The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 08.11.12
“The Edge... there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over.” ~ Hunter S. Thompson
Self-Portrait with Raven (above) by featured artist, Edward Ödwitt, 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 lost our lodestone, an illusive true North; we multiplied imagination in our pursuit of a woman of mystery; we humored our hunger for unlimited longevity, our wrung out words retrieved from obscurity; we launched an investigation into implied allegations against a title; we out-weighed the spring of a reign to wait-out the rain of Spring; we refuted the foolery of fairytale fiction, favored good old grown-up grief instead; we had a patron poet show up to write good words for us who refuse to grow up. True North regained in the end. ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
For Kids Who Refuse To Grow Up
I write for kids who refuse to grow up,
Who drink from their bowl and eat from their cup,
Who only speak when told to shut up,
I write for kids who refuse to grow up.
I write for adults who are still mighty young,
Who taste with their fingers and point with their tongue,
And when climbing a ladder, must test every wrung,
I write for adults who are still mighty young.
I write for all those who are waiting to see,
What is to happen, what is to be,
Before they set sail on an uncertain sea.
Yes, I write for all those just like you and me.
- Jeremy Johnson
(1 poem added 08.11.12)
editor's note: We who refuse to grow up are thankful for poets who write for us. Write on, Jeremy! (Let's welcome Jeremy to our crazy conclave of Contributing Poets. See more of his work on his new page.) - mh
Fairytale
Can you see that there’s no magic
I tried to believe I would have my happy ending but
Not one speck of fairy dust was seen.
Don’t even mention the ball
Every eligible lady in the kingdom went except for me.
Rolling away in their carriages
Excited to see whom the Prince would pick.
Laying down in my bed, dreaming of how it would be if I went
Lies about Prince Charming and Fairy Godmothers
All of it is just wishful thinking
- Cassandra Gayle Guinto
(added 08.10.12)
editor's note: Grown-ups know that fairytales are nothing more than wishful thinking. Some of us never grow up, though, cuz, "What's wrong with wishful thinking?" - mh
White Out
Snow white on the ground,
the hunter drips red,
skin translucent fades in flakes,
melts, there'll be blood
in Springs of roses.
Alabaster purity, but what
of twigs of brown? Red earth
lies fecund, yellow forsythia
flowers in the mud pristine.
Cloud reign, subjugation,
the turning of umber planted fields,
black gold rapes greenery, crude
feasts at the court of public opinion.
Black Christ has blue eyes,
his story whited out, re-written
by the conquerors, the page is blank,
white vellum throwing off all hues.
And white becomes grey,
covering the colors of Earth,
plowed under, they cannot grow,
reign washes deep, a drop chain
binds, ivory gloves hold the keys.
Ice, snow, the Winter
of sallow cheeks, cold for years
and years
and years,
but Spring comes slowly,
oh yes, Spring is bound to come.
©2012
- Rose Morales
(1 poem added 08.09.12)
editor's note: No umbrella can protect from a soaking by this reign. But, don't swallow their story nor despair. Rose is right; in time, the Spring will come. - mh
Untitled...
I search for a title, investigate...
Like tears down a demon’s tangles, in the middle, there!
Composition, juxtaposition, 69 yet boneless–
Barons, lords, earls, duke, titles all, yet I seek, cognition
Mediate my identities, unconscious recesses explored
Inter-textual dreams, multi-vocalizations burnt, pepper fry
Where art thou? My pedagogic old monk? Seek the title with mine eyes
Post-spatial constructs, unstable questions;
Existential aspirations, I want signature, repeat...
I search for a title, investigate...
