The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 12.08.12
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This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we forsook setbacks and paybacks, for a lingering refuge in Willie's locks; we found relief in words written by the whale-blown boon of a muse; we tinkered with a tool down, unable to extract stature from stone; we stood our ground, unshaken at the sound of mistaken words for sin; we duped a devil, uncowed by undoing - his, not ours; we tested wide waters, sought signs of safety, shunned sharks; we stood, once more, this time over an anger instigator's exit, our angst sent with him. Ahhhhh! ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
LITTLE MAN IN A COFFIN
The little man, shriveled up and still,
lay in the wooden coffin, his gold
tooth glittering in the vast silence.
Once a furious sphere of dark energy
that whirled and swirled around me,
and inside my head, forever inside,
he was Father, a wolf that devoured
my spirit, my unforgiving cannibalistic
Father whom I loved and loathed.
He lay in the wooden coffin, his dark
brown eyes vacant and far away. I
bent over the coffin and whispered,
“Fire and ice, ice and fire.”
Inside my brain, a boiling, seething
heat overflowed, a waterfall of fire
cascading down and flooding my
psyche. Yet a cold chill replaced
the heat.
I can’t recall how long my emotions
were wrapped in ice. I took a deep
breath that spanned decades of despair,
exhaled my rage, and spoke through
the eerie silence to his empty dark
brown eyes.
I whispered, “Father, I forgive you!”
- Mel Waldman
(2 poems added 12.08.12)
editor's note: Best to send our anger through the dead-flesh door than to let it rot on the life-side. Forgive! (Another one from Mel on his page - check it out.) - mh
Ocean Poem
Another ocean poem: Danger! Danger!
The danger of people being water
Built up in oceans--A blue collection of hands,
Feet, and shark fins mimicking the Atlantic.
How much better they look out there at
A comfortable distance from a rocking
Chair on a beach house porch. They’re
Magnificent at such a separation
With their color exposed, a startling blue,
But how terribly sad they look in a single
Paper cup of tap water from the faucet;
Such a pale shade of blue they can’t even
Be called a shade at all. They’re clear,
And you start to see the emptiness
They try so hard to disguise with blue
Densities; compact nothings practicing
Friendly waves that seem to say,
“Come swim. There are no sharks here.”
- Ryan Kendall
(1 poem added 12.07.12)
editor's note: Careful where you tread water in this ocean; fins are foe. - mh
You’re Next
Tip-toe across the ceiling
of what I am doing
but do not speak
or breathe a whisper,
let me to my devilment.
Stay still, while I play
watch, while I control
envy my chuckles
gasp at my cheek.
Stay outside of the ropes
sit upon the fence
or bounce into the middle
of your undoing.
- Paul Tristram
(added 12.06.12)
editor's note: Cheek, indeed! Is life a spectator sport? What the hell - I'm bouncing in. - mh
The Orgy of Sin
I stand resembling a tree
In the meadows of afterlife
Leafless and gloomy
Proud and naked
Neither a fruit do I cultivate
Nor a seed do I let escape
I seep poison through my roots
My branches tear away masks
The meadow faints in my shadow
Other jolly trees, all of you
Harbor a silent hope
Before all the dark torrents
I sent forth to vanquish
Strongholds of sand;
You hope to see me wither
But I stand my ground
And my ground is never weak
I am the son of that night
You all have passed unnoticed
I am sin, I strike in stealth
I am forbidden, for my words are
Known to misguide
I am just a clever man
Who learnt a few tricky words
I am a provocative sight
In the wrinkles and falls
Of my goddess’ cloak
I am draped, in wild
The mercury of moment
In the flow of time
I am the sound of a mistake
And I still stand my ground
- Saad Munir
(added 12.05.12)
editor's note: Hmmm - "a few tricky words"? Sounds like poetry to me. Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. - mh
Oobotzz
Automaton down
Numb after eons of the sculptor’s chiseling,
She with hammer and pike
Plinking steady rhythms
an etude in F-sharp
Daring the stone to reveal something.
Finding nothing
only bare bones, the exoskeleton,
Entrails, loose strings to tie around the hips
Heart, a charred lump, aortic tunnel blasted closed
Brain, an arctic-chilled, dimpled golf ball lumpily rolling by metatarsals
Vacuous, ice-cream-scooped eyes
And slack mandible aghast against grainy gray days.
Ooobotzz flayed over time
entity drifting above bibulous ground and verdant valleys
Nerves whipping at the air
A bizarre, altered bastard galumphing directionless.
She reigns supreme
A deft artist of reduction.
- Sy Roth
(1 poem added 12.04.12)
editor's note: This sculptor chisels escape hatches into stone, opening to sky, free passage for captured souls to fly. Oobotzz! Say, what? (We welcome Seymour to our clamorous conclave of Contributing Poets with this submission. See more of his poems on his new page.) - mh
PAPER MUSE
Only the truly possessed
can testify. He begs his
muse to blow. She manifests,
breathes life into his nostrils,
his ears. Beads of inspiration break
upon his writer’s block.
It splinters, melts and
flows, a river that possesses him
from hairstrand to
hairstrand.
Words roll across the page
brisk as vivid brush strokes.
The tightness leaves
his chest, his fingers sing.
When the whale of his muse blows
its fine mist ,
all the wrinkles leave
his brow.
- Agholor Leonard Obiaderi
(added 12.03.12)
editor's note: Oh, imminent advent; poets anxiously await your soft caress. Sweet relief, never enough! - mh
i’m glad willie nelson has long hair
i’m glad willie nelson
has long hair.
why, when you’re older,
do you need to look like
you’re clean
and neat
and mature
and sensible,
and yes,
no more kid stuff?
why not look
like a roughneck
or a crazy person?
the primitives, you know,
used to be nuts
because
they didn’t have science to interpret
the ghosts...!
but the janus face of the
history process
killed that spirit
of wildness and imagination
in stifling fear and exaggeration
through bland rationale.
in other words there’s no
juice any more.
so old
willie let his hair flow
and his beard hang
and displays his wooden guitar
on stage with huge holes,
and plays endless hits
full of electricity flowing.
while the rest of us
are
oh, oh, oh, so polite
and oh, so fine
and oh, so stilted
in money and mind.
and suffer spiritual
setbacks
and payback while the wolf
gnaws
in the night.
did you think
amer-Ican dreams
were gonna save you?
- Carl Kavadlo
(1 poem added 12.02.12)
editor's note: In the face of "bland rationale," let "wildness and imagination" grow long. Willie is waiting! (We welcome Carl to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. See more poems from Carl on his new page.) - mh
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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...
Dreamin',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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