The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 02.03.13
“A writer should write with his eyes and a painter paint with his ears.” Gertrude Stein
Sky Fishing (above) by Eric Caulfield, 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 fanned our hate of TV prate; we balked to battle with madman's prattle; we, from outer beauty, reached inner peace, on our tumbling way to a martyr's feast; we turned this tide of mental harrow, found sweet abide in soul and marrow; we enabled self to rise above, with grace we clothed a naked love; we witnessed worn and waxed causality, each new life a taxed reality; we saved a smile from past recall to bind the bruise from future's fall. Swing, pendulum, swing! ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Frenchy's Rockaway
There are things to be grateful for..
Wild wind blowing up sand on a Saturday afternoon
sitting across from my daughter
delicately handling crab claws
and stealing my fries..
We didnt sit at our old table
the line was too long at the Pavilion
after the first Spring Training
game let out and Pennsylvania plates tried to out manuever
Toronto into over packed beach parking..
We settled for reggae
at Frenchy's Rockaway instead..
me with my Pacifico bottle dripping beads of sweat
on a sultry Florida afternoon
and she with her coke bobbing to her own music.
We watched tourists
red from too much sun try to fly a kite,
such a simple thing just run the opposite
direction of the wind.. and let it soar to the heavens
But crash and burn it did,
time after time
much like yesterday's love.
I was lucky to share the time with her
Her drawing on napkins
anime eyes
with details that seemed to leap from the page
Shrimp and grouper eggrolls
with the face she made with mango
dipping sauce..
purest she is with no sauce ever needed..
Someone asked me what will I do
when my kids move away
remember the days like these..
- Diana Rose
(1 poem added 02.02.13)
editor's note: A wonderful snapshot; a poet's postcard. Mail it to yourself in the future, sayin', "Wish you were here!" Sweet, Diana! Thanks! - mh
Bad Penny
The taxman had arrived; the hedge
around the village strained
as each fine root seized
in the earth; the fallen leaves
rattled over hoar frost ground
as the wind picked up. Households
gently snuffed the lingering lamps
of early morning: it was time
that the bill be paid in full
with breathing coin, crib fresh
and wrapped in Christening gown
as humble tribute to the lord.
- Silas Gorin
(added 02.01.13)
editor's note: Our humble offering to the governmental god, all dressed up prettily; he's gonna get it no matter what. - mh
28 Messages
Why don’t we just quit this?
Before I get hurt
She’s obsessed with falling
Her needs are too intense
No one loves her like daddy
She thinks she’s so special
or willing to fake it until you do
Her mind deserves to fall
into orgasmic chemistry
with yours
From now on, I’m standing up for her
Her eyes get lost behind his walls
Pining again for the emotional
equivalent of juxtaposition
to need and want
She wants the idea
that you need her
you need her to want you
and she wants you to need her
she wants to feel your need
more than rooting around
looking for a hole
to pound out your own satisfaction
denying her the intimacy of climax
crawling around in a dried out shell
molding in salty water
I got so caught up in laying you down
I forgot how to lift myself up
so focused on you giving me the love
that I needed, that I deserved
I forgot that love isn’t always naked
sometimes it’s dressed with a little
humility and grace.
I keep reliving my childhood
trying to find the place where
I missed something
so I can fill it with what it needs
to be fixed
trying to figure out what stage
of my development didn’t get nurtured
or loved enough
And why there is a compulsion to love and be loved
Why it determines my self-worth
Why it controls my actions
Impulsive urgency
almost to the point of
of obsession
I’m looking into her eyes
wondering where she got lost
and why she still pulls at my heart
why it causes me to
need the skin and eyes and hands
of someone else to feel fulfilled
- Desmene Statum
(1 poem added 01.31.13)
editor's note: That need for love is best fulfilled when we start with love for self, 'cause it's hard to love the unlovable. You go, Girl! - mh
Forget Me Not
forget me not
when the lonely moon
flirts halfheartedly with
fleeting veils of tempest,
revealing the stark truth of
your haunting solitude.
forget me not
when spooned with
the emptiness of night breeze,
scented in nostalgia
you search in
moonlight's false promises
of tenderness,
for cuddling warmth.
forget me not
when darkness weeps
your sentiment's brine on
the sleeves of sublime pillows,
punctuated in muted sobs
of the wailing night
of insomnia.
forget me not
when scarlet syllables of
gulmohur's exuberance,
pepper the quietude of
a midsummer afternoon,
and you yearn to lie
on this petal-bed,
listening to someone
read poetry for you.
forget me not
on a sultry evening when,
the chortling waves' ebb and rise
fails to quieten
the rigmarole of thoughts
churning within
grey matter and soul's marrow.
forget me not
when the glass of soda,
sweats alone on the table,
and the cheese omelet goes stale
uneaten on the kitchen slab
unable to beckon
the appetite of anorexia.
forget me not
when sepia moments within
old moth-eaten albums,
whisper of 'had-been' from
the attic of cluttered indifference,
to let memories limp out
and let you relive
that long lost past...