- T. Gautham Shenoy
(added 08.08.12)
editor's note: Seek yours; it's a demon's tangle. Seek another's; there will be hints and allegations. Seek instead to understand the fine print. With titles come expectations and responsibilities - investigate... - mh
Paging Paparazzi
i want to be noticed
i want to be remembered
by people i've never met
i want my words to hang in the air
a spiderweb of fictitious memories
made permanent in a mind not my own.
i want to be BETTER
than everyone else
to be different
special
destined for greatness
beyond suburbia and babies.
i want
to be wanted
to be envied
to be loved
by fans who know only what the camera allows them to see
through the plethora of words from my twisted fantasies
in a book
on a shelf
in a corner of the store
i want to believe the world will adore me
one day
until then
i will hide, out of sight
desperate to breathe life into words that i write.
- Melissa Long
(added 08.07.12)
editor's note: A naked confession by a poet wracked with words, obsessed with expression. "A book on a shelf in a corner" is every poet's desire. - mh
Her Uncomprehended Character
Before the dusk
Dark side of the street she goes
Heading to the unknown
Whenever the halo comes
She strides so quickly
Hardly seen in the day
And returns before the dawn.
It's arcane nobody knows
Where does she go?
Neither does she reveal her job,
Nor does she go to college
But, calls herself a student.
Applicable fashion choosing
Displayed in the market
And her recondite deeds
Questions keep reading
For her masked identity is
Demarcating herself in the society
As unidentified paramour.
- Hem Raj Bastola
(1 poem added 08.06.12)
editor's note: No need to let the mystery turn to fear and distrust. Maybe she's just a midnight seamstress. Why not ask her? - mh
Needle
Your mouth is moving
The words float past my eyes
And I’m consuming memories
That threaten to capsize
Time it moves so slowly
When we’re trapped between blue skies
Like a rose whose beauty dooms it
Signaling demise
Did you know me as another
Have I known you every life
Waiting to discover
The love that lies
Beneath the strife
Your silence dear it moves me
Drawn as a flame consumes the moth
And I’m carried past forgiveness
Past empty corridors flamed in loss
Time it goes so smoothly
When we’re scattered amongst stars
Like a compass to its needle
Finds the end to start
- Jillian Lane
(added 08.05.12)
editor's note: Start at the end or the beginning; what happens in the middle is still in the middle, beneath the strife, yes. - 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...
Edgin' It,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we lost our lodestone, an illusive true North; we multiplied imagination in our pursuit of a woman of mystery; we humored our hunger for unlimited longevity, our wrung out words retrieved from obscurity; we launched an investigation into implied allegations against a title; we out-weighed the spring of a reign to wait-out the rain of Spring; we refuted the foolery of fairytale fiction, favored good old grown-up grief instead; we had a patron poet show up to write good words for us who refuse to grow up. True North regained in the end. ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
For Kids Who Refuse To Grow Up
I write for kids who refuse to grow up,
Who drink from their bowl and eat from their cup,
Who only speak when told to shut up,
I write for kids who refuse to grow up.
I write for adults who are still mighty young,
Who taste with their fingers and point with their tongue,
And when climbing a ladder, must test every wrung,
I write for adults who are still mighty young.
I write for all those who are waiting to see,
What is to happen, what is to be,
Before they set sail on an uncertain sea.
Yes, I write for all those just like you and me.
- Jeremy Johnson
(1 poem added 08.11.12)
editor's note: We who refuse to grow up are thankful for poets who write for us. Write on, Jeremy! (Let's welcome Jeremy to our crazy conclave of Contributing Poets. See more of his work on his new page.) - mh
Fairytale
Can you see that there’s no magic
I tried to believe I would have my happy ending but
Not one speck of fairy dust was seen.
Don’t even mention the ball
Every eligible lady in the kingdom went except for me.
Rolling away in their carriages
Excited to see whom the Prince would pick.
Laying down in my bed, dreaming of how it would be if I went
Lies about Prince Charming and Fairy Godmothers
All of it is just wishful thinking
- Cassandra Gayle Guinto
(added 08.10.12)
editor's note: Grown-ups know that fairytales are nothing more than wishful thinking. Some of us never grow up, though, cuz, "What's wrong with wishful thinking?" - mh
White Out
Snow white on the ground,
the hunter drips red,
skin translucent fades in flakes,
melts, there'll be blood
in Springs of roses.
