The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 05.04.13
“We have to dare to be ourselves, however frightening or strange that self may prove to be.” May Sarton
Jello Mirror (above) by K.R. Copeland/Jeff Crouch, 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 were overcompensated, but not overcome, in our cry over spilled thoughts; we were side-tracked to safety, seduced by a siren to sing and not break the glass; we conceded old comforts and classy convertible with no where to park it, ensconced all in attic archive, awaiting an uptick in the market; we lingered o'er a list in bed, laid not long nor listless, looked toward the light instead; we eschewed conventional hammer bang for expedient alternate picture hang, big not blank; we pissed away a poem proffered by a piss cleaning poet; we fueled an old fire with an ignominious accelerant, fanned the flames, but felt no warmth. It's all good! I see you better when you stand in your own light! ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
gasoline
ashes and firelighters, gasoline
the remnants of an unstable mind
medicated rational.
caught in the act of writing
and morning coffee
vouchsafed in early afternoon.
dreaming, in sleep
looking down my naked body
enumerative cosmic vibrations.
at last, I am found out
a fraud!
a plain written confession.
dear Judas, I see you!
contemplative, walking
stretches of eternity.
vilified
the rains of a Sunday afternoon
bearing down your soul.
dear Judas, be comforted at last!
be not in prison of pity
my candle is lit for you.
we are only shadow
dancing on near cave walls
illuminated by
ashes and firelighters, gasoline
- Jhon Baker
(1 poem added 05.04.13)
editor's note: Absolution: Divine solution, or grand illusion? A question well raised here. Thanks, Jhon! - mh
Piss Poem
I dreamt last night of puddles of piss,
Babies being held up naked over the floor
And the pale, stinking results
Seeping slowly over the floor tiles.
I dreamt of brown-edged rusty stains,
Reek rising from them. Dreamt of water,
And the sound of water in pipes,
And the non-water outside the pipes
Dappling while porcelain,
Caught mid-drip and drying.
Piss, indeed,
And who to clean it up but me.
Me, armed with rag, sponge,
Scrubbing brush,
Me, with my container of scouring powder,
Itself piss-smelling evil sand.
Me, following my nose down to the ground.
What is that?
What is that?
Your piss or mine?
Fine. Clean it up.
And who to clean it up but me,
The Piss Cleaner,
Left to deal with the piss and shit
Not to mention the string beans -
O Literary Reference
Where do you get me now?
And who to shake a stick in my direction
Unless it be the stick of the mop handle
To clean up the piss.
- Ann B-D
(added 05.03.13)
editor's note: Would we judge this custodial caste? Let him who is without piss throw the first mop. - mh
Well Hung
I am not one to sit around waiting for perfect
The perfect moment
The perfect tool
The perfect plan
Improvisation is not always mediocrity
Sometimes we need to drive nails with high heeled shoes
Instead of waiting for the hammer store to open
I'd rather look at the big picture
Than stare at a blank wall
- Lucinda L. Flanary
(added 05.02.13)
editor's note: Ha! This one is well said, well done, well hung! Perfect! - mh
OF THINGS LOST:
a silver nickel
torn from denim, sock unraveled
at dryer floor,
look
there is no match,
pick away the mascara-
coated eyelash hooked
to cheek, pull the silver
zipper from a dress, that red
one that clings
too tight, laugh out soda,
or pop, or coke, let it burn
through the nostrils, take
away the dog you loved, turn him
into ash, toss away a lover, one
from each year, that lipstick still
stained to collar, and shed
that rich caramel
of hair, rip it out, strip it down
to grey, lose beads
of sweat, of virus
that held your voice that winter,
when emerald
leaves washed
to brown, turn down
the temperature, throw away the muscle
ache and wash dirt
from your hands,
sleep
minutes from the clock, grind
down teeth, and let
the bedroom window
spiral light
into a tangle
of bodies that wake
into morning without
knowing what will
come next
- Brittany Cagle
(added 05.01.13)
editor's note: Yes, oh, yes! Wash it all away and sleep. No one knows, anyway! - mh
Barbie Dream House
Christmas when I was six and my dad still lived with us
I had it all—the house, the furniture, the convertible,
Ken and Skipper. I twirled Barbie around her balcony,
changed her clothes, cut her hair. My brother
would strip her naked, grind her against his crotch.
