The Best of Mad Swirl : 05.25.13
“I accept chaos, I'm not sure whether it accepts me.” Bob Dylan
digital illustration by Johnny O
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we hefted hydrocarbon hyjinx to map the milk o' the marrow; we tripped a trail of star-shined, skippin' heart songs; we wielded wild windings to staunch the flow of old wounds, rended but made well; we aborted our attempts to upset the underground anarchist's psychic apple-cart; we hailed the heights of hypocracy, plumbed the depths of self-absorbed depravity; we hovered o'er a moonscape sward, grasped greedily for handfuls, hair of lovers remnant held to hoard; we connected, heart-felt phrases deeply inflected in idiom, stark lined, unfettered, linking seek-sensed souls together, daisy-chained and stack-pole tethered. So fragile, we; spared pain and disfiguration by the caprice of the weather. Close the book to control! ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Still of the night
In the still of the night
when the moon rages
its harvest orange hues
to the ground I write
sleepily by a red light.
I labor out of the love
of words grazing the
tips of your ears
with a beacon of light's
gilded colors.
I write on spindrift
pages of white harboring
just the right tone,
just the right syllables
to connect your soul
inexplicably to mine.
- Dawnell Harrison
(1 poem added 05.25.13)
editor's note: Shhh! Listen... hear that? It's the voice of a kindred spirit, come calling. - mh
DRINKING THE MOON
How the moon lengthens
and quivers, startles
into a thousand
shattered stars
that slowly swim back
into a crystal ball
as it floats in this
wineglass. Silver liquid
opens its crater-deep
heart to reveal
a silhouette of lovers
beneath the cherrybark oak.
She traces the hollow
of his throat, as though
her fingertips
might discern truth
in his words. The shift
of an eye, a downward
curve of lip raise
a breeze that sways
frost-slender fronds
and wavers the wine.
Shadows lace the moonlight
between leaves to veil
her in darkness.
As his footprints
dust through diamonds,
she reaches toward him
and gathers back
a handful of night.
- Patty Dickson Pieczka
(added 05.24.13)
editor's note: I'd drink this!! Such intoxication would be 12 step program and addiction, both. May the moon ever be full. - mh
confession of a family doctor
oh my lord, no longer do I remember
the exact wording of my oath
(that may well contain the phrase 'relieve suffering')
but I am still keenly aware of
my ever high-sounding profession
to which I had to lie to enter in the first place:
I volunteered at nursing homes and
community centers, not because
I really had a loving heart, but because
I needed that to be impressive
on my resume, on my application
to the prestigious medical school
now often do I claim to cure everything
though nothing in reality, I pretend to be
nice, polite and caring, though tired of all that
I never put my patients' health before profits
not because I fear to be black-listed
but because I think I deserve more than I gain
let the patient get sick, better bleed
so I can give pills or send him
to hospitals, where my partners can
get at him, with knives or more pills
- Changming Yuan
(1 poem added 05.23.13)
editor's note: Ouch! One fears this is not a fictional character; sad, sad and maddening - the ulimate "hypocritic oaf". (Thanks to the late, great satirist, Walt Kelly for pegging this kind of slug first.) - mh
underground remnant
a junkie
stood like
a wilted flower
on 7th avenue
between
5th and 6th streets
in brooklyn
saturday, february 9,
about 2 o’clock in the afternoon.
everybody was busy
looking at the sleek shops,
strolling along
as they were,
not recognizing a
fallen angel,
a piece of new york’s
underground
that’ll still
be around long after
these sleek remnants
of parisian fantasies and vanities
dry out, dry out,
fade and fold
under new fickle ownership
and are gone.
- Carl Kavadlo
(1 poem added 05.22.13)
editor's note: Undress a disowned angel, replace rags with neon lace. Empty on the inside, won't chase the hunger from that face. Thanks, Carl! - mh
Heart
it happened again today
as it has many times before
the bandage
it loosened
the stitches
they broke free
fissures
all at once ruptured
and the life poured out
fragments now
carried by tears
waiting for kisses tossed upon the currents
such beautiful music
never again to be heard...
- Tammy Brown
(added 05.21.13)
editor's note: Tragic loss; the wound renews. Hum that tune, not forgotten. You know it! Hum that tune and heal. - mh
THE LOVELY TRAIL
She would walk each day,
One foot in front of the other...
