The Best of Mad Swirl : 10.05.13
"How do poems grow? They grow out of your life." Robert Penn Warren
••• The Mad Gallery •••
Fat Bottom Girls (above) by this month's featured artist, Tyler Malone.
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we took our minds off a trauma (angry and helpless), terrorized, too; we sought succour and sweet release in the art of self; we did not dwell on dark, on fear, but lifted, looked on light, on love; we spoke of a spider and a frigid frau, who fell down beside her; we wrought a random lament over numbers undialed and questions unanswered; we wangled our way 'round a whacked machine in need of warranty repair; we witnessed an erstwhile hero hang up cape to cop some super slacking. ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Even Superman Gets the Blues
My ability to save the world
is somewhat limited today.
I sit here on the bed
with my hands between my knees
staring at the costume and cape
still hanging in the closet.
Not today. Not today.
I think in bed I'll stay.
The world can save itself.
I'll read a tome from my bookshelf
and snuggle under covers
with a feather pillow,
and if the world is still here
tomorrow or whenever I feel better,
I will try to don that cape
and fight to protect
whatever is left.
- Joseph Farley
(1 poem added 10.04.13)
editor's note: Accrued ambivalence clouds crusader conscience; inaction ensues. - mh
CLOSED FOR REPAIRS
I am typing detached parts
on tinfoil,
extended warranty under
formula.
I will science my
stethoscope,
consult the
faucet &
air-condition
a debt.
Tighten your lightbulbs.
It's ignitable.
I enter containment
w/ insulation,
sign here for equity
concentrate.
I could capsule
automatic
w/ additional
service finish:
The styrofoam
is snap-on.
Verify confusion.
It's inflatable.
- Craig Kurtz
(1 poem added 10.04.13)
editor's note: These were the instructions included with my mid-life crisis. Looking for the warranty statement now... - mh
This Door was locked by David Berkowitz
The pig tooth hangs from a vintage nail
the scissors cut and paste Tempe, Arizona
job for a cubicle cowboy
makes one detestable,
numbers never dialed
written on stained Post-It notes
she called me an asshole
and I call her dead
no cigarettes
plenty of blue pills
sweep the memories
under the bed
the sand warps under midnight pressure
unpaid bills
by the
people under the stairs
stare at a spider
watch a meteorite shower at 5 a.m.
don’t have a drink
you can’t afford it
go anyways
charge it
pay later
who fucking cares
do I have anything to live for anymore…
while contemplating,
I can’t answer that dad,
I can’t answer that mom,
I can’t answer that stranger in the gas station.
XXX
- Brett Stout
(added 10.03.13)
editor's note: Yup, might as well; later as now, what's the difference? - mh
A Quiet Neighborhood
I wish he had never come out
from behind the stove, that spider
I stepped on at 4 a.m.
He was a big one
bothering no one.
He didn't see my foot
that hour of the morning.
Reminds me of Mrs. Grimm,
the widow next door.
She took her garbage out
at midnight Sunday.
They found her cold
in the driveway at dawn,
a bullet in her forehead.
Her children swear
she had no enemies.
Survivors of the spider
say the same
about their early riser.
Everyone knows that ours
is a quiet neighborhood.
- Donal Mahoney
(1 poem added 10.02.13)
editor's note: Hmmm. Looks like, in these cases, the worms got the early birds. (Had the pleasure of meeting Donal in person at the Fermoy Poetry Festival this year. This largely-living Irishman is every bit the Mad one his poetry presents him to be. Thanks for keeping your splash in the Swirl as a Contributing Poet, Donal!) - mh
Hearts of Darkness
Charles Marlowe dreams
of ivory and long skinny elephants
caught, entangled in wilderness
My dreams,
have no elephants in the room
better yet,
in the dark distance
exist old mating calls
and ancient Aboriginal lights
a path back
where there are no lines
marked in the sand
no battle waged
against the color of one's skin
and the night married
to colors of amaretto and rose
with such beauty I arose
my enchanted night
wisked away
by the brave sun
© 2013
- Rafael Andrade Garza
(2 poems added 10.01.13)
editor's note: What we fear in the night, rendered harmless in the day. Keep the light on! (Another matter of heart from Rafael on his page - check it out.) - mh
Inner Circle
There is no exit here
No sweet release of sleep, no prayer to soft salvation.
There is only death and degradation of soul.
Not life, no properties of love or fond relation.
Trial of existence with no end.
Yet in this ceaseless horror, in this carnal Hell,
in this my filthy home, cold, without mercy,
in this cage of unrelenting dark,
a spark, a circle of red and black calls to enter.
Here, where awareness centers, threads of rotten vein
play at art, at shocking beauty.