- Smita Anand Sriwastav
(added 01.30.13)
editor's note: May all our memories be embellished as sweetly as these - lest we forget. - mh
Vision
This stuff inside behind these eyes
See the world not as it is,
Confused by facts and lies,
False data mixed with the true.
Inept at choosing between the two.
Mistakes inevitably crowd this life:
Anguish, guilt, shame, and fear;
Anger, hatred, sadness much.
Hope is found in looking away,
Observing a flower in full blossom
Lodged in a crevice of the cliff side
As you tumble passed
Towards the rocks and lions
Waiting below.
- Joseph Farley
(1 poem added 01.29.13)
editor's note: True or false, the same awaits all. Might's well find fun in the tumble. - mh
A Purifier from New Haven
Whippoorwill
sometimes here, sometimes there
poisons everything.
I suspect myself in small amounts.
You could be a juggler of discs
dying in February,
a person without shoulders,
monsters after midnight.
As we know, destruction
is no simple thing.
I have nothing more to say
so there is nothing more to be done.
Neither alive nor perished,
my sanity is a discarded wrapper.
As of now,
I cannot confirm or deny
the appearance of madness.
You are an old hospital,
striving to cure
the purity of scarification
the surety of mutilation.
You are a new prison, in ampule amounts
a terrible calling in woods.
- Richard King Perkins II
(added 01.28.13)
editor's note: Whippoorwill whisperings to a wheelchair-bound straightjacket stammerer. - mh
I hate T. V.
I hate T. V.
and I hate me
...every bone in
my body hurts,
but not as much
as my mind
The blades of the ceiling
fan
turn so slowly, I
swear that they hate me
...at night, while I sleep
they smile because they know
they will outlive me...
I fear another hot summer -
and a lifetime of writing
depressing shit like this...
- Ralph Freda
(1 poem added 01.27.13)
editor's note: 200 HD channels to enjoy life at its fullest? Plug it in, plug it in! (More poems from Ralph on his new Contributing Poet's page - check'em out. Welcome, Ralph!) - 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...
Seein'n'hearin',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we fanned our hate of TV prate; we balked to battle with madman's prattle; we, from outer beauty, reached inner peace, on our tumbling way to a martyr's feast; we turned this tide of mental harrow, found sweet abide in soul and marrow; we enabled self to rise above, with grace we clothed a naked love; we witnessed worn and waxed causality, each new life a taxed reality; we saved a smile from past recall to bind the bruise from future's fall. Swing, pendulum, swing! ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Frenchy's Rockaway
There are things to be grateful for..
Wild wind blowing up sand on a Saturday afternoon
sitting across from my daughter
delicately handling crab claws
and stealing my fries..
We didnt sit at our old table
the line was too long at the Pavilion
after the first Spring Training
game let out and Pennsylvania plates tried to out manuever
Toronto into over packed beach parking..
We settled for reggae
at Frenchy's Rockaway instead..
me with my Pacifico bottle dripping beads of sweat
on a sultry Florida afternoon
and she with her coke bobbing to her own music.
We watched tourists
red from too much sun try to fly a kite,
such a simple thing just run the opposite
direction of the wind.. and let it soar to the heavens
But crash and burn it did,
time after time
much like yesterday's love.
I was lucky to share the time with her
Her drawing on napkins
anime eyes
with details that seemed to leap from the page
Shrimp and grouper eggrolls
with the face she made with mango
dipping sauce..
purest she is with no sauce ever needed..
Someone asked me what will I do
when my kids move away
remember the days like these..
- Diana Rose
(1 poem added 02.02.13)
editor's note: A wonderful snapshot; a poet's postcard. Mail it to yourself in the future, sayin', "Wish you were here!" Sweet, Diana! Thanks! - mh
Bad Penny
The taxman had arrived; the hedge
around the village strained
as each fine root seized
in the earth; the fallen leaves
rattled over hoar frost ground
as the wind picked up. Households
gently snuffed the lingering lamps
of early morning: it was time
that the bill be paid in full
with breathing coin, crib fresh
and wrapped in Christening gown
as humble tribute to the lord.
- Silas Gorin
(added 02.01.13)
editor's note: Our humble offering to the governmental god, all dressed up prettily; he's gonna get it no matter what. - mh
28 Messages
Why don’t we just quit this?
