The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 06.16.12
“Honesty is something you can't wear out.” Waylon Jennings
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we sought security in a second chance; we bounced back an old rebuff, borne in an abandoned bed; we set to flames the social network, revolution recognized by rampant "likes"; our eyes were opened to "other" local color; we recounted an equestrian epitaph; we got a sugar fix with finger licks; then boosted our blood-sugar through the roof on a night of Manhattans. I need to detox! - mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
a night of Manhattans
How could I not?
You were so comfortable.
A living space heater
beneath borrowed blankets.
I was starving,
worried my rumbling stomach would jar you from your coma.
Induced half by Manhattans
and half by the pokes and prods of my fingers
having kept you tossing all night.
Tossing and turning in circles
until you made a sleeping bag,
a cocoon; hoping that when you woke you wouldn’t be as grumpy.
But I watched,
terrified,
at how your deep consistent breathes
could coax me to sleep again.
Closed my eyes and fell into a daze;
this haze of a dream we slept in.
Wishing—no willing—myself not to leave.
The sun beckoned from the window and moved my feet.
- GMSpear
(1 poem added 06.16.12)
editor's note: Think I'll order one o' these at my local bar - stirred, not shaken. (Let's welcome GMSpear to our conspirant congress of contributing Poets! Read more on his new page.) - mh
Donuts and Milk
Whole
Milk
And
Krispy
Kreme
Original
Donuts
Heated
In
The
Microwave.
Sweet
Nothingness.
Crusty
Fingers
Licked
Of
Glaze.
- Danny P. Barbare
(added 06.15.12)
editor's note: I need to wash my hands and wait for the sugar shock to come on. - mh
Adrenaline
Our years together were a
Thrilling
Nauseating
Gravity defying roller coaster ride
One in which we had the times of our life,
But feared we would never get off alive.
I controlled the way time moved in those days,
So did you
Close your eyes
Can you remember
The sweet scent of horse sweat and bleach
The lady bellowing at girl scouts and campers- Heals Down!
Shut them tighter,
Does dirt still stick to the back of your throat?
Do you still gag when you think of the muddy taste when you guzzled water?
We were slaves to the barn
When we were unsuspecting thirteen-year-old girls
Ordered to do this, to do that,
Blamed for horses that took
A camper or two into the weeds for a mid-trip bite,
But we were blinded fools
Who craved attention.
So we blinded ourselves
To the abuse.
It was a little piece of paradise
Hidden in the city
And we didn’t question anything.
We were safe,
Even on June 4th, 2004
When Kylene breathed
Deeply for the last time
As a hoof hit her heart
A month after her 15th birthday.
This place was paradise, we were safe.
Yet you know we were scared like daffodils
Trails made us free,
We were addicted to adrenaline
That came with the racing of 10 foot horses
We became chameleons
And hid underground, in the roots of trees.
Even though we cried
Our horses held our hands,
And pulled us tight
As the ride approached the final drop,
Home free.
- Angie Frese
(added 06.14.12)
editor's note: This eye into equestrian existence exposes extremes and explains addiction. R.I.P. Kylene! - mh
Colors
Paper petals fall from the sky, my eyes receive the red that bleeds the nose open.
Green follows greed blocking yellow sunbeams; ski’s covered in black clouds hiding the white moonbeams.
Blueberry wild, how can I smile, running a black road for many miles; fellow gentlemen dressed in magenta tuxedos, silver lining stitched with golden needles, shoes of gray with bottoms faded away by walk of day.
While the translucent rains stain the tan box house dark brown and now his sign, "I will work for food" cries without sound, pencil laid makings run juvenile wild, street lights blink orange child scorn, street life, soul torn and recession born.
- James Brown
(added 06.13.12)
editor's note: If you're gonna to see this rainbow, gotta take off those rose-colored glasses. - mh
revolution should be flames
no one knew it was him
millions saw carnage
DESTRUCTION ON HIS MIND
Picture watching the epitaph:
he rioted for reason
he rioted for blackberries
revolution should be flames
all we got is facebook,
hold on i have a notification
- ra! gabriel
(1 poem added 06.12.12)
editor's note: "Friend" the flame and get ready to riot! - mh
Deprived from Meditation
You dream of death.
And my hands bleed for you.
You dream of love.
And my knees bear the scars.
But they --
or you --
do not linger long enough
for the stains to make their mark.
I guess my impressions do not impress.
You only desire outlet.
Flesh,
like lightning,
conducted in the dark
you pretend not to command.
But I see more than you feel.
And I hate my eyes.
For the forgiveness
they shed --
every dawn --
over this abandoned bed.
- A.J. Huffman
(added 06.11.12)
editor's note: Can't blame a bed for the sins of a lover. But, should there be a reckoning, I'd rather be the bed. - mh
A Second Chance
I took in a spaniel pup
from Second Chance rescue
tossed from it's last home
after biting a child,
now sudden blood arcs from my mouth
I merely leaned down to caress her head
she growled in fright, baring teeth,
peed on the couch again.
And dumb luck I got a dog just like me,
scared, anxiety ridden, weaned too young,
out of control yet wanting love,
fast biting the hand that feeds her,
my lower lip split wide open
like the time that moron busted
me in the mouth when I came in too late
from drinking with the girls.
Too late and tired for a drive to emergency,
vodka cleaned, frozen together
with ice and guerilla tape,
one more scar on my broken down body
everybody telling me I should put her down
she's a danger to society
but knowing my heart is stupid
and I will give her
one more chance
to be good,
dropping to bed in vicodin sleep,
Honey positioned at the foot.
- Sissy Buckles
(added 06.10.12)
editor's note: More identification with our transgressors, more second chances for 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...