- Laurie Corzett
(1 poem added 09.30.13)
editor's note: If no art, ugliness; if no songs, frustration; if no verses, monotony - no play. (Nice to hear from this Contributing Poet again. Thanks for splashing back in the Swirl, Laurie!) - mh
Wallpaper Roses
little brown eyes peek
behind white cotton sheets
she listens... muffled steps
steal lightly down the hall
she holds her breath
shivers in dark
searing heat
counts pink paper roses
climbing up the wall
One... two... three...four...
now he opens up the door
rough calloused hands
on her white soft hips
inside her tummy
belly button
rips
Five...
hurry Mommy!
Six...
roses are so pretty
growing on the vine
oh so pink
and pretty
seven...
eight...
nine..
- Sharon Frye
(added 09.29.13)
editor's note: The only escape, free the mind; count the roses, climb the vine. - 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, "Just Sleeping" by Pattie Flint: "Death, it should scare you. Sleep doesn’t, I’m sure, even though sleep is the cousin of death." Here's a taste to tempt you...
(photo by Tyler Malone)
I've always hated the smell of almonds. / One time when I was fourteen I was baking some cookies. I think they were some sort of vanilla cranberry shortbread cookie. I was very proficient at baking. / The recipe called for two teaspoons of vanilla extract, but I wasn't looking when I pulled the dark brown glass bottle out of the revolving spice rack in the cupboard, and as I was pouring it, my hand slipped and half the bottle's contents spewed out into the mix below. The stinging smell of almonds wafted up and assailed my nose like a physical blow. I was horrified. It reminded me of the time that I tried to make old fashioned yeast bread but the yeast didn’t take and so the bread was harder than steel. I was reminded of this fact every year when my brother would jokingly re-gift that very same loaf to me for Christmas. But I baked the cookies anyway, while the acrid smell of burnt and bitter almonds seeped slowly out of the cracks in the sides of our oven and permeated the air, smelling like mistaken identity and defeat. Ever since, the mere smell of almond extract was enough to make me feel nauseated. / And now I was smelling it again, that sickly sweet almond smell. Who was stupid enough to think that the taste of almonds was appetizing enough to make concentrate out of, anyway? And what the hell kind of funeral parlor smells like almonds?...
You wanna keep readin'? Of course you wanna! Get the rest of your wanna 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...
Growin'
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
Madelyn Olson
Visual Editor
••• The Mad Gallery •••
Fat Bottom Girls (above) by this month's featured artist, Tyler Malone.
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we took our minds off a trauma (angry and helpless), terrorized, too; we sought succour and sweet release in the art of self; we did not dwell on dark, on fear, but lifted, looked on light, on love; we spoke of a spider and a frigid frau, who fell down beside her; we wrought a random lament over numbers undialed and questions unanswered; we wangled our way 'round a whacked machine in need of warranty repair; we witnessed an erstwhile hero hang up cape to cop some super slacking. ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Even Superman Gets the Blues
My ability to save the world
is somewhat limited today.
I sit here on the bed
with my hands between my knees
staring at the costume and cape
still hanging in the closet.
Not today. Not today.
I think in bed I'll stay.
The world can save itself.
I'll read a tome from my bookshelf
and snuggle under covers
with a feather pillow,
and if the world is still here
tomorrow or whenever I feel better,
I will try to don that cape
and fight to protect
whatever is left.
- Joseph Farley
(1 poem added 10.04.13)
editor's note: Accrued ambivalence clouds crusader conscience; inaction ensues. - mh
CLOSED FOR REPAIRS
I am typing detached parts
on tinfoil,
extended warranty under
formula.
I will science my
stethoscope,
consult the
faucet &
air-condition
a debt.
Tighten your lightbulbs.
It's ignitable.
I enter containment
w/ insulation,
sign here for equity
concentrate.
I could capsule
automatic
w/ additional
service finish:
The styrofoam
is snap-on.
Verify confusion.
It's inflatable.
- Craig Kurtz
(1 poem added 10.04.13)
editor's note: These were the instructions included with my mid-life crisis. Looking for the warranty statement now... - mh
This Door was locked by David Berkowitz
The pig tooth hangs from a vintage nail
the scissors cut and paste Tempe, Arizona
job for a cubicle cowboy
makes one detestable,
numbers never dialed
written on stained Post-It notes
she called me an asshole
and I call her dead
no cigarettes
plenty of blue pills
sweep the memories
under the bed
the sand warps under midnight pressure
unpaid bills
by the
people under the stairs
stare at a spider
watch a meteorite shower at 5 a.m.
don’t have a drink
you can’t afford it
go anyways
charge it
pay later
who fucking cares
do I have anything to live for anymore…
while contemplating,
I can’t answer that dad,
I can’t answer that mom,
I can’t answer that stranger in the gas station.