I’d scream at him, call him a perv while holding her close,
tried to calm Barbie’s nerves after the date rape, which I learned about
from TV movies my mother watched,
waiting up for dad to come home.
I’d sit at the top step, squeeze my head
through the banister cracks, watch over her shoulder.
Once I got stuck, couldn’t sneak back upstairs
when I heard his car in the driveway.
Their fight put on hold to rub butter on my neck and ears.
Together they pulled me free.
Today in the mail: Barbie Catalog for the Adult Collector.
For $2000 the 1978 original Barbie Dream house
comes unassembled.
Barbie didn’t come to my dad’s apartment when he moved out,
after I turned seven. She stayed in her house smiling,
completely bald, teeth marks on her arm where my brother
had bitten. My mother keeps her in a shoebox
in the attic, in case she’s worth something someday.
- Bernadette Ulsamer
(added 04.30.13)
editor's note: Looking for that thing, that treasure to appreciate in value over time. As markets rise and fall, we can always appreciate poems like this. - mh
Scribbles
Out of the nonsense come scribbles,
Clear as a razor,
An infant boy looking through
The glass pages
Of a children’s book
She said sing melodies
So I did
As she smiled
And walked away.
- Paul Tristram
(1 poem added 04.29.13)
editor's note: A little melody to dull the edge, soften the sting. One could cut one's self on those glass pages. (We welcome Paul to our clamorous confab of Contributing Poets with this poem. He has more madness on his page - check it out.) - mh
While Waking Up I Had a Thoughts
I must do something unnecessary.
It’s necessary for sanity.
There are exactly 37 ways to skin a cat.
Trust me, I’ve tried.
From which I obtained the kind of peace
You find while being far from a church.
A human is like a world, is a world,
Is consistently inconsistent.
Thus every statement is an oversimplification;
And we was crying over a thought.
(Every thought is a battle, Every battle was a thought)?
(Every thought was a battle, Every battle is a thought)?
It promised entertainment and enlightenment—
But for whom?
I heard Emerson once said,
“I hate quotations.”
But I have a theory about Lincoln:
His wife was crazy.
- Joshua Bocher
(added 04.28.13)
editor's note: Many a random thought-soup morning, all kinds o' flotsam and jetsam floating to top. Speech is our skimmer; a pen is our net. - 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...
Darin',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Jello Mirror (above) by K.R. Copeland/Jeff Crouch, 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 were overcompensated, but not overcome, in our cry over spilled thoughts; we were side-tracked to safety, seduced by a siren to sing and not break the glass; we conceded old comforts and classy convertible with no where to park it, ensconced all in attic archive, awaiting an uptick in the market; we lingered o'er a list in bed, laid not long nor listless, looked toward the light instead; we eschewed conventional hammer bang for expedient alternate picture hang, big not blank; we pissed away a poem proffered by a piss cleaning poet; we fueled an old fire with an ignominious accelerant, fanned the flames, but felt no warmth. It's all good! I see you better when you stand in your own light! ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
gasoline
ashes and firelighters, gasoline
the remnants of an unstable mind
medicated rational.
caught in the act of writing
and morning coffee
vouchsafed in early afternoon.
dreaming, in sleep
looking down my naked body
enumerative cosmic vibrations.
at last, I am found out
a fraud!
a plain written confession.
dear Judas, I see you!
contemplative, walking
stretches of eternity.
vilified
the rains of a Sunday afternoon
bearing down your soul.
dear Judas, be comforted at last!
be not in prison of pity
my candle is lit for you.
we are only shadow
dancing on near cave walls
illuminated by
ashes and firelighters, gasoline
- Jhon Baker
(1 poem added 05.04.13)
editor's note: Absolution: Divine solution, or grand illusion? A question well raised here. Thanks, Jhon! - mh
Piss Poem
I dreamt last night of puddles of piss,
Babies being held up naked over the floor
And the pale, stinking results
Seeping slowly over the floor tiles.
I dreamt of brown-edged rusty stains,
Reek rising from them. Dreamt of water,
And the sound of water in pipes,
And the non-water outside the pipes
Dappling while porcelain,
Caught mid-drip and drying.
Piss, indeed,
And who to clean it up but me.
Me, armed with rag, sponge,
Scrubbing brush,
Me, with my container of scouring powder,
Itself piss-smelling evil sand.
Me, following my nose down to the ground.
What is that?
What is that?
Your piss or mine?
Fine. Clean it up.
