The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 07.21.12
“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” ~ Ernest Hemingway
Perplexity (above) by featured artist, Jon Marquette, 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 wound up a whisper through a wind tunnel into a noisy nothing; we sniffed the scent of hound dog happiness, amorous aroma; we lost our minds cleanly, pristinely; we filled dark fiction with friendly friction; we scooted boots in memory of stilled wheels and last appeals; we were cold-cocked by a runaway clock; lastly we clustered in a cloister, dodging monk manipulations and divvying nun nonsense to find our form (not theirs). Glad we got a Saturday to sort it all out. ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Brothers' Brothel
It is strange to awake from a so long nightmare and realise another one has taken its place. Not so much a nightmare than a bead-stream of souvenirs of an ancient time when anything seemed possible but wishes and dreams were held back by the crows and ravens flying above the lives of so many innocent lambs.
There were so many catholic priests and so little room for them all. In the dormitory, nights were too short to digest the rubs and scrubs the dark castrated men inflicted on prepubescent boys. They even had this mad concept, dull idea to sacrifice some of their peers to gain more space in the corridors of infinite pleasure where their prey hid.
One made a bungee jump from the top of the basilica, wasn't he pushed by the invisible hands of some unfathomable god. Another one lustful, joyful and bright, drowned in cheap wine.
Flowers of evil take many shapes and meander under snake skin with the snout of a swine.
Many sisters on the opposite side of town, played Cinderella and Snow White – busy little ladies sweeping the dust off the backyard.
Sister Schtöltz probably dreamt she was the hound of hell or the verdigris ward of a concentration camp. Sister Myriam – drawn to earth and frivolous – shared her views on what bra a bride should wear. Sister Bernie – imaginative and contemplative nun – sang in the choir of lost souls.
The chapel sheltered their uninteresting wishes, cheerless shepherdesses, sharing Genesis and the Gospels and the Apocalypse with the brains of formatting teens.
- Walter Ruhlmann
(1 poem added 07.21.12)
editor's note: History or biography, maybe fantasy (there were fairy-tale characters involved); this is a story of formative years which only the strong can de-form. Let those three sisters cast their dust. Bippity, boppity, boo! - mh
NUMBERED FACE
Seconds
Minutes
Hours
Days
Hands moving on a numbered face
In layers
They move slowly
From their empty place
Becoming moments not forgotten
Filling the space
Building lives and memories
The numbers slowly change
Into
Joy and laughter
Or
Tear filled pain
Choose well what you do
With
Those
Moments in time
The numbered face
Has no rewind
- Denise Lumley
(1 poem added 07.20.12)
editor's note: Don't think one can dodge deterioration by going digital. Time slips through that way to the umpteenth decimal place. Choose well, indeed! - mh
A Neighbor Passed
A neighbor passed today
On his way to non-being.
A casual traveler
Basking once in the silky sun of existence.
Cells once nourished
Became his bete noir.
They consumed him in a gulp.
Not knowing him well
I, hardly a blip on a radar screen rife with blips.
He recognized my existence.
For a nanosecond, and I his.
We talked of boots,
Walking, y’all, cowboy boots,
Strutting boots engendering power.
Because he could strut no more,
The wheel chair held him in thrall,
He gifted his to me.
I did not strut in those, red, grey and pointy boots.
I tossed them to the bottom of my closet
Relegated to join mismatched socks and underwear.
Now that he is no more,
I sought them out.
A life memo.
I tested them.
Wrapped my feet in them.
Stood like the Colossus of Rhodes arms akimbo
And strutted across my bedroom.
Il Duce, chin stuck in the air sucking in life,
Sauntered to the mirror.
Agape, a mortal stared back.
My neighbor would have smiled.
- Sy Roth
(added 07.19.12)
editor's note: Clothes made the man. In this case, also the neighbor. Walk a mile... - mh
From Me to You
The dark,
A fine substitute for fiction in a glass,
Secrets said and stories wed
In chains of flowing fun.
Just us,
Sewing temporary holes in worn out pockets,
Using words that only we can say
To thread us both together.
Who cares
If man`s false sun may never shine,
Our friendly friction is enough
To keep our souls alive.
Let's Lie
And drink the dark instead
For if we wed we'll always know,
The sun is just inside.
- Vanessa Gnesinger
(added 07.18.12)
editor's note: Yes! Let's dump the dark from our fair flasks to fill with light and drink together. There is no finer friction. - mh
Washing my Hands Under an Assumed Name
The pressing matters of the day
are as important as potato salad;
get the mayonnaise right
and the rest falls into place.