Every day,
Moving
There was no way to get around her fears,
She chose to plow through them.
She ran past her enemies,
But reached back her hand when needed.
She skipped often,
Always with a song in her heart.
She carried light at all times,
To shine the way for the little ones.
She danced with her family,
Waded through sorrow,
Paved new memories,
And marched for her beliefs.
She took her final step at the finish line.
That's when she soared...
...Leaving a lovely trail behind
- Stephanie Duchouquette
(added 05.20.13)
editor's note: No better legacy; leave something lovely, others will follow. - mh
All of This Light
All of this Light
Is deeply embedded
In living human flesh;
Even the bone tunnels
Must be baptized with the holy water
Of the mind: space itself, the opening
Of the Syllable-door,
Because the liquid
In the marrow depths
Will otherwise be black gold.
- Mark Fleury
(added 05.19.13)
editor's note: Keep that door open or burn in someone else's engine. - mh
•••••••••••
Need a read?
We don't know about you, but for a few of us here at Mad Swirl, we tend to do some of our best thinking while sitting upon the porcelain throne. We also get in some of our best reading. And you should too! It's not necessary to be on the toilet but if you are and reading this, then you got no excuse to NOT check out the latest addition to our short stories library, "Soothe as Excalibur" by Uzodinma Okehi. Here's a taste to get things movin'...
"I’m gonna draw comics, for the prestige. Not for me. But for those all-over guys just like me, for every glimpse of doubt, for that stand-still paralysis and the way those moments can convince you something is missing... And something is always missing. If I can I’ll draw that on paper, because it’s the one thing I might tell myself if I could go back in time. Because of all the people starving out there, and Yoga classes won’t help. Going back to school won’t help. Macrobiotic food won’t help. A cuter girlfriend won’t help, not necessarily. More money won’t help, either. You gotta to give yourself that grand purpose, and it can be anything, in fact the more trivial the better, but you have to weld yourself to it, some big idea, to the exclusion of all else..."
This one's a short-short-short so you don't got much more to go. Get the rest of your read on here...
•••••••••••
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 mad conversations going on in Mad Swirl's World? Then stop by whenever the mood strikes! We'll be here...
Acceptin',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
digital illustration by Johnny O
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we hefted hydrocarbon hyjinx to map the milk o' the marrow; we tripped a trail of star-shined, skippin' heart songs; we wielded wild windings to staunch the flow of old wounds, rended but made well; we aborted our attempts to upset the underground anarchist's psychic apple-cart; we hailed the heights of hypocracy, plumbed the depths of self-absorbed depravity; we hovered o'er a moonscape sward, grasped greedily for handfuls, hair of lovers remnant held to hoard; we connected, heart-felt phrases deeply inflected in idiom, stark lined, unfettered, linking seek-sensed souls together, daisy-chained and stack-pole tethered. So fragile, we; spared pain and disfiguration by the caprice of the weather. Close the book to control! ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Still of the night
In the still of the night
when the moon rages
its harvest orange hues
to the ground I write
sleepily by a red light.
I labor out of the love
of words grazing the
tips of your ears
with a beacon of light's
gilded colors.
I write on spindrift
pages of white harboring
just the right tone,
just the right syllables
to connect your soul
inexplicably to mine.
- Dawnell Harrison
(1 poem added 05.25.13)
editor's note: Shhh! Listen... hear that? It's the voice of a kindred spirit, come calling. - mh
DRINKING THE MOON
How the moon lengthens
and quivers, startles
into a thousand
shattered stars
that slowly swim back
into a crystal ball
as it floats in this
wineglass. Silver liquid
opens its crater-deep
heart to reveal
a silhouette of lovers
beneath the cherrybark oak.
She traces the hollow
of his throat, as though
her fingertips
might discern truth
in his words. The shift
of an eye, a downward
curve of lip raise
a breeze that sways
frost-slender fronds
and wavers the wine.
Shadows lace the moonlight
between leaves to veil
her in darkness.
As his footprints
dust through diamonds,
she reaches toward him
and gathers back
a handful of night.
