The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 06.09.12

“You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.” Ray Bradbury


untitled (above) by featured artist, Nicholas Walton-Healey, 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 began with a startled somnambulist; we beheld a hermit holding a handle (heartless?); we caught a commuter's muse, his love, not lawn care; we languished in levels with meaning bedamned; we accessed our richest asset, reviled rats; we dallied in dancing light, lost to doorbell distraction; we ended with a new eye, cat's eye, colored, god's eye, affixed on creation, new now, our knack for all we know. Prismatic proclivities!

Just in case you missed it, here's just a taste...

Prism

The shining light that comprises God’s being
strode through the prism of a rain drop
dangling from a white lilly bloom
and broke God into all God’s components
whether they be in the visible bands of colors
or the invisible bands of ultraviolet
and infrared.

All of a sudden there were many Gods:
a God of nose hairs
a God of hangnails
a God of pre-cancerous cells
a God of blue bottle flies
a God of dangling modifiers
a God of dandelion parachutes
a God of calcium deposits on toilet rims
a God of coughed up fur balls
a God of tiny, purple alpine flowers
a God of bird shit that splats
on freshly washed car windows
and so on into all the multitude of things
that comprise the one true God.

And in that instant God’s image
appeared in many places around the world:
on pieces of toast
on bars of soap
on rivets holding airplane wings together
on the tips of horse hair paint brushes
on iron filings manipulated by magnets
on page twelve of a Batman comic
on the lever that puts the charge in the electric chair
on the joy sticks of video games
on the cum laden stains of cheap hotel room sheets
and so on to all the multitude of places
an image of God could appear.

And with another step the shining light
that comprises the one true God’s being
moved past the dangling rain drop
and the multitude of God’s manifestations
reformed into the one, all-being being
that holy books have tried to quantify and qualify
that artists and musicians have attempted
to instill into their art and music
that children play with
when they speak to their imaginary friends.

- Kenneth P. Gurney

(2 poems added 06.09.12)

editor's note: Don't need 3D glasses to see our imaginary Friend. Good thing, since neither the theaters nor the distributors want to pay for them anymore. Step outside and look around; our Friend is everywhere. (Another from Kenneth about a big wet kiss; it's on his page - check it out.) - mh

Meanwhile

My mind was dancing
With the leaves on the trees
Outside my window
A memory

Inside
Modular American dream
Home and garden
Funny hues of greens
Of blues

My mind was dancing
The sun on the lawn
Morning and Saturday
Ready to play
A place now gone

A memory
My mind was dancing
Those funny hues
The greens, the blues;

Then the doorbell rang

- William S. Tribell

(added 06.08.12)

editor's note: Day dream interruptus; a solicitor to make you their meanwhile. - mh

Here kitty kitty

rather i were a drunkard
or a junkie
than poor in spirit
with lack of laughter
or reason
to live each day
while another storm of woe
floods up and over
my dam of hope
a near drowned cat
in an unfamiliar alley
weary and wary
of the sound and shadow
of a scampering
and hungry
rat

- Jesse Doughty

(1 poem added 06.07.12)

editor's note: Tread water and carry a big laugh. Here ratty ratty! - mh

MEANING LEVELS

To sink to a depth
For a deeper reading
Instead of this shallow breathing
Wouldn't we all like some breadth?
Apologies
You just get
The froth of frivolity
Skimmed off the surface
As grease from stock
It would be good to wallow
And flail lovingly
Amongst the boiling bones
For once in the broth . . .
But I guess
It's not going to be yet

- Anthony Murphy

(1 poem added 06.06.12)

editor's note: Splash or simmer, we'll all be swimmers... just not yet. - mh

All I can think and hope

Heading back home finally after 6 interminably
long days and nights away at yet another
supercilious waste-of-time business meeting.
(All we have is time, isn’t it?)

The shadow of the airplane follows along far below,
a dark, ghostly smudge sliding eerily
across the bright snowy landscape,
over fences and barns, rocks and roads
and cars and lakes and trees.

And all I can think about (as usual),
all I can picture in my mind (yes, yes, we know)
is me sitting on my heating pad
watching my documentaries on TV,
sipping my beloved Starbuck’s iced coffee,
my stunningly beautiful, sweet
and radiant wife close nearby, where she belongs,
doing something or other on her i-pad.

And all I can hope (beyond all hopes),
is that she is indeed still there
and hasn’t yet run off
with that pesky lawn-care guy
with the big arms full of fuzzy tattoos.

- Michael Estabrook

(added 06.05.12)

editor's note: Many of us share the same hope and possibly the same lawn-care guy. Ensure familial stability, eschew fuzzy tattoos! - mh

"frantic oil"

things like your heart get in my teeth,
tumble out with the ghosts in my breath
my kisses
(and you thought i was just whispering)

i am protecting the floor of this house from flying off the handle
these alterclement windows, gruntled with fair fare, flash and sputter sayflames in bald cravings of reflection

in dim lights masquerading as candles
secretly signaling segregate swain
i remain
inamorato zetetic

- ira wile

(added 06.04.12)

editor's note: When loveless by investigation, all one can do is keep a hold of the handle. - mh

Side-effects

I can
sense you,
yellow, one
inch thick, curved.
You’re not alone,
though the others
are too obscure. They
don’t visualise clearly.
I’m dozing but I’m
well aware of shape
under my head, hiding.
I’m fully clothed below
my quilt, and carrying
my Puma pen-knife.
I slash your blue
cover and white
cotton inner bit.
I even walk
downstairs
with you,
before I
realise
there is
no fruit
in my
pillow.

- Michael Holme

(1 poem added 06.03.12)

editor's note: Better a banana than a side o' bacon, methinks! - 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...

Gettin' Drunk,

Johnny O
Editor-in-chief

MH Clay
Poetry Editor

Comments

Popular Posts