You'd think my water bill would be
a little lower
washing my hands under an assumed name.
You're only as clean
as your dirtiest member.
Relay teams and shipwrights
with quadriplegic anchors.
I left my mind somewhere between psychosis
and Santa Rosa.
Leveled thumbs line the interstate
like track lighting for the soul.
- Ryan Quinn Flanagan
(1 poem added 07.17.12)
editor's note: Now I understand! Cleanliness is next to Santa Rosa; just follow that track lighting. - mh
Intoxicated Love
Her golden hair
Smells of cinnamon.
I am transfixed by her soft skin.
She holds my hand.
Our fingers connect like
jigsaw pieces.
She whispers into my left ear,
her lime blossom perfume glides up my nose.
The crowded bar that we are in suddenly
bursts into green flames. I see and hear
No one apart from the woman sitting in front of me.
I am inside a vacuum of a green haze,
Surrounded by the aromas
Of lime blossom, cinnamon
And the sweet pungent feminine smell
Of a woman.
- Luke Ritta
(1 poem added 07.16.12)
editor's note: This one packs the harshest hangover. If you're going to sustain it, inhale eternally. - mh
Susurration
The indistinct sound of people whispering, kneading
“Proper” roles for government, media, public,
Without benefit of actual cartography, even
Eye black, bees wax, paraffin, or carbon.
Once and again words fuel inflammatory powers,
Assuage social prescriptions, descriptions, theories of “the obligatory.”
Rather than allow bourgeois meanings to trickle down,
To assign or select, maybe censor, mental sheaves.
Slaves to gist, we shovel our population’s fancies,
Cultural traducements, malicious stratifications,
Savoring such chalaques as negates, malevolently,
Any inducements to better wisdoms.
Thereafter, we balk at limits never approached, accepted, acknowledged,
Right ourselves for imaginary moral battles, trump pretend foes,
Cease to be human, desiring, instead, that imperfection directs
Votes, bequeaths leadership, broadcasts saccharine dispersions.
- KJ Hannah Greenberg
(1 poem added 07.15.12)
editor's note: Our magic media wind machine blows hard and loud. Therefore what's said must be true, right? Louder is better!? - 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...
Bleedin',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we wound up a whisper through a wind tunnel into a noisy nothing; we sniffed the scent of hound dog happiness, amorous aroma; we lost our minds cleanly, pristinely; we filled dark fiction with friendly friction; we scooted boots in memory of stilled wheels and last appeals; we were cold-cocked by a runaway clock; lastly we clustered in a cloister, dodging monk manipulations and divvying nun nonsense to find our form (not theirs). Glad we got a Saturday to sort it all out. ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Brothers' Brothel
It is strange to awake from a so long nightmare and realise another one has taken its place. Not so much a nightmare than a bead-stream of souvenirs of an ancient time when anything seemed possible but wishes and dreams were held back by the crows and ravens flying above the lives of so many innocent lambs.
There were so many catholic priests and so little room for them all. In the dormitory, nights were too short to digest the rubs and scrubs the dark castrated men inflicted on prepubescent boys. They even had this mad concept, dull idea to sacrifice some of their peers to gain more space in the corridors of infinite pleasure where their prey hid.
One made a bungee jump from the top of the basilica, wasn't he pushed by the invisible hands of some unfathomable god. Another one lustful, joyful and bright, drowned in cheap wine.
Flowers of evil take many shapes and meander under snake skin with the snout of a swine.
Many sisters on the opposite side of town, played Cinderella and Snow White – busy little ladies sweeping the dust off the backyard.
Sister Schtöltz probably dreamt she was the hound of hell or the verdigris ward of a concentration camp. Sister Myriam – drawn to earth and frivolous – shared her views on what bra a bride should wear. Sister Bernie – imaginative and contemplative nun – sang in the choir of lost souls.
The chapel sheltered their uninteresting wishes, cheerless shepherdesses, sharing Genesis and the Gospels and the Apocalypse with the brains of formatting teens.