- Patty Dickson Pieczka
(added 05.24.13)
editor's note: I'd drink this!! Such intoxication would be 12 step program and addiction, both. May the moon ever be full. - mh
confession of a family doctor
oh my lord, no longer do I remember
the exact wording of my oath
(that may well contain the phrase 'relieve suffering')
but I am still keenly aware of
my ever high-sounding profession
to which I had to lie to enter in the first place:
I volunteered at nursing homes and
community centers, not because
I really had a loving heart, but because
I needed that to be impressive
on my resume, on my application
to the prestigious medical school
now often do I claim to cure everything
though nothing in reality, I pretend to be
nice, polite and caring, though tired of all that
I never put my patients' health before profits
not because I fear to be black-listed
but because I think I deserve more than I gain
let the patient get sick, better bleed
so I can give pills or send him
to hospitals, where my partners can
get at him, with knives or more pills
- Changming Yuan
(1 poem added 05.23.13)
editor's note: Ouch! One fears this is not a fictional character; sad, sad and maddening - the ulimate "hypocritic oaf". (Thanks to the late, great satirist, Walt Kelly for pegging this kind of slug first.) - mh
underground remnant
a junkie
stood like
a wilted flower
on 7th avenue
between
5th and 6th streets
in brooklyn
saturday, february 9,
about 2 o’clock in the afternoon.
everybody was busy
looking at the sleek shops,
strolling along
as they were,
not recognizing a
fallen angel,
a piece of new york’s
underground
that’ll still
be around long after
these sleek remnants
of parisian fantasies and vanities
dry out, dry out,
fade and fold
under new fickle ownership
and are gone.
- Carl Kavadlo
(1 poem added 05.22.13)
editor's note: Undress a disowned angel, replace rags with neon lace. Empty on the inside, won't chase the hunger from that face. Thanks, Carl! - mh
Heart
it happened again today
as it has many times before
the bandage
it loosened
the stitches
they broke free
fissures
all at once ruptured
and the life poured out
fragments now
carried by tears
waiting for kisses tossed upon the currents
such beautiful music
never again to be heard...
- Tammy Brown
(added 05.21.13)
editor's note: Tragic loss; the wound renews. Hum that tune, not forgotten. You know it! Hum that tune and heal. - mh
THE LOVELY TRAIL
She would walk each day,
One foot in front of the other...
Every day,
Moving
There was no way to get around her fears,
She chose to plow through them.
She ran past her enemies,
But reached back her hand when needed.
She skipped often,
Always with a song in her heart.
She carried light at all times,
To shine the way for the little ones.
She danced with her family,
Waded through sorrow,
Paved new memories,
And marched for her beliefs.
She took her final step at the finish line.
That's when she soared...
...Leaving a lovely trail behind
- Stephanie Duchouquette
(added 05.20.13)
editor's note: No better legacy; leave something lovely, others will follow. - mh
All of This Light
All of this Light
Is deeply embedded
In living human flesh;
Even the bone tunnels
Must be baptized with the holy water
Of the mind: space itself, the opening
Of the Syllable-door,
Because the liquid
In the marrow depths
Will otherwise be black gold.
- Mark Fleury
(added 05.19.13)
editor's note: Keep that door open or burn in someone else's engine. - mh
•••••••••••
Need a read?
We don't know about you, but for a few of us here at Mad Swirl, we tend to do some of our best thinking while sitting upon the porcelain throne. We also get in some of our best reading. And you should too! It's not necessary to be on the toilet but if you are and reading this, then you got no excuse to NOT check out the latest addition to our short stories library, "Soothe as Excalibur" by Uzodinma Okehi. Here's a taste to get things movin'...
"I’m gonna draw comics, for the prestige. Not for me. But for those all-over guys just like me, for every glimpse of doubt, for that stand-still paralysis and the way those moments can convince you something is missing... And something is always missing. If I can I’ll draw that on paper, because it’s the one thing I might tell myself if I could go back in time. Because of all the people starving out there, and Yoga classes won’t help. Going back to school won’t help. Macrobiotic food won’t help. A cuter girlfriend won’t help, not necessarily. More money won’t help, either. You gotta to give yourself that grand purpose, and it can be anything, in fact the more trivial the better, but you have to weld yourself to it, some big idea, to the exclusion of all else..."
This one's a short-short-short so you don't got much more to go. Get the rest of your read on here...
•••••••••••
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 mad conversations going on in Mad Swirl's World? Then stop by whenever the mood strikes! We'll be here...
Acceptin',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
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