The Best of Mad Swirl : 09.28.13
"Work while you have the light. You are responsible for the talent that has been entrusted to you." Henri Frederic Amiel
••• The Mad Gallery •••
Corn Hill (above) by this month's featured artist, Tyler Malone.
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we courted a coquette to buss the breeze; we wished a farewell with water, worn out; we blew a chance, ciggy smoke sputtering, at hot happenstance, bumbling an' muttering; we entered abodes where, unallowed, we wrested residency, reached for cloud; we deserted a room under 2D gaze to enjoy abundance in 3D days; we strained for sky while gripped by ground; we watched a child, all full of how, fly high, first free from mother now. ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
THE FLEDGING
Mother of the mother now,
the daughter stoops over the nest,
over the mother-child,
cocooned in white,
clasping her hands,
whispers love,
let’s go,
watches her fly away.
Soar.
- Robert E. Petras
(1 poem added 09.28.13)
editor's note: Mother life, mother ever; feathers dry, she gives us a nudge. Yes, we soar! (Thanks, Bob!) - mh
Two Trees
Two dead trees stripped of leaves
and all branches but the mains
open skyward to hold the distance.
In their holding three peaks trace
the horns of the devil’s crown.
His brow will yet be under proud feet,
but what weight to carry the liberty of ascension
back to two trees sunken in the ground
like hands tied and desperate fingers reaching.
- Christopher Raley
(added 09.27.13)
editor's note: Devil and Divinity, earth and sky; a bruised heel and a will to fly. There go you and there go I. - mh
Daguerreotype
She fell in love with a picture
from a thousand years ago
of green eyes smiling (but it was a smirk)
she didn't know it was yesterday
a day that never was, a time she'd never know.
The man behind a painting well reversed
lay sleeping under cover, red eyes shut
that would be bright, long hair greasy
under guises of the night, voices raspy
gasping out history, her story in his sight.
She was young but much too old.
He shivered in the heat, sweating
in the cold of winter days, gathered
women, lied of youth and lithe visage
and they were dazzled, drugged by shot matte.
She was growing younger every day
and he resembled photos fading
in the way old photos do, sepia
browns and grays, she found one
hidden up his sleeve, he died that way.
She was born again, he never was,
into a land where souls were golden coin
and clear as glass, she saw everything,
revealed at last as what was true and
what had never been, she loved a photo,
left a photo hanging in a room, no windows there.
- Rose Aiello Morales
(2 poems added 09.26.13)
editor's note: When in pursuit of picture-perfect love, love a perfect picture. (Another good one from Rose on her page, check it out.) - mh
I've Slept in Your Bed Six Times
I only have fun
at other people’s homes.
I steal their friends,
I steal their memories,
and I steal their shampoo to
use their showers at five in the
still drunken morning.
There are dirt clods on the
tiled floors,
archives of another eventful night
I only pretended to be a part of.
I let the scalding water pound on my back
until I’m chapped.
I don’t think about water or heating
bills because they are not my burden this morning,
and I cry like a frustrated child
because I wish feverishly not to be a guest,
to be a resident.
To be a nomad
is to only observe the silver lining,
but I want the cumulus in-between.
- Taylor Gall
(added 09.25.13)
editor's note: A nomadic muse for mortgaged memories. Keep the silver polish handy. - mh
AH, TYPICAL
I walk outside to grab a fag
A nice little blaze-up away from work
To my surprise I hear a voice
‘Hi,’ it greets, ‘do we know each other?’
I turn to face a beautiful creature
And immediately stutter
‘No, or at least I don’t...’
I face away by turning
My back to this woman
Why I’m not sure
I’m not stoned or drunk
For if I were it wouldn’t
Be like this, I’d be the
Life and soul!
- Bradford Middleton
(1 poem added 09.24.13)
editor's note: Soulless in life when the party is off. Will these planets never align? - mh
Water is Patient
There is something tugging at me,
pulling my eyes to the corner of the room,
to the floor,
to the ceiling
to everywhere but your face
There is something wrong here,
something we can’t talk about
and it’s creeping into me,
filling me, filling us
like water filling a hole
and I want to tell you that water is patient.
It will wait
and wear down
mountains and drown cities.
It will wear the skin from your bones,
the words from your tongue,
Water is patient
and it will always win
which means,
you and I, baby
are destined to lose.
- Ally Malinenko
(1 poem added 09.23.13)
editor's note: When a whole lot o' love turns a hole, lot o' wet. - mh
Indian Summer
If I caressed you
like a warm autumn wind,
would you leap to my touch
like leaves in November?
