The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 12.29.12
“What the caterpillar calls the end of the world the master calls a butterfly.” Richard Bach
under the weather (above) by Eleanor Leonne Bennett, one of over 20 featured 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 yours right over here and a-way you'll GO
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we abandoned an elusive muse to indulge in holiday consumption; we refereed a wrestling bout, with all sides tied, peace won out; we embraced merry mayhem, holiday hiljinx over OCD order; we wept o'er lost wonder, a goodbye kiss for a myth; we noodled on garden cats and holiday gnats, not noticed by the turns of this earth; we enjoyed some morning-after moon mayhem, overly imbibed then reposed on road (watch your step); lastly, we perptuated holiday poesy to honor one dead with a musical brew (I'll take two). Happy these holidays as happy will do! ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Brewbeck
Diving into the music
Keys splashing melodic
Mists spraying until drenched
Listening to the iridescence
Of monochrome mood
Following vertical smoke
Of Beaufort zero
Drying off in the cool
Insane tranquillity
In the eye of the storm
Wooshed up
And thrown off
To find the wizard
Avant-garde
Off guard
Slipping
Sliding
Glissando
Out!
- Anthony Ward
(1 poem added 12.29.12)
editor's note: We sustain our holiday hijinx in the warmth of good company; musicians who never die so long as we hear their tunes. That's a fine brew, indeed! - mh
The Snow on the Road
At night,
as I watched
through the window,
the white moon
was drinking the water,
deposited by the rain,
on the road...
Next Morning,
when I opened the door,
the moon was all drunk and
had laid itself,
all over the road...
- Sam Rapth
(added 12.28.12)
editor's note: Full moon tonight, shovel snow tomorrow. - mh
A CHRISTMAS EVE GARDEN
Just before the ritual begins, a space
Undissolved, where wings of survival scatter
In their wintered search. Birds shrill, desolate,
Entering like dampness into the bone.
Their cries ache with life as in gardens
Everywhere, each year, the universe dies.
Dying, the last gnat climbs a calm stepped air,
A stairway made from slabs of mist, closing in,
Surrounding his delicate ascent, jerky perhaps
But perfection to him, slipping occasionally
And then firming his grip – up again.
Under this sketchy geometric pattern, clawed
On the Earth’s rim, a cat takes what is given,
Hangs on to solitude and a morning gift-wrapped
In December’s grey skies. The year shuts its eye.
Vaporized rain pulls on to each deciduous tree
A glistening stocking, bulging with hope. Hovering
By the shoulders of oaks, stunting the tallness
Of tall pines, the soaked horizon closes in.
There is no feeling of trespass, only of entry,
A slow stealing, claiming back the stolen ground.
- Derrick Gaskin
(2 poems added 12.27.12)
editor's note: This holiday past; so quickly glint glad smiles of thanks, so soon loving laughter's echo fades. Our lives enriched, memory's imprint so deep to us, so impervious to tree bark or frozen earth. (Another good winter write on Derrick's page - check it out.) - mh
making believe
she said we could
go back to normal if I wanted to.
pretend I didn't know what I now know about you,
and I, terrified, agreed, teary-eyed, heart-fried
ready to believe she hadn't lied.
I hadn't cried,
I left the room and tried
to make it that easy...
and when it wasn't
my tears
were dried anyway
so I crept into bed
to pretend I was dead
because you
wouldn't be there this year.
and okay
maybe I shed a couple hundred more tears
because what is Christmas without Saint Nick and
who am I when life
happens too quick and
what is life when you can't
believe in shit and
you were the
very first thing
I stopped believing in?
but trust me, you were
not the last and when they'd tell
me not to grow up too fast
I'd laugh, but I would
kill to wake up on Christmas morn
just one last time
to presents adorned, with a half eaten plate of cookies nearby
and dreams of Ole Saint Nick
in the sky
- Madelyn Olson
(added 12.26.12)
editor's note: Here yawns the chasm. Childhood shed in a spasm of iconoclasm. "I do believe; I do, I do, I do." - mh
Three Eggnog Omelet
Pancakes on holiday plates affirm life as
the children scramble around eggs to eat
all the bacon they can as puppy dog licks soaked socks,
thanking us for no fleas and plenty to chew.
Be kind, kids. Be the kind of rain
that makes construction workers pay for cocaine.
Don’t be sad too often, be happy and open to
being an island, making others safe. Be in love. Give.
We gave to the young generation’s rage
against the remains of the Greatest Generation,
when she screamed, "Save the wrapping paper!"
It wasn’t the act of giving. It was seeing
finger-pressed, perfectly taped paper
fully destroyed by little beastly fingers.
- Tyler Malone
(1 poem added 12.25.12)
editor's note: On this festive day, some of us give the greatest gift we can muster: Giving in to holiday chaos. Let the fun be fractious, it's OK. That's why god made eggnog! - mh
Me vs. Me on This Eve of All Eves
Last night I was walkin' thru wonderlands thinking,
torn apart by all the mes I was being.
