for all, ideas large and comforts small. - mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Paranoid Tendencies And Delusions//The Song Remains the Same
Fear conquers our mood
It awakens us like a bump in the night
and invades our dreams
screaming in our ears with violet shades
of remorse
Images of what is ..what could be.. can we differentiate
should we warn those closest to us
to take cover, or merely lock the doors
with fifteen locks and bar the windows
We can't breathe.. we pace the floors back and forth
checking on sleeping children
to make sure they are still breathing and
there wasn't a holocaust in the middle of this god-awful nightmare
I saw her.. lying strapped to that metal table
cutting her slowly in half and she screamed at me to GET OUT
I couldn't..
I tried to help her off the table but hands reached at my hair pulling
me back into the darkness
I woke up drenched in sweat..
Fear reminds me of what was
it comes in the disguise of an ADT salesman
warning me of home invasion
watching him take inventory of what can be carried away
counting windows and points of entry
I take his badge number and phony name..
Rocky Flowers
with a Maryland license and smug smile of he'll be back
when I least expect it
or maybe he was hired
by the one who has wished me dead all these years.
Paranoid tendencies created by the hundreds of
messages that I failed to erase.
(thanks Carolyn..)
•••••••
This is a round table
with cubic chairs.. and around it sit the plastic people
with plastic smiles
they are replaying scenes they weren't truly a part of as children
saying :you werent invited to this soiree
They put my name into this mess
found me in this social network god knows how
Even though not one of them kept in touch
over the last twenty or so years..
they dont know my childrens' names or
what I ended up doing for a living
or any detail at all of my life since then
They didn't sit on the barstool next to me on
any given day
after we tossed those yellow taselled pieces of
cardboard in the air..
nor have they tried to call me now
that these grand plans of recreating our senior prom
are underway
a luau .. and we can count on one hand how many went to
Hawaii or knows someone who can tell fake from fiction
Pretentious dogma for those still wanting to replay
what they missed the first time.
You cant step back and press replay
the song remains the same.
•••••••
We hold on to the memories that suit us
the pictures of stability
the mauve carpeting in my bachlorette days..
with the twinkle lights on the screened in balcony
drinking pitchers of sangria listening to
the bootleg tapes of Grateful Dead tours when Jerry was still
kicking
black light tributes to Phish
with friends coming and going at all hours..
those who bang on the door at 2 am
who drove all night because he was drunk and lost
and
forgot we were no longer together..
it was easy then
to pick up where we left off..
to drive in donuts in a parking lot..
jump in an open jeep on a Sunday afternoon
and just go.. maybe canoe
maybe just walk in the woods
before life became work and
home and hearth were caring for others
just a bed ...
a chair and mauve carpet
with you climbing up to sit on the roof
to wonder the meaning of life on the road to where..
get into your car and drive on Christmas eve to end up
in New Orleans...
jump from the coast to the boiling steam-pot of crawfish
and bayou Rum Runners
what a long strange trip it was 'til the car ran out of gas
should have stayed in the art district
listening to jazz with my windows thrown open
over an antique store..
didn't need the lights on
pure magic in the moonlight
a loaf of bread, a hunk of cheese and a bottle of Pinot Grigio
with a notebook in my lap.
- Diana Rose
(1 poem added 05.19.12)
editor's note: A long, sweet "Howdy!" from Diana: Life as/is a poem; a string of events, all tied to us and therefore tied together. We make our own continuity. Nice to have you back, Diana! - mh
The Wheel
These nights, they are alive
As these ancient watch-fires burn overhead
We are told "be slow - unyielding"
We burn for a reason, and our time only.
This, the dust from which we are made
Burns like the wheel
Marking a path in the dirt of generations
a thousand times over.
These waves, an undulating metronome
Hissing out a song across distance
as the whales across miles of open ocean
It's progress - a message in the movement
Calling us back and forth
Along the thread of experience.
The sea remembers nothing, and it forgives;
Yet, even the most obtuse and temeritous are forced
Toward unseen pattern in that presence.
The most important stories are
Sometimes those so easily accessible -
Those supposedly mundane paths
Obfuscate an elemental knowledge.
I am small and in awe against the
subtle rendering drawn by the unseen hand.
- Todd Macaulay
(added 05.18.12)
editor's note: This mystic mandala is a puzzle indeed. Steer it; fall under it... om! - mh
The Perpetual Array
Old perpetual man,
Who's weathered a world revolving,
Who rose with suns and fell to stars,
An eon and a day,
He's hostage to a land,
A weathered world revolving,
That raised the sun and brought the stars
That hold his fears at bay.
But time is in his hand
From problems he's been solving.
And sometimes Venus clings to Mars
And illuminates his way.
And a sunset's auburn spans
For this single man evolving,
And pulls his soul to love and wars,
And the perpetual array.
- Jeremy Johnson
(added 05.17.12)
editor's note: Once you build it, you gotta maintain it. Forever on-call, obey the array! - mh
Ode on a Red Sliver of Paint
A Beach, with
its sands a yellow that is
somehow porous - unforgiving.
Figures move a
long the coast
line
- apparitions -
shadows creeping through existence;
through life.
The Sea
spreads
her cold arms
under
a sky that is somehow equally in
finite.
A Ship coming a
shore - a scab
hanging
on the
side
of the ocean.
Van Gogh, you
painted the sail red be
fore shooting yourself.
- William Wright Harris
(added 05.16.12)
editor's note: Stroke of brush, splash of wave, pull of trigger - all make a lasting impression. - mh
By Now: A Parallel Poem
By now, the words like good
Beautiful, and truth have been so abused
They are meaningless
Reduced to blanks or holes
And the whole language becomes
Insufficient, deformed, absurd:
People are trying to communicate in a dialect
Or, rather, in a series of utterances
Whose meanings are yet to be invented
We have a syntax as powerful as before
But we have no more proper words in the proper place
- Changming Yuan
(1 poem added 05.15.12)
editor's note: Form trumps content these days; the stronger the spin, the emptier the message. We're starving down here! - mh
Advice to the E.Generation
Don’t be a menace to society
Society is the menace
Don’t be venom to anyone close
Be the phenom without anyone close
Don’t think about others
Always come proper
Don’t be under the influence
Be above the movement
Chase impossible dreams
To live in the realest reality
Hustle hard on your grounds
But never under them
Like a monster, strike fear in hearts
But retain a heart of a lion
Never be in a conspiracy
But conspire solo, in secrecy
Live with no regrets,
And die when forgotten.
- Allen Qing Yuan
(added 05.14.12)
editor's note: Good advice to any generation! Let's live not to be forgotten. - mh
Revolution
Revolution is an odd,
yet strong word
It invokes a special spark in our souls when spoken or heard
Revolutions should be remembered,
even the crappy ones.
For if we forget our sins,
we will do them all over again.
- Oliver Moonchild
(added 05.13.12)
editor's note: Yes! Especially the crappy ones! - 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...
Tellin' it like it is!
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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