The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 05.11.13
“The one thing the world will never have enough of is the outrageous.” Salvador Dalî
Birth Of Insanity (above) by Johnny Olson, 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 nixed the nattering bard, editorially encouraged economy; we took our own time to hurry; we jabbed at the jealousy of crows over a jaunty jay; we sought to light a blurred line, wrongs put right in due time; we considered cattle and coffee, lose some, latte the other; we gave good blood for bad gunplay; we raised an appeal to retool our reasoning, death for honor is a raw deal. A strange swirl this; silly to sober. I could use a splash o' cold water and some hair o' the dog. ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Ten years of war and counting
Words can’t be put together,
Not here, not now,
And how are the dead to act?
How is anyone to understand the horror
That has become the mundane?
The everyday.
Our children grow up,
Believing the justice of violence,
Who see death everywhere
And glorified.
The ultimate goal,
An honorable death.
- R.A. Hernandez
(2 poems added 05.11.13)
editor's note: Honor is for the living; the dead don't need it. Teach your children... (Another fine bit of take out from R. A. on his page - check it out.) - mh
We're Fucked.
the problem is this,
his blood is outrunning my legs
and i'm out of breath.
i told you, son,
there is only one
conclusion to living
by the gun.
i'm sick.
the problem is this,
his blood is running down my legs
and i'm out of my mind.
it's a hard life, in fact,
this existential balancing act
between power and gunpowder,
live or die, reload and attack.
you're dead.
the problem is this,
my blood is running through his legs,
and i'm out of bullets.
if you're not with me, you're against me,
a father's love comes with no pity
when you play with papa's guns,
papa's guns don't play, timmy.
we're fucked.
- James "Bear" Rodehaver
(added 05.10.13)
editor's note: So long as we play with toys like these, we are indeed! - mh
Guias
The green guias are paid for.
The seven thin cows
and seven spine-warped bulls
are about to vanish
from our virid pastures.
The Accomplice skipped work today.
He did no show his olive face.
I guess he became weary
of shoveling hen-house shit.
We set his horse free.
My truck wheel fell off:
after driving sixty kilometers
at one hundred thirty kilometers per hour
I turned off the highway upon a dirt road
and felt the thump.
The two calf-killing stallions
were boxed in crates
and although the Calloused-Hand Curator
displayed coins in his palm
I did not offer the star-marked colts.
The Malingerer extended his sick-leave:
I loom patiently outside his locked window
with a hammer in my hand;
I remove rusty animal traps
from the moonlit afternoon.
In town I errand tools and supplies
and take a coffee-break at El Café Local,
The gossip at the table behind me
is that the Rustler was seen at the stationer—
that his pen had run out of ink.
- Stephen Page
(added 05.09.13)
editor's note: When those guidelines indicate the end of famine or the imminency of thieves (which?); when all the usual suspects have fled the scene (where?); it takes a good cup o' joe to clear the head. - mh
Borderline
There’s a thin line between right and wrong.
Of justice done wrongly.
And injustice pulled on the right.
And yet the border between the two lines drawn is straight.
Wherefrom will justice come when the eyes are blind.
While the cloak of love and emotions does not see.
What’s right and has to be.
Needs no ears, no eyes, no proof but remains to be.
Yet there’s a thin border line between right and wrong.
Just when the wind blows, the curtains shall fall.
That’s when the right will have justice.
And that’s when truth shall prevail, that’s all.
- Madhavi Mohandas
(added 05.08.13)
editor's note: Until that curtain falls, use pencil; the angels can use ink. - mh
Composition
He was a jay amongst crows,
Too dazzling and vibrant for their funereal garb
That suited them to a pernicious throng,
Mocking his harlequin attire
While internally shades of green, red, and blue
Flagged their discontent with caulked success.
- Anthony Ward
(1 poem added 05.07.13)
editor's note: All that colored angst locked inside explains the parched crack of their cackled call. Let them crow and strut your stuff; jays, peacocks, eagles, all! - mh
Western Dream
How fortunate we are
to be granted the leisure
to be impatient.
- Lee Mason
(added 05.06.13)
editor's note: Yes, we'd like to waste our own time, thanks very much! - mh
Word Economy
Dear Bill,
Your "To be or not to be"
doesn’t work for me.
Invoke word economy,
tighten your wording:
think B&B/J&B/GB.
Parcy Monious,
The Editor of “Word Economy”.
- Irena Pasvinter
(1 poem added 05.05.13)
editor's note: From one editor to another... (sending thoughts of gratitude to economize a bit, too)... (giggle) - 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...