- Walter Ruhlmann
(1 poem added 07.21.12)
editor's note: History or biography, maybe fantasy (there were fairy-tale characters involved); this is a story of formative years which only the strong can de-form. Let those three sisters cast their dust. Bippity, boppity, boo! - mh
NUMBERED FACE
Seconds
Minutes
Hours
Days
Hands moving on a numbered face
In layers
They move slowly
From their empty place
Becoming moments not forgotten
Filling the space
Building lives and memories
The numbers slowly change
Into
Joy and laughter
Or
Tear filled pain
Choose well what you do
With
Those
Moments in time
The numbered face
Has no rewind
- Denise Lumley
(1 poem added 07.20.12)
editor's note: Don't think one can dodge deterioration by going digital. Time slips through that way to the umpteenth decimal place. Choose well, indeed! - mh
A Neighbor Passed
A neighbor passed today
On his way to non-being.
A casual traveler
Basking once in the silky sun of existence.
Cells once nourished
Became his bete noir.
They consumed him in a gulp.
Not knowing him well
I, hardly a blip on a radar screen rife with blips.
He recognized my existence.
For a nanosecond, and I his.
We talked of boots,
Walking, y’all, cowboy boots,
Strutting boots engendering power.
Because he could strut no more,
The wheel chair held him in thrall,
He gifted his to me.
I did not strut in those, red, grey and pointy boots.
I tossed them to the bottom of my closet
Relegated to join mismatched socks and underwear.
Now that he is no more,
I sought them out.
A life memo.
I tested them.
Wrapped my feet in them.
Stood like the Colossus of Rhodes arms akimbo
And strutted across my bedroom.
Il Duce, chin stuck in the air sucking in life,
Sauntered to the mirror.
Agape, a mortal stared back.
My neighbor would have smiled.
- Sy Roth
(added 07.19.12)
editor's note: Clothes made the man. In this case, also the neighbor. Walk a mile... - mh
From Me to You
The dark,
A fine substitute for fiction in a glass,
Secrets said and stories wed
In chains of flowing fun.
Just us,
Sewing temporary holes in worn out pockets,
Using words that only we can say
To thread us both together.
Who cares
If man`s false sun may never shine,
Our friendly friction is enough
To keep our souls alive.
Let's Lie
And drink the dark instead
For if we wed we'll always know,
The sun is just inside.
- Vanessa Gnesinger
(added 07.18.12)
editor's note: Yes! Let's dump the dark from our fair flasks to fill with light and drink together. There is no finer friction. - mh
Washing my Hands Under an Assumed Name
The pressing matters of the day
are as important as potato salad;
get the mayonnaise right
and the rest falls into place.
You'd think my water bill would be
a little lower
washing my hands under an assumed name.
You're only as clean
as your dirtiest member.
Relay teams and shipwrights
with quadriplegic anchors.
I left my mind somewhere between psychosis
and Santa Rosa.
Leveled thumbs line the interstate
like track lighting for the soul.
- Ryan Quinn Flanagan
(1 poem added 07.17.12)
editor's note: Now I understand! Cleanliness is next to Santa Rosa; just follow that track lighting. - mh
Intoxicated Love
Her golden hair
Smells of cinnamon.
I am transfixed by her soft skin.
She holds my hand.
Our fingers connect like
jigsaw pieces.
She whispers into my left ear,
her lime blossom perfume glides up my nose.
The crowded bar that we are in suddenly
bursts into green flames. I see and hear
No one apart from the woman sitting in front of me.
I am inside a vacuum of a green haze,
Surrounded by the aromas
Of lime blossom, cinnamon
And the sweet pungent feminine smell
Of a woman.
- Luke Ritta
(1 poem added 07.16.12)
editor's note: This one packs the harshest hangover. If you're going to sustain it, inhale eternally. - mh
Susurration
The indistinct sound of people whispering, kneading
“Proper” roles for government, media, public,
Without benefit of actual cartography, even
Eye black, bees wax, paraffin, or carbon.
Once and again words fuel inflammatory powers,
Assuage social prescriptions, descriptions, theories of “the obligatory.”
Rather than allow bourgeois meanings to trickle down,
To assign or select, maybe censor, mental sheaves.
Slaves to gist, we shovel our population’s fancies,
Cultural traducements, malicious stratifications,
Savoring such chalaques as negates, malevolently,
Any inducements to better wisdoms.
Thereafter, we balk at limits never approached, accepted, acknowledged,
Right ourselves for imaginary moral battles, trump pretend foes,
Cease to be human, desiring, instead, that imperfection directs
Votes, bequeaths leadership, broadcasts saccharine dispersions.
- KJ Hannah Greenberg
(1 poem added 07.15.12)
editor's note: Our magic media wind machine blows hard and loud. Therefore what's said must be true, right? Louder is better!? - 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...
Bleedin',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Comments