The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 03.02.13
“There's a bit of magic in everything, and some loss to even things out.” Lou Reed
Dream City (above) by Adam Yeater, 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 stalked the dawn-shadowed steps of one too old, but not too soon; we dawned again, delighted to frolic in fragmentation; we topped this lit triptych with a titillating invitation to dine on the dawn; we enjoyed an apres sun aperitif, something to clear the pallette, enrich the heart; we, now fattened and forgetful, rested unaware of an ominous raptor's rapture; we exposed the absurdity of accusations from a cocksure consumer, stiff-stupidly unprepared for retaliative recriminations; we settled in, all appetites assuaged, to a sweet, silent, no-shiver slumber 'neath a blanket of snow. Feeling warm an' toasty now, can't keep... my eyes... open... zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz! ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
White
White snow dissolves graves
Like time decays the fawn
Outside of the back gate
That never did seem to fit right:
Never melted like the leaves—
All the green dripping,
The wiry grey standing bold.
I rest my chin
On the cold metal
While white bones
Chill on ice,
And deer undress.
I think of
Snow angels.
- Ryan Kendall
(1 poem added 03.02.13)
editor's note: If there is black beyond that frozen gate, better to go through snowblind; white like angels. Yes! - mh
A Scathing Message From A Cryptic Bitch
that thing that makes so many women complete
to milk the unicorn and catch the seed
that thing mother nature has you do my lady
it is now the thing that is causing earth and man’s demise
too much and too many screaming little people
in a world that is finite
get a vibe or a dildo and talk with your girlfriends
as they have always been more interesting
and you can hit your g-spot
this sweaty bastard usually doesn’t even have his arrow hit the target
that thing you do so well for 9 months and 18 years
it sends our globe to hell
from that seed that flows from his banana tip
to this last parting word from my lady lips
two ships must not dock
the end of the world is the end of his cock
- Roo Bardookie
(added 03.01.13)
editor's note: This man's world is no longer; both genders share the blame. From the tip to the tongue, we just can't help ourselves. - mh
Alone
The hawk and fox plan their game
Again. The night is another book
Blank pages needing to be written
Upon the strategies that must be fed.
Blind to all but they
Within the mind, real as wants, understood?
The other? To an ideal that will fail
The smooth and soothing black: an anaesthetic
The strange calling fox makes the night grow
Ever stranger - the eye of the hawk is felt
Behind the wish and want for tomorrow
Another space, a chance to relive and forget the errors past.
An eternal want for a moment's ecstasy
The black veil reveals a griefless new day
As the hawk and fox plan: again. Always the same.
- Jonathan Beale
(added 02.28.13)
editor's note: Beware the anesthetic lull of bark and burning gaze, the hypnotic happiness which comes from forgetting is fastly followed by the snap of jaw and strike of claw. Fox and hawk dine together; the unwary are picked clean, alone. - mh
Blockage
Happiness
would be
meaningless
if not
for sadness.
Fondness
never becomes
love without
touch.
Sex
is ungratifying
without
generosity.
These
conclusions
come from
sobriety
and I'm ready
for a generous
drink.
- Moriah LaChapell
(added 02.27.13)
editor's note: Clear that blockage with this inspired angst-ioplasty. Drink deep!!! - mh
Higher Ground
I want to write poems
the way fat old guys
in Dixieland days
played the banjo,
hard and strong
rhythm like a fast foot tapping
on the soil
teasing the plants
to grow a little faster,
a little higher
- don’t you want to get up
and taste
that fat old sun?
- Ian Mullins
(added 02.26.13)
editor's note: Just like a two-handed, chin dripping bite of a hot pork sandwich. Yes!! Damn right, I do! - mh
A California sunrise
The orange sherbet, mango-colored sky
Rises from behind its dark-hooded mother
Where exotic palm trees line the streets
Of Los Angeles – a city of busting people
Going off fragmented like broken, red
Glass – a kaleidoscope of colors move
Beneath your fingertips.
- Dawnell Harrison
(1 poem added 02.25.13)
editor's note: Beautiful! If a sunset occurred in the forest with no one to see, where would spin those fragments? 'scuse me, while I kiss the sky. (We welcome Dawnell to our crazy confab of Contributing Poets with this poem. See more of her work on her new page.) - mh
The Limited Steps of An Old Man
walked across a manoa park sunrise scene
layed before me like a morning feast for my eyes to eat and eat well
he only has less steps to go than I and mankind
it is his time going golden into his sunset years
mine is in the middle of the sky
but soon dropping behind a mountain
only the book of life knows how many steps we take
it knows when we take the first steps free of parents
it knows when we take the last steps free of parents
this is how the general story goes
unless, SURPRISE!
and in the wink of an eye we say, “Too soon, too soon.”
then the old man was gone from my sight
- Louis Marvin
(1 poem added 02.24.13)
editor's note: That slope is slippery enough. Definitely, please, NOT "too soon." - 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...
