The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 09.22.12
“Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash.” ~ Leonard Cohen
Passion (above) by this month's featured artist, Paula Dawn Lietz.
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we picked a parlor-tricked trip from a global gadabout; we fell for the fall of new-found devotion; we pulled a pale partnership together to puzzle the pieces; we quelled our quirks to quit with death; we arrested accelerated ignorance to notice a need (now what?); we took a flyer on a fleeting flight, the knocked noggin not ours; we feasted a wordfest, voracious verbosity, vivid vocabulary. A fine week's banquet. Please, scoop and serve - keep the line moving. ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
A June Full of Cherries
Piquant, yet tender, portrayals of festivities’ “field kitchens”
Forgive lapses such as young beasties, insufficiently protected points of view,
Great accidents of interest, the merged foci of welcoming, disbanding, hugging,
Also dressing in gold spandex, belly dancing, weaving baskets, noting
What's working for whom, and why, tasting, maybe teasing,
Playing with prefixes, acting wonky, listening to exclamations,
Plus skipping along peripheral places makes for forgetting staid rubrics.
When sloughing worldly woes, celebrating significant events,
Consuming even minute amounts of funky antimeria, during alternate decades,
It’s possible to categorize material goods, let alone affective states, tayras,
Human relationships (patterned both tacit and affective), trilobites, glabrous birds,
As belonging to solid-hoofed herbivorous quadruped or other vehicles’ barns
Meant to entertain visa via ornaments, food, drink, actualized space, vessels,
Likewise the compelled restoration of pumpkin crowns or thornbushes, works.
Other times, those of mind-muddle mode, find it difficult to regard
Disruptions amicably, to smile, to say nothing, or, perhaps, to interact quietly,
Guest in pediatric wards, receive mistaken attributions causality,
Get elected because of money or connections, override baser inclinations,
Ignore global societies, local neighborhoods, and familial conundrums,
Combine behavioral modifications for purposes of suck, grandeur, climate,
Additionally, post publishers’ letters on refrigerators, all while spinning in circles.
Most often, though, cats lull innocently, whereas hounds snore, worms whistle,
Chickadee ringleaders and Komodo dragon catalysts glibly forecast entire
Epics for good findings, comradely inspiration, and conceptualized work.
Burnt toast, bitter coffee, broken eggs, too, make for playful family times,
Distinct units of innocent, mentalists’ gymnastics, deadly mustelids, plus pungent
Cycles of socks, big skirts, small spices, deflected ants, termites, and do-gooders.
Alternatively, in June, bowls full of cherries get agitated. A mom can dream.
- KJ Hannah Greenberg
(1 poem added 09.22.12)
editor's note: Yes, eaten all at once, a bowl full of these may cause tummy (&head)ache. So, eat these one verse at a time; enjoy their sweet sensation of words upon words, let them roll on your tongue, bounce around in your mind. Be thankful for this dreaming mom. - mh
Over the Edge
This has to be crazy I told myself.
Red cliffs look straight down.
A stand of Juniper trees at the bottom
were the size of a postage stamp.
Waiting for the wind, my knees quivered.
My stomach was in my throat and the
flimsy wings weighed 1000 pounds.
This was to be my first flight, but I felt
like chickening out. The macho streak
down my back, tethered me to the ground.
A stiff wind struck my face and my colleagues
yelled, "Jump." Hesitating, I gasped for a breath,
closed my eyes and pushed off.
Caught by a rising thermal, I flew towards
the clouds. For a moment I was weightless,
then I fell like a homesick rock.
The wings finally caught the air and I began
to soar. Shivers ran down my spine, I had
never felt like this before. The only problem
was I was leaving hand prints in the metal bars.
Turning in wide circles, I surveyed the ground.
It came up much, much faster than I had planned.
Still, I was pleased with myself; our van was just
20 yards away when I touched down.
My feet smacked down hard and I began to run
to keep from tipping over. Careening toward the
van I smacked head-long into the side.
Shaken awake I saw Jeff staring at me. He said,
"Your takeoff was perfect, you soared like an eagle,
your landing was superb, but your stop needs a
little work."
- Mike Berger
(1 poem added 09.21.12)
editor's note: Vicariously, we enjoy the thrill of flight. The poet enjoys the crack on the head. - mh
Noticed
this guy
with a sign
crumpled in cushions
next to the dumpster
with day-olds
stained on the outside.
Thought
he may have meant something
to someone
at some time.
Noticed
the breath
from the mouth
of this guy
condensed.
Thought
I could do something
suggest someplace
someone hadn't.
But the light was green.
- Charlie Weber
(added 09.20.12)
editor's note: For all we notice; it's too fast for what we do. - mh
THE LONG AND SHORT
A naked night, void of stars,
opens a canvas of black
where a moon, in the corner of space
lays captured.
It is a black and white night,
a photo with shades and shadows
with cool skin
and eyes like diamonds.
The shape of a voyage pulls at
the thread of me; the black of my indecision.
the white of my dreams.
I quit with death, leaving it to itself,
the labors and the pain,
the long and short of a story we all know.