And who to clean it up but me,
The Piss Cleaner,
Left to deal with the piss and shit
Not to mention the string beans -
O Literary Reference
Where do you get me now?
And who to shake a stick in my direction
Unless it be the stick of the mop handle
To clean up the piss.
- Ann B-D
(added 05.03.13)
editor's note: Would we judge this custodial caste? Let him who is without piss throw the first mop. - mh
Well Hung
I am not one to sit around waiting for perfect
The perfect moment
The perfect tool
The perfect plan
Improvisation is not always mediocrity
Sometimes we need to drive nails with high heeled shoes
Instead of waiting for the hammer store to open
I'd rather look at the big picture
Than stare at a blank wall
- Lucinda L. Flanary
(added 05.02.13)
editor's note: Ha! This one is well said, well done, well hung! Perfect! - mh
OF THINGS LOST:
a silver nickel
torn from denim, sock unraveled
at dryer floor,
look
there is no match,
pick away the mascara-
coated eyelash hooked
to cheek, pull the silver
zipper from a dress, that red
one that clings
too tight, laugh out soda,
or pop, or coke, let it burn
through the nostrils, take
away the dog you loved, turn him
into ash, toss away a lover, one
from each year, that lipstick still
stained to collar, and shed
that rich caramel
of hair, rip it out, strip it down
to grey, lose beads
of sweat, of virus
that held your voice that winter,
when emerald
leaves washed
to brown, turn down
the temperature, throw away the muscle
ache and wash dirt
from your hands,
sleep
minutes from the clock, grind
down teeth, and let
the bedroom window
spiral light
into a tangle
of bodies that wake
into morning without
knowing what will
come next
- Brittany Cagle
(added 05.01.13)
editor's note: Yes, oh, yes! Wash it all away and sleep. No one knows, anyway! - mh
Barbie Dream House
Christmas when I was six and my dad still lived with us
I had it all—the house, the furniture, the convertible,
Ken and Skipper. I twirled Barbie around her balcony,
changed her clothes, cut her hair. My brother
would strip her naked, grind her against his crotch.
I’d scream at him, call him a perv while holding her close,
tried to calm Barbie’s nerves after the date rape, which I learned about
from TV movies my mother watched,
waiting up for dad to come home.
I’d sit at the top step, squeeze my head
through the banister cracks, watch over her shoulder.
Once I got stuck, couldn’t sneak back upstairs
when I heard his car in the driveway.
Their fight put on hold to rub butter on my neck and ears.
Together they pulled me free.
Today in the mail: Barbie Catalog for the Adult Collector.
For $2000 the 1978 original Barbie Dream house
comes unassembled.
Barbie didn’t come to my dad’s apartment when he moved out,
after I turned seven. She stayed in her house smiling,
completely bald, teeth marks on her arm where my brother
had bitten. My mother keeps her in a shoebox
in the attic, in case she’s worth something someday.
- Bernadette Ulsamer
(added 04.30.13)
editor's note: Looking for that thing, that treasure to appreciate in value over time. As markets rise and fall, we can always appreciate poems like this. - mh
Scribbles
Out of the nonsense come scribbles,
Clear as a razor,
An infant boy looking through
The glass pages
Of a children’s book
She said sing melodies
So I did
As she smiled
And walked away.
- Paul Tristram
(1 poem added 04.29.13)
editor's note: A little melody to dull the edge, soften the sting. One could cut one's self on those glass pages. (We welcome Paul to our clamorous confab of Contributing Poets with this poem. He has more madness on his page - check it out.) - mh
While Waking Up I Had a Thoughts
I must do something unnecessary.
It’s necessary for sanity.
There are exactly 37 ways to skin a cat.
Trust me, I’ve tried.
From which I obtained the kind of peace
You find while being far from a church.
A human is like a world, is a world,
Is consistently inconsistent.
Thus every statement is an oversimplification;
And we was crying over a thought.
(Every thought is a battle, Every battle was a thought)?
(Every thought was a battle, Every battle is a thought)?
It promised entertainment and enlightenment—
But for whom?
I heard Emerson once said,
“I hate quotations.”
But I have a theory about Lincoln:
His wife was crazy.
- Joshua Bocher
(added 04.28.13)
editor's note: Many a random thought-soup morning, all kinds o' flotsam and jetsam floating to top. Speech is our skimmer; a pen is our net. - 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...
Darin',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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