The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 02.16.13
“We all wear masks, and the time comes when we cannot remove them without removing some of our own skin.” Andre Berthiaume
Masks (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... was an insane swirl in this Mad maelstrom. We twisted transitory stories from a raconteurs' revolt; we sustained a rave by a pyramid slave, eternal life to him we gave; we enjoyed to taste some fine cuisine, cooked from a host we haven't seen; we learned, once more, in the midst of housecleaning fervor, the power of forgiveness and answered prayer; we felt the pain of true love wrecked, which spurred a retaliatory domino effect; we indulged in childhood front yard diversions, visions of dead headwear poison tree aversions; we concluded, short of harsh invectives with a missive meant to tweak perspectives. Wasted by the week's whirlpool whipping? Put your head 'tween your knees 'til the dizziness subsides. (Then go back 'round again. This time - no hands. Hee heeeeeeeee!) ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
afghanistan
blacks have
equality under
the law for 140 years
and she wanted
a new bedroom set.
women’s suffrage began
80 years ago, and she
decided on a new living room
set as well. eastern thought
has penetrated the culture
going on 30 years, and she
wanted the couch on the northern side
of the room, to create a look
she saw in a homeowner’s guide
to decorating. homeless die and freeze
in the winter. her concern was:
will her neighbors be jealous of her
porch furniture because
it is better? junkies seek god
in the ends of spoons and needles
as she shops for knick-knacks
with her hubby on the weekends.
proudly hasn’t read a book since high school.
defiantly asks why others do.
we don’t know what to tell her.
more soldiers die in afghanistan.
the world encasing
her golden staircase
but never meddling.
- Carl Kavadlo
(1 poem added 02.16.13)
editor's note: A little inspiration from Good Housekeeping to color those specs; the rosier the better. It's a grand world, just for me. - mh
Harold and the Purple Crayon
One day
I cried a terrible magnifying glass
and appeared in the Hemlock tree
a little mess,
tiny horns and mummy hats.
The front yard frowned,
Quiet sky,
candle messages on magazine,
wrapping paper houses everywhere.
- Zachary Scott Hamilton
(1 poem added 02.15.13)
editor's note: Front yard musings fuse occipital convolutions into daytime death dream dances. Blow out those candles and sleep. (With this poem, Zachary joins our congregation of Contributing Poets. See more of his work on his new page.) - mh
Whoredom
Satan came to you
In the form
Of a vacuum,
Sucking away -
Ripping apart -
My flesh,
From yours.
What had been joined
Now ejaculated
Out
Into a white
Void
Of nothingness.
Strange fingers
Warm
And Intimate
Bathed in sandalwood
Oil
Lyre in hand
Playing
The siren song
While you danced…
Music
Where was our music?
I danced
Alone
While they captured
Your oyster center
To swallow the pearl,
A prize
I had never found.
And Satan came to you
In a gold
Subaru wagon
With hooks and nets
In size 34D
Intent on reaping
Pleasure
Then tacking it
To your soul
With Blue
Steel,
In the warm leather
Backseat -
While our daughters
Squealed
In the shade
Of a willow tree
That had no roots.
After the fall
You brought him
Home
For dinner.
I hadn’t prepared,
For a rat like
Beast
At our kitchen
Table
So I served him
My heart
On a cheese
Platter,
Because I wouldn’t
Need it
Anyways.
- Sheree La Puma-Watson
(2 poems added 02.14.13)
editor's note: On this day of hearts, here's inspiration to be true to your first. Woe to any adultering second. That's all... lovers! (Actually, it's not - Sheree has another; a period to this comma, on her page. Check it out!) - mh
Getting a Prayer Answered
Cleaning day, Sunday, comes with a silent prayer
to find no upchucks of cat retch donated to the cause.
Under the couch, I drag out the week before lasts
six page church pamphlet. Before it is torn
into mice cage bedding, I feel compelled to read it.
On the front cover, Jesus, arms extended,
his palms are up, ready to receive. Inside, photos
of the church hierarchy, some fund raising totals
followed by a prayer page. My interpretation:
we pray you can give us your money now or else.
The last three pages are filled with paid adverts.
Something appealing. Sissy's Maid Service. Amen.
- R Jay Slais
(added 02.13.13)
editor's note: This is almost as cool as finding an unclaimed winning scratch-off... almost. The lord provides, they say. - mh
Eating Mr. Ortiz’s Meat
I lived in the cheap housing behind the abattoir. The hum of machinery and the sound of bovine hoof on metal ramp filled the apartments. My elderly neighbor, Mrs. Ortiz would have the black parcels that arrived for her from England, delivered to my address. I would knock on her door and she would invite me in; still dressed in her pajamas, apron over the top, cleaver in hand.