Before I get hurt
She’s obsessed with falling
Her needs are too intense
No one loves her like daddy
She thinks she’s so special
or willing to fake it until you do
Her mind deserves to fall
into orgasmic chemistry
with yours
From now on, I’m standing up for her
Her eyes get lost behind his walls
Pining again for the emotional
equivalent of juxtaposition
to need and want
She wants the idea
that you need her
you need her to want you
and she wants you to need her
she wants to feel your need
more than rooting around
looking for a hole
to pound out your own satisfaction
denying her the intimacy of climax
crawling around in a dried out shell
molding in salty water
I got so caught up in laying you down
I forgot how to lift myself up
so focused on you giving me the love
that I needed, that I deserved
I forgot that love isn’t always naked
sometimes it’s dressed with a little
humility and grace.
I keep reliving my childhood
trying to find the place where
I missed something
so I can fill it with what it needs
to be fixed
trying to figure out what stage
of my development didn’t get nurtured
or loved enough
And why there is a compulsion to love and be loved
Why it determines my self-worth
Why it controls my actions
Impulsive urgency
almost to the point of
of obsession
I’m looking into her eyes
wondering where she got lost
and why she still pulls at my heart
why it causes me to
need the skin and eyes and hands
of someone else to feel fulfilled
- Desmene Statum
(1 poem added 01.31.13)
editor's note: That need for love is best fulfilled when we start with love for self, 'cause it's hard to love the unlovable. You go, Girl! - mh
Forget Me Not
forget me not
when the lonely moon
flirts halfheartedly with
fleeting veils of tempest,
revealing the stark truth of
your haunting solitude.
forget me not
when spooned with
the emptiness of night breeze,
scented in nostalgia
you search in
moonlight's false promises
of tenderness,
for cuddling warmth.
forget me not
when darkness weeps
your sentiment's brine on
the sleeves of sublime pillows,
punctuated in muted sobs
of the wailing night
of insomnia.
forget me not
when scarlet syllables of
gulmohur's exuberance,
pepper the quietude of
a midsummer afternoon,
and you yearn to lie
on this petal-bed,
listening to someone
read poetry for you.
forget me not
on a sultry evening when,
the chortling waves' ebb and rise
fails to quieten
the rigmarole of thoughts
churning within
grey matter and soul's marrow.
forget me not
when the glass of soda,
sweats alone on the table,
and the cheese omelet goes stale
uneaten on the kitchen slab
unable to beckon
the appetite of anorexia.
forget me not
when sepia moments within
old moth-eaten albums,
whisper of 'had-been' from
the attic of cluttered indifference,
to let memories limp out
and let you relive
that long lost past...
- Smita Anand Sriwastav
(added 01.30.13)
editor's note: May all our memories be embellished as sweetly as these - lest we forget. - mh
Vision
This stuff inside behind these eyes
See the world not as it is,
Confused by facts and lies,
False data mixed with the true.
Inept at choosing between the two.
Mistakes inevitably crowd this life:
Anguish, guilt, shame, and fear;
Anger, hatred, sadness much.
Hope is found in looking away,
Observing a flower in full blossom
Lodged in a crevice of the cliff side
As you tumble passed
Towards the rocks and lions
Waiting below.
- Joseph Farley
(1 poem added 01.29.13)
editor's note: True or false, the same awaits all. Might's well find fun in the tumble. - mh
A Purifier from New Haven
Whippoorwill
sometimes here, sometimes there
poisons everything.
I suspect myself in small amounts.
You could be a juggler of discs
dying in February,
a person without shoulders,
monsters after midnight.
As we know, destruction
is no simple thing.
I have nothing more to say
so there is nothing more to be done.
Neither alive nor perished,
my sanity is a discarded wrapper.
As of now,
I cannot confirm or deny
the appearance of madness.
You are an old hospital,
striving to cure
the purity of scarification
the surety of mutilation.
You are a new prison, in ampule amounts
a terrible calling in woods.
- Richard King Perkins II
(added 01.28.13)
editor's note: Whippoorwill whisperings to a wheelchair-bound straightjacket stammerer. - mh
I hate T. V.
I hate T. V.
and I hate me
...every bone in
my body hurts,
but not as much
as my mind
The blades of the ceiling
fan
turn so slowly, I
swear that they hate me
...at night, while I sleep
they smile because they know
they will outlive me...
I fear another hot summer -
and a lifetime of writing
depressing shit like this...
- Ralph Freda
(1 poem added 01.27.13)
editor's note: 200 HD channels to enjoy life at its fullest? Plug it in, plug it in! (More poems from Ralph on his new Contributing Poet's page - check'em out. Welcome, Ralph!) - 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...
Seein'n'hearin',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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