When a battle broke out, a me-fight I was feeling.
I had to stand back to witness this dealing.
The young me, the innocent me, the ones who believe.
Versus the old me, the tainted me, who never believed.
The nice me, the naughty me, all the mes in between,
Were fighting and arguing, seen and unseen,
thru this southern winterland, on this eve of all eves.
I'm not sure why my mes came out on this night.
The young me still hoping that peace we would find.
While the older me doubted, saw no peace in sight.
They continued to argue and renew this age fight,
while I listened and wondered which me would be right.
The innocent me said let go of old places.
Suggested I dream of merry times and warm faces.
The tainted me replied, (oh, how this me-battle wages)
don't listen to fools and ignore all the sages...
this is the end of your innocent ages!
Enough was enough, I could not let this be!
This argument's rattling, I gotta stop battling me.
When finally I realized, and the mes all agreed,
that peace isn't something left under a tree.
It comes wrapped in harmony among all my mes.
So tonight, I will walk again, and see what I'm seeing,
in harmony be all the mes I'm meant to be being.
And thru these wonderlands, I'll surely start thinking,
of this time of love, unity and warm peace-full feelings.
- Johnny Olson
(1 poem added 12.24.12)
editor's note: Give this one gift to yourself to enable that selfless desire to gift others. This night and every night; dream away, dream away, dream away all! - mh
Running from a season while chasing a muse through a mall
She disappears through the doors
while I'm still trying to find
a parking place
Her sweet scent wafts
around the kiosk
"You are here," it says
I think that debatable
A fat guy philanderer
smiles at her recent depression
left in his lap
I decline to follow suit
suspicious of his red & white suit
A shop keeper gives me
a receipt
says she left it in her hurry to elude me
didn't say what she bought
but the last four digits of the credit card
are mine
A choir sings standing
I glimpse her face
her voice hear
harmony hangs reverberates
Look again into every face smiling
Hers, not hers
not anywhere
I am here
apparently, she is not
Might as well shop
- MH Clay
(1 poem added 12.23.12)
editor's note: On the 11th hour of Christmas, my true love gave to me... a trek to the mall, a dash for a parking spot, a map of the madness, a scent of perfumed gifting, an impostor in a fat suit, a Xmas caroling choir, a gaggle of grimaced faces... and a receipt showing all the damage done! 'Tis the season... - jo
•••••••••••
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...
Chrysallis'n,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we abandoned an elusive muse to indulge in holiday consumption; we refereed a wrestling bout, with all sides tied, peace won out; we embraced merry mayhem, holiday hiljinx over OCD order; we wept o'er lost wonder, a goodbye kiss for a myth; we noodled on garden cats and holiday gnats, not noticed by the turns of this earth; we enjoyed some morning-after moon mayhem, overly imbibed then reposed on road (watch your step); lastly, we perptuated holiday poesy to honor one dead with a musical brew (I'll take two). Happy these holidays as happy will do! ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Brewbeck
Diving into the music
Keys splashing melodic
Mists spraying until drenched
Listening to the iridescence
Of monochrome mood
Following vertical smoke
Of Beaufort zero
Drying off in the cool
Insane tranquillity
In the eye of the storm
Wooshed up
And thrown off
To find the wizard
Avant-garde
Off guard
Slipping
Sliding
Glissando
Out!
- Anthony Ward
(1 poem added 12.29.12)
editor's note: We sustain our holiday hijinx in the warmth of good company; musicians who never die so long as we hear their tunes. That's a fine brew, indeed! - mh
The Snow on the Road
At night,
as I watched
through the window,
the white moon
was drinking the water,
deposited by the rain,
on the road...
Next Morning,
when I opened the door,
the moon was all drunk and
had laid itself,
all over the road...
- Sam Rapth
(added 12.28.12)
editor's note: Full moon tonight, shovel snow tomorrow. - mh
A CHRISTMAS EVE GARDEN
Just before the ritual begins, a space
Undissolved, where wings of survival scatter
In their wintered search. Birds shrill, desolate,
Entering like dampness into the bone.
Their cries ache with life as in gardens
Everywhere, each year, the universe dies.
Dying, the last gnat climbs a calm stepped air,
A stairway made from slabs of mist, closing in,
Surrounding his delicate ascent, jerky perhaps
But perfection to him, slipping occasionally
And then firming his grip – up again.
Under this sketchy geometric pattern, clawed
On the Earth’s rim, a cat takes what is given,
Hangs on to solitude and a morning gift-wrapped
In December’s grey skies. The year shuts its eye.
Vaporized rain pulls on to each deciduous tree
A glistening stocking, bulging with hope. Hovering
By the shoulders of oaks, stunting the tallness
Of tall pines, the soaked horizon closes in.