XXX
- Brett Stout
(added 10.03.13)
editor's note: Yup, might as well; later as now, what's the difference? - mh
A Quiet Neighborhood
I wish he had never come out
from behind the stove, that spider
I stepped on at 4 a.m.
He was a big one
bothering no one.
He didn't see my foot
that hour of the morning.
Reminds me of Mrs. Grimm,
the widow next door.
She took her garbage out
at midnight Sunday.
They found her cold
in the driveway at dawn,
a bullet in her forehead.
Her children swear
she had no enemies.
Survivors of the spider
say the same
about their early riser.
Everyone knows that ours
is a quiet neighborhood.
- Donal Mahoney
(1 poem added 10.02.13)
editor's note: Hmmm. Looks like, in these cases, the worms got the early birds. (Had the pleasure of meeting Donal in person at the Fermoy Poetry Festival this year. This largely-living Irishman is every bit the Mad one his poetry presents him to be. Thanks for keeping your splash in the Swirl as a Contributing Poet, Donal!) - mh
Hearts of Darkness
Charles Marlowe dreams
of ivory and long skinny elephants
caught, entangled in wilderness
My dreams,
have no elephants in the room
better yet,
in the dark distance
exist old mating calls
and ancient Aboriginal lights
a path back
where there are no lines
marked in the sand
no battle waged
against the color of one's skin
and the night married
to colors of amaretto and rose
with such beauty I arose
my enchanted night
wisked away
by the brave sun
© 2013
- Rafael Andrade Garza
(2 poems added 10.01.13)
editor's note: What we fear in the night, rendered harmless in the day. Keep the light on! (Another matter of heart from Rafael on his page - check it out.) - mh
Inner Circle
There is no exit here
No sweet release of sleep, no prayer to soft salvation.
There is only death and degradation of soul.
Not life, no properties of love or fond relation.
Trial of existence with no end.
Yet in this ceaseless horror, in this carnal Hell,
in this my filthy home, cold, without mercy,
in this cage of unrelenting dark,
a spark, a circle of red and black calls to enter.
Here, where awareness centers, threads of rotten vein
play at art, at shocking beauty.
- Laurie Corzett
(1 poem added 09.30.13)
editor's note: If no art, ugliness; if no songs, frustration; if no verses, monotony - no play. (Nice to hear from this Contributing Poet again. Thanks for splashing back in the Swirl, Laurie!) - mh
Wallpaper Roses
little brown eyes peek
behind white cotton sheets
she listens... muffled steps
steal lightly down the hall
she holds her breath
shivers in dark
searing heat
counts pink paper roses
climbing up the wall
One... two... three...four...
now he opens up the door
rough calloused hands
on her white soft hips
inside her tummy
belly button
rips
Five...
hurry Mommy!
Six...
roses are so pretty
growing on the vine
oh so pink
and pretty
seven...
eight...
nine..
- Sharon Frye
(added 09.29.13)
editor's note: The only escape, free the mind; count the roses, climb the vine. - 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, "Just Sleeping" by Pattie Flint: "Death, it should scare you. Sleep doesn’t, I’m sure, even though sleep is the cousin of death." Here's a taste to tempt you...
(photo by Tyler Malone)
I've always hated the smell of almonds. / One time when I was fourteen I was baking some cookies. I think they were some sort of vanilla cranberry shortbread cookie. I was very proficient at baking. / The recipe called for two teaspoons of vanilla extract, but I wasn't looking when I pulled the dark brown glass bottle out of the revolving spice rack in the cupboard, and as I was pouring it, my hand slipped and half the bottle's contents spewed out into the mix below. The stinging smell of almonds wafted up and assailed my nose like a physical blow. I was horrified. It reminded me of the time that I tried to make old fashioned yeast bread but the yeast didn’t take and so the bread was harder than steel. I was reminded of this fact every year when my brother would jokingly re-gift that very same loaf to me for Christmas. But I baked the cookies anyway, while the acrid smell of burnt and bitter almonds seeped slowly out of the cracks in the sides of our oven and permeated the air, smelling like mistaken identity and defeat. Ever since, the mere smell of almond extract was enough to make me feel nauseated. / And now I was smelling it again, that sickly sweet almond smell. Who was stupid enough to think that the taste of almonds was appetizing enough to make concentrate out of, anyway? And what the hell kind of funeral parlor smells like almonds?...
You wanna keep readin'? Of course you wanna! Get the rest of your wanna 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...
Growin'
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
Madelyn Olson
Visual Editor
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