And while I confessed
on your cheek, cool and pink,
my ache for your lips,
in a fall of words,
Would your mild breath
then quiver through mine,
like an Indian summer
blowing kisses goodbye?
- Gordon Moyer
(added 09.22.13)
editor's note: And if I fall for you, would you...? - mh
••• Short Stories •••
Need a read? Of course you do! Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick-of-the-week short story, "Fighting" by Rose Aiello Morales: "Sometimes when looking into the past, we see our future; we see the madness of adulthood: making war and making love." Here's a taste to tempt you...
(photo by Tyler Malone)
Sometimes it gets into my dreams. English/Italian words, one language turning into see jack fuck you geloso cagna asshole và a farti fottere! run. Someone's hammering nails, soda bottles are falling, marbles are rolling on the floor. / Then I wake and I know just what it is. They're fighting again. Mommy and Daddy screaming around the house, doors slamming, Daddy argues better because he knows more languages. Mommy knows some Yiddish, but not enough to say what she really wants to say. / If I'm in my room, I stay there. I never want to be in the middle, but sometimes it happens. Mommy grabs me so Daddy won't hit her. Daddy promises me that he'll take me away and Mommy will never see me again. (I wish that one were true)...
You wanna keep readin'? Of course you wanna! Get the rest of your wanna on here!
••• Open Mic •••
Join Mad Swirl this 1st Wednesday of October (aka 10.02.13) at 8:00 sharp when we will swirl it up madly in the live way that we do every month. Get to the Lounge early, dig upon the musical musings of Swirve and this month's feature, poet Rafael Andrade Garza! And stick around after our feature set to get your madness on one of the 17 spots on our list... first come, first on the list! Which means... get there early!
Come one, come all! Mad poets, musicians, actors, singers, circus freaks and Elvis impersonators... come-n-strut-yo-stuff. Come to participate. Come to appreciate. Come to celebrate. Come to be a part of this collective creative love child we affectionately call Mad Swirl.
Got questions? Visit www.MadSwirl.com for more details.
AND, as you may or may not know, every 1st Wednesday we get all giddy with the swirlin' madness. COMING SOON:
November: Cheyenne Gallion
December: Chris Zimmerly
•••••••
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...
Bein' Responsible
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
Madelyn Olson
Visual Editor
••• The Mad Gallery •••
Corn Hill (above) by this month's featured artist, Tyler Malone.
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we courted a coquette to buss the breeze; we wished a farewell with water, worn out; we blew a chance, ciggy smoke sputtering, at hot happenstance, bumbling an' muttering; we entered abodes where, unallowed, we wrested residency, reached for cloud; we deserted a room under 2D gaze to enjoy abundance in 3D days; we strained for sky while gripped by ground; we watched a child, all full of how, fly high, first free from mother now. ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
THE FLEDGING
Mother of the mother now,
the daughter stoops over the nest,
over the mother-child,
cocooned in white,
clasping her hands,
whispers love,
let’s go,
watches her fly away.
Soar.
- Robert E. Petras
(1 poem added 09.28.13)
editor's note: Mother life, mother ever; feathers dry, she gives us a nudge. Yes, we soar! (Thanks, Bob!) - mh
Two Trees
Two dead trees stripped of leaves
and all branches but the mains
open skyward to hold the distance.
In their holding three peaks trace
the horns of the devil’s crown.
His brow will yet be under proud feet,
but what weight to carry the liberty of ascension
back to two trees sunken in the ground
like hands tied and desperate fingers reaching.
- Christopher Raley
(added 09.27.13)
editor's note: Devil and Divinity, earth and sky; a bruised heel and a will to fly. There go you and there go I. - mh
Daguerreotype
She fell in love with a picture
from a thousand years ago
of green eyes smiling (but it was a smirk)
she didn't know it was yesterday
a day that never was, a time she'd never know.
The man behind a painting well reversed
lay sleeping under cover, red eyes shut
that would be bright, long hair greasy
under guises of the night, voices raspy
gasping out history, her story in his sight.
She was young but much too old.
He shivered in the heat, sweating
in the cold of winter days, gathered
women, lied of youth and lithe visage
and they were dazzled, drugged by shot matte.
She was growing younger every day
and he resembled photos fading
in the way old photos do, sepia
browns and grays, she found one
hidden up his sleeve, he died that way.
She was born again, he never was,
into a land where souls were golden coin
and clear as glass, she saw everything,
revealed at last as what was true and
what had never been, she loved a photo,
left a photo hanging in a room, no windows there.