Makin' Magic,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Dream City (above) by Adam Yeater, 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 stalked the dawn-shadowed steps of one too old, but not too soon; we dawned again, delighted to frolic in fragmentation; we topped this lit triptych with a titillating invitation to dine on the dawn; we enjoyed an apres sun aperitif, something to clear the pallette, enrich the heart; we, now fattened and forgetful, rested unaware of an ominous raptor's rapture; we exposed the absurdity of accusations from a cocksure consumer, stiff-stupidly unprepared for retaliative recriminations; we settled in, all appetites assuaged, to a sweet, silent, no-shiver slumber 'neath a blanket of snow. Feeling warm an' toasty now, can't keep... my eyes... open... zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz! ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
White
White snow dissolves graves
Like time decays the fawn
Outside of the back gate
That never did seem to fit right:
Never melted like the leaves—
All the green dripping,
The wiry grey standing bold.
I rest my chin
On the cold metal
While white bones
Chill on ice,
And deer undress.
I think of
Snow angels.
- Ryan Kendall
(1 poem added 03.02.13)
editor's note: If there is black beyond that frozen gate, better to go through snowblind; white like angels. Yes! - mh
A Scathing Message From A Cryptic Bitch
that thing that makes so many women complete
to milk the unicorn and catch the seed
that thing mother nature has you do my lady
it is now the thing that is causing earth and man’s demise
too much and too many screaming little people
in a world that is finite
get a vibe or a dildo and talk with your girlfriends
as they have always been more interesting
and you can hit your g-spot
this sweaty bastard usually doesn’t even have his arrow hit the target
that thing you do so well for 9 months and 18 years
it sends our globe to hell
from that seed that flows from his banana tip
to this last parting word from my lady lips
two ships must not dock
the end of the world is the end of his cock
- Roo Bardookie
(added 03.01.13)
editor's note: This man's world is no longer; both genders share the blame. From the tip to the tongue, we just can't help ourselves. - mh
Alone
The hawk and fox plan their game
Again. The night is another book
Blank pages needing to be written
Upon the strategies that must be fed.
Blind to all but they
Within the mind, real as wants, understood?
The other? To an ideal that will fail
The smooth and soothing black: an anaesthetic
The strange calling fox makes the night grow
Ever stranger - the eye of the hawk is felt
Behind the wish and want for tomorrow
Another space, a chance to relive and forget the errors past.
An eternal want for a moment's ecstasy
The black veil reveals a griefless new day
As the hawk and fox plan: again. Always the same.
- Jonathan Beale
(added 02.28.13)
editor's note: Beware the anesthetic lull of bark and burning gaze, the hypnotic happiness which comes from forgetting is fastly followed by the snap of jaw and strike of claw. Fox and hawk dine together; the unwary are picked clean, alone. - mh
Blockage
Happiness
would be
meaningless
if not
for sadness.
Fondness
never becomes
love without
touch.
Sex
is ungratifying
without
generosity.
These
conclusions
come from
sobriety
and I'm ready
for a generous
drink.
- Moriah LaChapell
(added 02.27.13)
editor's note: Clear that blockage with this inspired angst-ioplasty. Drink deep!!! - mh
Higher Ground
I want to write poems
the way fat old guys
in Dixieland days
played the banjo,
hard and strong
rhythm like a fast foot tapping
on the soil
teasing the plants
to grow a little faster,
a little higher
- don’t you want to get up
and taste
that fat old sun?
- Ian Mullins
(added 02.26.13)
editor's note: Just like a two-handed, chin dripping bite of a hot pork sandwich. Yes!! Damn right, I do! - mh
A California sunrise
The orange sherbet, mango-colored sky
Rises from behind its dark-hooded mother
Where exotic palm trees line the streets
Of Los Angeles – a city of busting people
Going off fragmented like broken, red
Glass – a kaleidoscope of colors move
Beneath your fingertips.
- Dawnell Harrison
(1 poem added 02.25.13)
editor's note: Beautiful! If a sunset occurred in the forest with no one to see, where would spin those fragments? 'scuse me, while I kiss the sky. (We welcome Dawnell to our crazy confab of Contributing Poets with this poem. See more of her work on her new page.) - mh
The Limited Steps of An Old Man
walked across a manoa park sunrise scene
layed before me like a morning feast for my eyes to eat and eat well
he only has less steps to go than I and mankind
it is his time going golden into his sunset years
mine is in the middle of the sky
but soon dropping behind a mountain
only the book of life knows how many steps we take
it knows when we take the first steps free of parents
it knows when we take the last steps free of parents
this is how the general story goes
unless, SURPRISE!
and in the wink of an eye we say, “Too soon, too soon.”
then the old man was gone from my sight
- Louis Marvin
(1 poem added 02.24.13)
editor's note: That slope is slippery enough. Definitely, please, NOT "too soon." - 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...
Makin' Magic,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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