Mrs. Ortiz would fetch me a plate from her kitchen. It was always some meat dish; liver with brown onion, kidney and fennel, heart, tongue. “Eat.” She would say, “Eat.” bringing an imaginary fork up to her mouth. Each dish she would tell me was her husband’s favorite.
No-one had seen Mr. Ortiz in a long while. His black suit and dress shirt still hung on the bedroom door; his black shoes sat at the end of the bed; polished. “Eat.” Mrs. Ortiz demanded, her eyes widening with every bite, “Eat.”
- Luke Arundel Crane
(added 02.12.13)
editor's note: Another form of immortality; I am what you eat. Eat hearty! - mh
Elements of Immortality
I am sustaining dreams
On my bare back
Laboring a ghostly feat
Do not discourage
My beads of sweat
They construct me
From scratch
And even if I protest
Let these cries go unheard
For I am the pyramid slave
I will become
Like rain
More than a sight
For every stone
Of my earthly toil
Keeps me alive
Even when I am gone
Touch me through my toils
And speak to me
A one sided conversation
With confidence
Of my reply
Even if I choose
Your own thoughts to communicate
You will know
The dreams on my back
And the beads of sweat
I shed
You will know
I am alive
- Saad Munir Hashmi
(added 02.11.13)
editor's note: Yes, a "ghostly feat" indeed; to resurrect in the thoughts of the living. It's every poet's gambit! - mh
Silenced Griots
Once bustling, rapt villages,
reveled in stories
shared by griots,
mesmerized by them
ancient stories from recesses
of the underworld where Persephone dwelled.
They remembered them all,
and the people listened.
No words can be dredged to warm
the frozen silence of deafness,
because it is fall after the harvest
and the Queen of the shades
has been dragged back to the darkness
throne emptied and cursed,
silence growing lavishly on the souls of the dead.
Will hearing return in the spring,
With the moribund spring shoots?
All is enveloped in silence.
Hearing lost.
Only silent lips move now
conjuring stories from seconds ago,
forgotten tomorrow.
- Sy Roth
(1 poem added 02.10.13)
editor's note: Silent for now; stories in closed books, unread aloud, will carry on. - 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...
Unmaskin',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Masks (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... was an insane swirl in this Mad maelstrom. We twisted transitory stories from a raconteurs' revolt; we sustained a rave by a pyramid slave, eternal life to him we gave; we enjoyed to taste some fine cuisine, cooked from a host we haven't seen; we learned, once more, in the midst of housecleaning fervor, the power of forgiveness and answered prayer; we felt the pain of true love wrecked, which spurred a retaliatory domino effect; we indulged in childhood front yard diversions, visions of dead headwear poison tree aversions; we concluded, short of harsh invectives with a missive meant to tweak perspectives. Wasted by the week's whirlpool whipping? Put your head 'tween your knees 'til the dizziness subsides. (Then go back 'round again. This time - no hands. Hee heeeeeeeee!) ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
afghanistan
blacks have
equality under
the law for 140 years
and she wanted
a new bedroom set.
women’s suffrage began
80 years ago, and she
decided on a new living room
set as well. eastern thought
has penetrated the culture
going on 30 years, and she
wanted the couch on the northern side
of the room, to create a look
she saw in a homeowner’s guide
to decorating. homeless die and freeze
in the winter. her concern was:
will her neighbors be jealous of her
porch furniture because
it is better? junkies seek god
in the ends of spoons and needles
as she shops for knick-knacks
with her hubby on the weekends.
proudly hasn’t read a book since high school.
defiantly asks why others do.
we don’t know what to tell her.
more soldiers die in afghanistan.
the world encasing
her golden staircase
but never meddling.
- Carl Kavadlo
(1 poem added 02.16.13)
editor's note: A little inspiration from Good Housekeeping to color those specs; the rosier the better. It's a grand world, just for me. - mh
Harold and the Purple Crayon
One day
I cried a terrible magnifying glass
and appeared in the Hemlock tree
a little mess,
tiny horns and mummy hats.
The front yard frowned,
Quiet sky,
candle messages on magazine,
wrapping paper houses everywhere.
- Zachary Scott Hamilton
(1 poem added 02.15.13)
editor's note: Front yard musings fuse occipital convolutions into daytime death dream dances. Blow out those candles and sleep. (With this poem, Zachary joins our congregation of Contributing Poets. See more of his work on his new page.) - mh
Whoredom
Satan came to you
In the form
Of a vacuum,
Sucking away -
Ripping apart -
My flesh,
From yours.