Alabaster purity, but what
of twigs of brown? Red earth
lies fecund, yellow forsythia
flowers in the mud pristine.
Cloud reign, subjugation,
the turning of umber planted fields,
black gold rapes greenery, crude
feasts at the court of public opinion.
Black Christ has blue eyes,
his story whited out, re-written
by the conquerors, the page is blank,
white vellum throwing off all hues.
And white becomes grey,
covering the colors of Earth,
plowed under, they cannot grow,
reign washes deep, a drop chain
binds, ivory gloves hold the keys.
Ice, snow, the Winter
of sallow cheeks, cold for years
and years
and years,
but Spring comes slowly,
oh yes, Spring is bound to come.
©2012
- Rose Morales
(1 poem added 08.09.12)
editor's note: No umbrella can protect from a soaking by this reign. But, don't swallow their story nor despair. Rose is right; in time, the Spring will come. - mh
Untitled...
I search for a title, investigate...
Like tears down a demon’s tangles, in the middle, there!
Composition, juxtaposition, 69 yet boneless–
Barons, lords, earls, duke, titles all, yet I seek, cognition
Mediate my identities, unconscious recesses explored
Inter-textual dreams, multi-vocalizations burnt, pepper fry
Where art thou? My pedagogic old monk? Seek the title with mine eyes
Post-spatial constructs, unstable questions;
Existential aspirations, I want signature, repeat...
I search for a title, investigate...
- T. Gautham Shenoy
(added 08.08.12)
editor's note: Seek yours; it's a demon's tangle. Seek another's; there will be hints and allegations. Seek instead to understand the fine print. With titles come expectations and responsibilities - investigate... - mh
Paging Paparazzi
i want to be noticed
i want to be remembered
by people i've never met
i want my words to hang in the air
a spiderweb of fictitious memories
made permanent in a mind not my own.
i want to be BETTER
than everyone else
to be different
special
destined for greatness
beyond suburbia and babies.
i want
to be wanted
to be envied
to be loved
by fans who know only what the camera allows them to see
through the plethora of words from my twisted fantasies
in a book
on a shelf
in a corner of the store
i want to believe the world will adore me
one day
until then
i will hide, out of sight
desperate to breathe life into words that i write.
- Melissa Long
(added 08.07.12)
editor's note: A naked confession by a poet wracked with words, obsessed with expression. "A book on a shelf in a corner" is every poet's desire. - mh
Her Uncomprehended Character
Before the dusk
Dark side of the street she goes
Heading to the unknown
Whenever the halo comes
She strides so quickly
Hardly seen in the day
And returns before the dawn.
It's arcane nobody knows
Where does she go?
Neither does she reveal her job,
Nor does she go to college
But, calls herself a student.
Applicable fashion choosing
Displayed in the market
And her recondite deeds
Questions keep reading
For her masked identity is
Demarcating herself in the society
As unidentified paramour.
- Hem Raj Bastola
(1 poem added 08.06.12)
editor's note: No need to let the mystery turn to fear and distrust. Maybe she's just a midnight seamstress. Why not ask her? - mh
Needle
Your mouth is moving
The words float past my eyes
And I’m consuming memories
That threaten to capsize
Time it moves so slowly
When we’re trapped between blue skies
Like a rose whose beauty dooms it
Signaling demise
Did you know me as another
Have I known you every life
Waiting to discover
The love that lies
Beneath the strife
Your silence dear it moves me
Drawn as a flame consumes the moth
And I’m carried past forgiveness
Past empty corridors flamed in loss
Time it goes so smoothly
When we’re scattered amongst stars
Like a compass to its needle
Finds the end to start
- Jillian Lane
(added 08.05.12)
editor's note: Start at the end or the beginning; what happens in the middle is still in the middle, beneath the strife, yes. - 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...
Edgin' It,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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