- Roger G. Singer
(1 poem added 09.19.12)
editor's note: We are constantly pulled between indecision and dreams. For all that black and white, death stands in the grey. - mh
Pieces
Intenseness of overwhelming desire
Runs through my veins;
The bright spark that starts a fire,
Just before it rains…
Your Love guarded within my heart,
As we wallow in imperfection.
Previously torn apart;
Having made one wrong selection…
These times are tough, we must be strong
I make your beautiful body shake;
You make me belong.
So much is at stake...
Our Passion is invincible.
The Quest is True.
We will pick up the Pieces,
Just Me & You.
- Michael R. King
(1 poem added 09.18.12)
editor's note: When your most precious possession lies in pieces on the floor, get the glue and the band-aids; there's work to do. - mh
“katie”
katie is the sky
my god!
katie is my god, the sky
was empty
till she filled it full
her countenance a brightening bloom
against umbrella-petals stolen
from a dusty room
she left no footprints on the floor
o, won’t she fall on me
and fall some more
engulf me as i cry
my god!
katie is the sky
- Walter Conley
(1 poem added 09.17.12)
editor's note: A toast to a new convert, prime priest and proselyte: "Here's to your new goddess, long may she reign!" (We welcome Walter to our congress of Contributing Poets. Check out his new page.) - mh
BEVERLEY MOVES ON
I have the post card from Kathmandu,
and the hastily scribbled letter
on paper with a Hotel Alexandria letterhead.
She called me from Bruges,
my one and only conversation
with that part of my world.
And now, here she is in my parlor.
A tan from Tahiti, a Tongan bracelet,
and stories out of Singapore, Bhutan and Bali.
My next question is,
can anything happen in this part
of the world?
Is resting up from a journey
still a journey?
She saw Peter she says.
She spent an hour or two with her mother.
Same issues. The more the world turns,
the more some people resist its motion.
She had lunch at the Cafe Rita.
And dinner with friends at the Pink Arcade.
She even tested out the job market...
about as seriously as those times
she gave up smoking pot.
Fact is, she's doing stuff
that'd fit neatly into short sentences,
fill the back of a postcard.
Anything more complicated
and a letter could still contain it all.
Worse comes to worse,
she could always fit her life
into a phone call made
to someone or other
she's met along the way.
And there's always the trinkets:
a coffee cup from Starbucks,
an MP3 of Steely Dan,
jeans from Target,
a World Series t-shirt.
Watch out world,
it's your parlor next.
- John Grey
(1 poem added 09.16.12)
editor's note: A large life; learned from postcards and parlor talk, legitimized by trinkets. Don't forget those trinkets. - 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...
Burnin',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we picked a parlor-tricked trip from a global gadabout; we fell for the fall of new-found devotion; we pulled a pale partnership together to puzzle the pieces; we quelled our quirks to quit with death; we arrested accelerated ignorance to notice a need (now what?); we took a flyer on a fleeting flight, the knocked noggin not ours; we feasted a wordfest, voracious verbosity, vivid vocabulary. A fine week's banquet. Please, scoop and serve - keep the line moving. ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
A June Full of Cherries
Piquant, yet tender, portrayals of festivities’ “field kitchens”
Forgive lapses such as young beasties, insufficiently protected points of view,
Great accidents of interest, the merged foci of welcoming, disbanding, hugging,
Also dressing in gold spandex, belly dancing, weaving baskets, noting
What's working for whom, and why, tasting, maybe teasing,
Playing with prefixes, acting wonky, listening to exclamations,
Plus skipping along peripheral places makes for forgetting staid rubrics.
When sloughing worldly woes, celebrating significant events,
Consuming even minute amounts of funky antimeria, during alternate decades,
It’s possible to categorize material goods, let alone affective states, tayras,
Human relationships (patterned both tacit and affective), trilobites, glabrous birds,
As belonging to solid-hoofed herbivorous quadruped or other vehicles’ barns
Meant to entertain visa via ornaments, food, drink, actualized space, vessels,
Likewise the compelled restoration of pumpkin crowns or thornbushes, works.
Other times, those of mind-muddle mode, find it difficult to regard
Disruptions amicably, to smile, to say nothing, or, perhaps, to interact quietly,
Guest in pediatric wards, receive mistaken attributions causality,
Get elected because of money or connections, override baser inclinations,
Ignore global societies, local neighborhoods, and familial conundrums,
Combine behavioral modifications for purposes of suck, grandeur, climate,
Additionally, post publishers’ letters on refrigerators, all while spinning in circles.
Most often, though, cats lull innocently, whereas hounds snore, worms whistle,
Chickadee ringleaders and Komodo dragon catalysts glibly forecast entire
Epics for good findings, comradely inspiration, and conceptualized work.
Burnt toast, bitter coffee, broken eggs, too, make for playful family times,
Distinct units of innocent, mentalists’ gymnastics, deadly mustelids, plus pungent
Cycles of socks, big skirts, small spices, deflected ants, termites, and do-gooders.
Alternatively, in June, bowls full of cherries get agitated. A mom can dream.