What had been joined
Now ejaculated
Out
Into a white
Void
Of nothingness.
Strange fingers
Warm
And Intimate
Bathed in sandalwood
Oil
Lyre in hand
Playing
The siren song
While you danced…
Music
Where was our music?
I danced
Alone
While they captured
Your oyster center
To swallow the pearl,
A prize
I had never found.
And Satan came to you
In a gold
Subaru wagon
With hooks and nets
In size 34D
Intent on reaping
Pleasure
Then tacking it
To your soul
With Blue
Steel,
In the warm leather
Backseat -
While our daughters
Squealed
In the shade
Of a willow tree
That had no roots.
After the fall
You brought him
Home
For dinner.
I hadn’t prepared,
For a rat like
Beast
At our kitchen
Table
So I served him
My heart
On a cheese
Platter,
Because I wouldn’t
Need it
Anyways.
- Sheree La Puma-Watson
(2 poems added 02.14.13)
editor's note: On this day of hearts, here's inspiration to be true to your first. Woe to any adultering second. That's all... lovers! (Actually, it's not - Sheree has another; a period to this comma, on her page. Check it out!) - mh
Getting a Prayer Answered
Cleaning day, Sunday, comes with a silent prayer
to find no upchucks of cat retch donated to the cause.
Under the couch, I drag out the week before lasts
six page church pamphlet. Before it is torn
into mice cage bedding, I feel compelled to read it.
On the front cover, Jesus, arms extended,
his palms are up, ready to receive. Inside, photos
of the church hierarchy, some fund raising totals
followed by a prayer page. My interpretation:
we pray you can give us your money now or else.
The last three pages are filled with paid adverts.
Something appealing. Sissy's Maid Service. Amen.
- R Jay Slais
(added 02.13.13)
editor's note: This is almost as cool as finding an unclaimed winning scratch-off... almost. The lord provides, they say. - mh
Eating Mr. Ortiz’s Meat
I lived in the cheap housing behind the abattoir. The hum of machinery and the sound of bovine hoof on metal ramp filled the apartments. My elderly neighbor, Mrs. Ortiz would have the black parcels that arrived for her from England, delivered to my address. I would knock on her door and she would invite me in; still dressed in her pajamas, apron over the top, cleaver in hand.
Mrs. Ortiz would fetch me a plate from her kitchen. It was always some meat dish; liver with brown onion, kidney and fennel, heart, tongue. “Eat.” She would say, “Eat.” bringing an imaginary fork up to her mouth. Each dish she would tell me was her husband’s favorite.
No-one had seen Mr. Ortiz in a long while. His black suit and dress shirt still hung on the bedroom door; his black shoes sat at the end of the bed; polished. “Eat.” Mrs. Ortiz demanded, her eyes widening with every bite, “Eat.”
- Luke Arundel Crane
(added 02.12.13)
editor's note: Another form of immortality; I am what you eat. Eat hearty! - mh
Elements of Immortality
I am sustaining dreams
On my bare back
Laboring a ghostly feat
Do not discourage
My beads of sweat
They construct me
From scratch
And even if I protest
Let these cries go unheard
For I am the pyramid slave
I will become
Like rain
More than a sight
For every stone
Of my earthly toil
Keeps me alive
Even when I am gone
Touch me through my toils
And speak to me
A one sided conversation
With confidence
Of my reply
Even if I choose
Your own thoughts to communicate
You will know
The dreams on my back
And the beads of sweat
I shed
You will know
I am alive
- Saad Munir Hashmi
(added 02.11.13)
editor's note: Yes, a "ghostly feat" indeed; to resurrect in the thoughts of the living. It's every poet's gambit! - mh
Silenced Griots
Once bustling, rapt villages,
reveled in stories
shared by griots,
mesmerized by them
ancient stories from recesses
of the underworld where Persephone dwelled.
They remembered them all,
and the people listened.
No words can be dredged to warm
the frozen silence of deafness,
because it is fall after the harvest
and the Queen of the shades
has been dragged back to the darkness
throne emptied and cursed,
silence growing lavishly on the souls of the dead.
Will hearing return in the spring,
With the moribund spring shoots?
All is enveloped in silence.
Hearing lost.
Only silent lips move now
conjuring stories from seconds ago,
forgotten tomorrow.
- Sy Roth
(1 poem added 02.10.13)
editor's note: Silent for now; stories in closed books, unread aloud, will carry on. - 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...
Unmaskin',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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