Bein' Honest,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we sought security in a second chance; we bounced back an old rebuff, borne in an abandoned bed; we set to flames the social network, revolution recognized by rampant "likes"; our eyes were opened to "other" local color; we recounted an equestrian epitaph; we got a sugar fix with finger licks; then boosted our blood-sugar through the roof on a night of Manhattans. I need to detox! - mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
a night of Manhattans
How could I not?
You were so comfortable.
A living space heater
beneath borrowed blankets.
I was starving,
worried my rumbling stomach would jar you from your coma.
Induced half by Manhattans
and half by the pokes and prods of my fingers
having kept you tossing all night.
Tossing and turning in circles
until you made a sleeping bag,
a cocoon; hoping that when you woke you wouldn’t be as grumpy.
But I watched,
terrified,
at how your deep consistent breathes
could coax me to sleep again.
Closed my eyes and fell into a daze;
this haze of a dream we slept in.
Wishing—no willing—myself not to leave.
The sun beckoned from the window and moved my feet.
- GMSpear
(1 poem added 06.16.12)
editor's note: Think I'll order one o' these at my local bar - stirred, not shaken. (Let's welcome GMSpear to our conspirant congress of contributing Poets! Read more on his new page.) - mh
Donuts and Milk
Whole
Milk
And
Krispy
Kreme
Original
Donuts
Heated
In
The
Microwave.
Sweet
Nothingness.
Crusty
Fingers
Licked
Of
Glaze.
- Danny P. Barbare
(added 06.15.12)
editor's note: I need to wash my hands and wait for the sugar shock to come on. - mh
Adrenaline
Our years together were a
Thrilling
Nauseating
Gravity defying roller coaster ride
One in which we had the times of our life,
But feared we would never get off alive.
I controlled the way time moved in those days,
So did you
Close your eyes
Can you remember
The sweet scent of horse sweat and bleach
The lady bellowing at girl scouts and campers- Heals Down!
Shut them tighter,
Does dirt still stick to the back of your throat?
Do you still gag when you think of the muddy taste when you guzzled water?
We were slaves to the barn
When we were unsuspecting thirteen-year-old girls
Ordered to do this, to do that,
Blamed for horses that took
A camper or two into the weeds for a mid-trip bite,
But we were blinded fools
Who craved attention.
So we blinded ourselves
To the abuse.
It was a little piece of paradise
Hidden in the city
And we didn’t question anything.
We were safe,
Even on June 4th, 2004
When Kylene breathed
Deeply for the last time
As a hoof hit her heart
A month after her 15th birthday.
This place was paradise, we were safe.
Yet you know we were scared like daffodils
Trails made us free,
We were addicted to adrenaline
That came with the racing of 10 foot horses
We became chameleons
And hid underground, in the roots of trees.
Even though we cried
Our horses held our hands,
And pulled us tight
As the ride approached the final drop,
Home free.
- Angie Frese
(added 06.14.12)
editor's note: This eye into equestrian existence exposes extremes and explains addiction. R.I.P. Kylene! - mh
Colors
Paper petals fall from the sky, my eyes receive the red that bleeds the nose open.
Green follows greed blocking yellow sunbeams; ski’s covered in black clouds hiding the white moonbeams.
Blueberry wild, how can I smile, running a black road for many miles; fellow gentlemen dressed in magenta tuxedos, silver lining stitched with golden needles, shoes of gray with bottoms faded away by walk of day.
While the translucent rains stain the tan box house dark brown and now his sign, "I will work for food" cries without sound, pencil laid makings run juvenile wild, street lights blink orange child scorn, street life, soul torn and recession born.
- James Brown
(added 06.13.12)
editor's note: If you're gonna to see this rainbow, gotta take off those rose-colored glasses. - mh
revolution should be flames
no one knew it was him
millions saw carnage
DESTRUCTION ON HIS MIND
Picture watching the epitaph:
he rioted for reason
he rioted for blackberries
revolution should be flames
all we got is facebook,
hold on i have a notification
- ra! gabriel
(1 poem added 06.12.12)
editor's note: "Friend" the flame and get ready to riot! - mh
Deprived from Meditation
You dream of death.
And my hands bleed for you.
You dream of love.
And my knees bear the scars.
But they --
or you --
do not linger long enough
for the stains to make their mark.
I guess my impressions do not impress.
You only desire outlet.
Flesh,
like lightning,
conducted in the dark
you pretend not to command.
But I see more than you feel.
And I hate my eyes.
For the forgiveness
they shed --
every dawn --
over this abandoned bed.
- A.J. Huffman
(added 06.11.12)
editor's note: Can't blame a bed for the sins of a lover. But, should there be a reckoning, I'd rather be the bed. - mh
A Second Chance
I took in a spaniel pup
from Second Chance rescue
tossed from it's last home
after biting a child,
now sudden blood arcs from my mouth
I merely leaned down to caress her head
she growled in fright, baring teeth,
peed on the couch again.
And dumb luck I got a dog just like me,
scared, anxiety ridden, weaned too young,
out of control yet wanting love,
fast biting the hand that feeds her,
my lower lip split wide open
like the time that moron busted
me in the mouth when I came in too late
from drinking with the girls.
Too late and tired for a drive to emergency,
vodka cleaned, frozen together
with ice and guerilla tape,
one more scar on my broken down body
everybody telling me I should put her down
she's a danger to society
but knowing my heart is stupid
and I will give her
one more chance
to be good,
dropping to bed in vicodin sleep,
Honey positioned at the foot.
- Sissy Buckles
(added 06.10.12)
editor's note: More identification with our transgressors, more second chances for 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...
Bein' Honest,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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