- Rose Aiello Morales
(2 poems added 09.26.13)
editor's note: When in pursuit of picture-perfect love, love a perfect picture. (Another good one from Rose on her page, check it out.) - mh
I've Slept in Your Bed Six Times
I only have fun
at other people’s homes.
I steal their friends,
I steal their memories,
and I steal their shampoo to
use their showers at five in the
still drunken morning.
There are dirt clods on the
tiled floors,
archives of another eventful night
I only pretended to be a part of.
I let the scalding water pound on my back
until I’m chapped.
I don’t think about water or heating
bills because they are not my burden this morning,
and I cry like a frustrated child
because I wish feverishly not to be a guest,
to be a resident.
To be a nomad
is to only observe the silver lining,
but I want the cumulus in-between.
- Taylor Gall
(added 09.25.13)
editor's note: A nomadic muse for mortgaged memories. Keep the silver polish handy. - mh
AH, TYPICAL
I walk outside to grab a fag
A nice little blaze-up away from work
To my surprise I hear a voice
‘Hi,’ it greets, ‘do we know each other?’
I turn to face a beautiful creature
And immediately stutter
‘No, or at least I don’t...’
I face away by turning
My back to this woman
Why I’m not sure
I’m not stoned or drunk
For if I were it wouldn’t
Be like this, I’d be the
Life and soul!
- Bradford Middleton
(1 poem added 09.24.13)
editor's note: Soulless in life when the party is off. Will these planets never align? - mh
Water is Patient
There is something tugging at me,
pulling my eyes to the corner of the room,
to the floor,
to the ceiling
to everywhere but your face
There is something wrong here,
something we can’t talk about
and it’s creeping into me,
filling me, filling us
like water filling a hole
and I want to tell you that water is patient.
It will wait
and wear down
mountains and drown cities.
It will wear the skin from your bones,
the words from your tongue,
Water is patient
and it will always win
which means,
you and I, baby
are destined to lose.
- Ally Malinenko
(1 poem added 09.23.13)
editor's note: When a whole lot o' love turns a hole, lot o' wet. - mh
Indian Summer
If I caressed you
like a warm autumn wind,
would you leap to my touch
like leaves in November?
And while I confessed
on your cheek, cool and pink,
my ache for your lips,
in a fall of words,
Would your mild breath
then quiver through mine,
like an Indian summer
blowing kisses goodbye?
- Gordon Moyer
(added 09.22.13)
editor's note: And if I fall for you, would you...? - mh
••• Short Stories •••
Need a read? Of course you do! Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick-of-the-week short story, "Fighting" by Rose Aiello Morales: "Sometimes when looking into the past, we see our future; we see the madness of adulthood: making war and making love." Here's a taste to tempt you...
(photo by Tyler Malone)
Sometimes it gets into my dreams. English/Italian words, one language turning into see jack fuck you geloso cagna asshole và a farti fottere! run. Someone's hammering nails, soda bottles are falling, marbles are rolling on the floor. / Then I wake and I know just what it is. They're fighting again. Mommy and Daddy screaming around the house, doors slamming, Daddy argues better because he knows more languages. Mommy knows some Yiddish, but not enough to say what she really wants to say. / If I'm in my room, I stay there. I never want to be in the middle, but sometimes it happens. Mommy grabs me so Daddy won't hit her. Daddy promises me that he'll take me away and Mommy will never see me again. (I wish that one were true)...
You wanna keep readin'? Of course you wanna! Get the rest of your wanna on here!
••• Open Mic •••
Join Mad Swirl this 1st Wednesday of October (aka 10.02.13) at 8:00 sharp when we will swirl it up madly in the live way that we do every month. Get to the Lounge early, dig upon the musical musings of Swirve and this month's feature, poet Rafael Andrade Garza! And stick around after our feature set to get your madness on one of the 17 spots on our list... first come, first on the list! Which means... get there early!
Come one, come all! Mad poets, musicians, actors, singers, circus freaks and Elvis impersonators... come-n-strut-yo-stuff. Come to participate. Come to appreciate. Come to celebrate. Come to be a part of this collective creative love child we affectionately call Mad Swirl.
Got questions? Visit www.MadSwirl.com for more details.
AND, as you may or may not know, every 1st Wednesday we get all giddy with the swirlin' madness. COMING SOON:
November: Cheyenne Gallion
December: Chris Zimmerly
•••••••
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...
Bein' Responsible
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
Madelyn Olson
Visual Editor
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