- KJ Hannah Greenberg
(1 poem added 09.22.12)
editor's note: Yes, eaten all at once, a bowl full of these may cause tummy (&head)ache. So, eat these one verse at a time; enjoy their sweet sensation of words upon words, let them roll on your tongue, bounce around in your mind. Be thankful for this dreaming mom. - mh
Over the Edge
This has to be crazy I told myself.
Red cliffs look straight down.
A stand of Juniper trees at the bottom
were the size of a postage stamp.
Waiting for the wind, my knees quivered.
My stomach was in my throat and the
flimsy wings weighed 1000 pounds.
This was to be my first flight, but I felt
like chickening out. The macho streak
down my back, tethered me to the ground.
A stiff wind struck my face and my colleagues
yelled, "Jump." Hesitating, I gasped for a breath,
closed my eyes and pushed off.
Caught by a rising thermal, I flew towards
the clouds. For a moment I was weightless,
then I fell like a homesick rock.
The wings finally caught the air and I began
to soar. Shivers ran down my spine, I had
never felt like this before. The only problem
was I was leaving hand prints in the metal bars.
Turning in wide circles, I surveyed the ground.
It came up much, much faster than I had planned.
Still, I was pleased with myself; our van was just
20 yards away when I touched down.
My feet smacked down hard and I began to run
to keep from tipping over. Careening toward the
van I smacked head-long into the side.
Shaken awake I saw Jeff staring at me. He said,
"Your takeoff was perfect, you soared like an eagle,
your landing was superb, but your stop needs a
little work."
- Mike Berger
(1 poem added 09.21.12)
editor's note: Vicariously, we enjoy the thrill of flight. The poet enjoys the crack on the head. - mh
Noticed
this guy
with a sign
crumpled in cushions
next to the dumpster
with day-olds
stained on the outside.
Thought
he may have meant something
to someone
at some time.
Noticed
the breath
from the mouth
of this guy
condensed.
Thought
I could do something
suggest someplace
someone hadn't.
But the light was green.
- Charlie Weber
(added 09.20.12)
editor's note: For all we notice; it's too fast for what we do. - mh
THE LONG AND SHORT
A naked night, void of stars,
opens a canvas of black
where a moon, in the corner of space
lays captured.
It is a black and white night,
a photo with shades and shadows
with cool skin
and eyes like diamonds.
The shape of a voyage pulls at
the thread of me; the black of my indecision.
the white of my dreams.
I quit with death, leaving it to itself,
the labors and the pain,
the long and short of a story we all know.
- Roger G. Singer
(1 poem added 09.19.12)
editor's note: We are constantly pulled between indecision and dreams. For all that black and white, death stands in the grey. - mh
Pieces
Intenseness of overwhelming desire
Runs through my veins;
The bright spark that starts a fire,
Just before it rains…
Your Love guarded within my heart,
As we wallow in imperfection.
Previously torn apart;
Having made one wrong selection…
These times are tough, we must be strong
I make your beautiful body shake;
You make me belong.
So much is at stake...
Our Passion is invincible.
The Quest is True.
We will pick up the Pieces,
Just Me & You.
- Michael R. King
(1 poem added 09.18.12)
editor's note: When your most precious possession lies in pieces on the floor, get the glue and the band-aids; there's work to do. - mh
“katie”
katie is the sky
my god!
katie is my god, the sky
was empty
till she filled it full
her countenance a brightening bloom
against umbrella-petals stolen
from a dusty room
she left no footprints on the floor
o, won’t she fall on me
and fall some more
engulf me as i cry
my god!
katie is the sky
- Walter Conley
(1 poem added 09.17.12)
editor's note: A toast to a new convert, prime priest and proselyte: "Here's to your new goddess, long may she reign!" (We welcome Walter to our congress of Contributing Poets. Check out his new page.) - mh
BEVERLEY MOVES ON
I have the post card from Kathmandu,
and the hastily scribbled letter
on paper with a Hotel Alexandria letterhead.
She called me from Bruges,
my one and only conversation
with that part of my world.
And now, here she is in my parlor.
A tan from Tahiti, a Tongan bracelet,
and stories out of Singapore, Bhutan and Bali.
My next question is,
can anything happen in this part
of the world?
Is resting up from a journey
still a journey?
She saw Peter she says.
She spent an hour or two with her mother.
Same issues. The more the world turns,
the more some people resist its motion.
She had lunch at the Cafe Rita.
And dinner with friends at the Pink Arcade.
She even tested out the job market...
about as seriously as those times
she gave up smoking pot.
Fact is, she's doing stuff
that'd fit neatly into short sentences,
fill the back of a postcard.
Anything more complicated
and a letter could still contain it all.
Worse comes to worse,
she could always fit her life
into a phone call made
to someone or other
she's met along the way.
And there's always the trinkets:
a coffee cup from Starbucks,
an MP3 of Steely Dan,
jeans from Target,
a World Series t-shirt.
Watch out world,
it's your parlor next.
- John Grey
(1 poem added 09.16.12)
editor's note: A large life; learned from postcards and parlor talk, legitimized by trinkets. Don't forget those trinkets. - 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...
Burnin',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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