There is no feeling of trespass, only of entry,
A slow stealing, claiming back the stolen ground.
- Derrick Gaskin
(2 poems added 12.27.12)
editor's note: This holiday past; so quickly glint glad smiles of thanks, so soon loving laughter's echo fades. Our lives enriched, memory's imprint so deep to us, so impervious to tree bark or frozen earth. (Another good winter write on Derrick's page - check it out.) - mh
making believe
she said we could
go back to normal if I wanted to.
pretend I didn't know what I now know about you,
and I, terrified, agreed, teary-eyed, heart-fried
ready to believe she hadn't lied.
I hadn't cried,
I left the room and tried
to make it that easy...
and when it wasn't
my tears
were dried anyway
so I crept into bed
to pretend I was dead
because you
wouldn't be there this year.
and okay
maybe I shed a couple hundred more tears
because what is Christmas without Saint Nick and
who am I when life
happens too quick and
what is life when you can't
believe in shit and
you were the
very first thing
I stopped believing in?
but trust me, you were
not the last and when they'd tell
me not to grow up too fast
I'd laugh, but I would
kill to wake up on Christmas morn
just one last time
to presents adorned, with a half eaten plate of cookies nearby
and dreams of Ole Saint Nick
in the sky
- Madelyn Olson
(added 12.26.12)
editor's note: Here yawns the chasm. Childhood shed in a spasm of iconoclasm. "I do believe; I do, I do, I do." - mh
Three Eggnog Omelet
Pancakes on holiday plates affirm life as
the children scramble around eggs to eat
all the bacon they can as puppy dog licks soaked socks,
thanking us for no fleas and plenty to chew.
Be kind, kids. Be the kind of rain
that makes construction workers pay for cocaine.
Don’t be sad too often, be happy and open to
being an island, making others safe. Be in love. Give.
We gave to the young generation’s rage
against the remains of the Greatest Generation,
when she screamed, "Save the wrapping paper!"
It wasn’t the act of giving. It was seeing
finger-pressed, perfectly taped paper
fully destroyed by little beastly fingers.
- Tyler Malone
(1 poem added 12.25.12)
editor's note: On this festive day, some of us give the greatest gift we can muster: Giving in to holiday chaos. Let the fun be fractious, it's OK. That's why god made eggnog! - mh
Me vs. Me on This Eve of All Eves
Last night I was walkin' thru wonderlands thinking,
torn apart by all the mes I was being.
When a battle broke out, a me-fight I was feeling.
I had to stand back to witness this dealing.
The young me, the innocent me, the ones who believe.
Versus the old me, the tainted me, who never believed.
The nice me, the naughty me, all the mes in between,
Were fighting and arguing, seen and unseen,
thru this southern winterland, on this eve of all eves.
I'm not sure why my mes came out on this night.
The young me still hoping that peace we would find.
While the older me doubted, saw no peace in sight.
They continued to argue and renew this age fight,
while I listened and wondered which me would be right.
The innocent me said let go of old places.
Suggested I dream of merry times and warm faces.
The tainted me replied, (oh, how this me-battle wages)
don't listen to fools and ignore all the sages...
this is the end of your innocent ages!
Enough was enough, I could not let this be!
This argument's rattling, I gotta stop battling me.
When finally I realized, and the mes all agreed,
that peace isn't something left under a tree.
It comes wrapped in harmony among all my mes.
So tonight, I will walk again, and see what I'm seeing,
in harmony be all the mes I'm meant to be being.
And thru these wonderlands, I'll surely start thinking,
of this time of love, unity and warm peace-full feelings.
- Johnny Olson
(1 poem added 12.24.12)
editor's note: Give this one gift to yourself to enable that selfless desire to gift others. This night and every night; dream away, dream away, dream away all! - mh
Running from a season while chasing a muse through a mall
She disappears through the doors
while I'm still trying to find
a parking place
Her sweet scent wafts
around the kiosk
"You are here," it says
I think that debatable
A fat guy philanderer
smiles at her recent depression
left in his lap
I decline to follow suit
suspicious of his red & white suit
A shop keeper gives me
a receipt
says she left it in her hurry to elude me
didn't say what she bought
but the last four digits of the credit card
are mine
A choir sings standing
I glimpse her face
her voice hear
harmony hangs reverberates
Look again into every face smiling
Hers, not hers
not anywhere
I am here
apparently, she is not
Might as well shop
- MH Clay
(1 poem added 12.23.12)
editor's note: On the 11th hour of Christmas, my true love gave to me... a trek to the mall, a dash for a parking spot, a map of the madness, a scent of perfumed gifting, an impostor in a fat suit, a Xmas caroling choir, a gaggle of grimaced faces... and a receipt showing all the damage done! 'Tis the season... - jo
•••••••••••
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...
Chrysallis'n,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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