Bein' Outrageous',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we nixed the nattering bard, editorially encouraged economy; we took our own time to hurry; we jabbed at the jealousy of crows over a jaunty jay; we sought to light a blurred line, wrongs put right in due time; we considered cattle and coffee, lose some, latte the other; we gave good blood for bad gunplay; we raised an appeal to retool our reasoning, death for honor is a raw deal. A strange swirl this; silly to sober. I could use a splash o' cold water and some hair o' the dog. ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Ten years of war and counting
Words can’t be put together,
Not here, not now,
And how are the dead to act?
How is anyone to understand the horror
That has become the mundane?
The everyday.
Our children grow up,
Believing the justice of violence,
Who see death everywhere
And glorified.
The ultimate goal,
An honorable death.
- R.A. Hernandez
(2 poems added 05.11.13)
editor's note: Honor is for the living; the dead don't need it. Teach your children... (Another fine bit of take out from R. A. on his page - check it out.) - mh
We're Fucked.
the problem is this,
his blood is outrunning my legs
and i'm out of breath.
i told you, son,
there is only one
conclusion to living
by the gun.
i'm sick.
the problem is this,
his blood is running down my legs
and i'm out of my mind.
it's a hard life, in fact,
this existential balancing act
between power and gunpowder,
live or die, reload and attack.
you're dead.
the problem is this,
my blood is running through his legs,
and i'm out of bullets.
if you're not with me, you're against me,
a father's love comes with no pity
when you play with papa's guns,
papa's guns don't play, timmy.
we're fucked.
- James "Bear" Rodehaver
(added 05.10.13)
editor's note: So long as we play with toys like these, we are indeed! - mh
Guias
The green guias are paid for.
The seven thin cows
and seven spine-warped bulls
are about to vanish
from our virid pastures.
The Accomplice skipped work today.
He did no show his olive face.
I guess he became weary
of shoveling hen-house shit.
We set his horse free.
My truck wheel fell off:
after driving sixty kilometers
at one hundred thirty kilometers per hour
I turned off the highway upon a dirt road
and felt the thump.
The two calf-killing stallions
were boxed in crates
and although the Calloused-Hand Curator
displayed coins in his palm
I did not offer the star-marked colts.
The Malingerer extended his sick-leave:
I loom patiently outside his locked window
with a hammer in my hand;
I remove rusty animal traps
from the moonlit afternoon.
In town I errand tools and supplies
and take a coffee-break at El Café Local,
The gossip at the table behind me
is that the Rustler was seen at the stationer—
that his pen had run out of ink.
- Stephen Page
(added 05.09.13)
editor's note: When those guidelines indicate the end of famine or the imminency of thieves (which?); when all the usual suspects have fled the scene (where?); it takes a good cup o' joe to clear the head. - mh
Borderline
There’s a thin line between right and wrong.
Of justice done wrongly.
And injustice pulled on the right.
And yet the border between the two lines drawn is straight.
Wherefrom will justice come when the eyes are blind.
While the cloak of love and emotions does not see.
What’s right and has to be.
Needs no ears, no eyes, no proof but remains to be.
Yet there’s a thin border line between right and wrong.
Just when the wind blows, the curtains shall fall.
That’s when the right will have justice.
And that’s when truth shall prevail, that’s all.
- Madhavi Mohandas
(added 05.08.13)
editor's note: Until that curtain falls, use pencil; the angels can use ink. - mh
Composition
He was a jay amongst crows,
Too dazzling and vibrant for their funereal garb
That suited them to a pernicious throng,
Mocking his harlequin attire
While internally shades of green, red, and blue
Flagged their discontent with caulked success.
- Anthony Ward
(1 poem added 05.07.13)
editor's note: All that colored angst locked inside explains the parched crack of their cackled call. Let them crow and strut your stuff; jays, peacocks, eagles, all! - mh
Western Dream
How fortunate we are
to be granted the leisure
to be impatient.
- Lee Mason
(added 05.06.13)
editor's note: Yes, we'd like to waste our own time, thanks very much! - mh
Word Economy
Dear Bill,
Your "To be or not to be"
doesn’t work for me.
Invoke word economy,
tighten your wording:
think B&B/J&B/GB.
Parcy Monious,
The Editor of “Word Economy”.
- Irena Pasvinter
(1 poem added 05.05.13)
editor's note: From one editor to another... (sending thoughts of gratitude to economize a bit, too)... (giggle) - 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...
Bein' Outrageous',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Comments