The Best of Mad Swirl : 03.01.14
"Sit in reverie and watch the changing color of the waves that break upon the idle seashore of the mind." Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
••• The Mad Gallery •••
Jello Mirror (above) by contributing artists K.R. Copeland/Jeff Crouch.
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum...we grappled with the ghosting of one gone love; we strove to suck air into poet's life, struggled to sequence words from strife; we delved into depths of dryad divulgences; we bounced to brash imbibed banter, staggered to stand 'neath a stark dawn decanter; we emoted unchecked to old IED encounters; we wrested a raucous rip-tide rejection to frolic in foam from a fresh disconnection; we harbored Harley hounds downtown, not done with the scene, but lonely and lean, except for the ones who stayed true. So, true up your leaning lintils, let your doors open wide. We've nothing to hide. ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
NIGHT OWLS
We were the last
of the Friday night owls,
our young band
when we wet met to jam
in the Big Apple
on city streets passing us
with intersecting signals
in a once red light district
our parents called it,
like dances of the 80's
now forgotten,
we take a ride
on a stolen Harley
and abruptly cut out
with every nightfall excuse
of always being late,
now we're moving sidewise
blinded by new construction
in a rush of city traffic
prepared against us
outside a downtown club
that has legendary jazz
with a run for my life
along tinted bar
and gig soundings,
suddenly flakes of snow
appear on my pea jacket
knowing the raw reality
of another dead cold storm
will not change my fate
in tempests of traffic
on weary alleyways,
yet you went with me
even as I told you
I'm still pledged to a chip
on my dark shoulder
always wishing to recapture
back my energy
from bygone strangers
even those who heat up
the atmosphere
in boiling altercations,affairs
accidents,rumors,encounters
on this familiar road
which separates us
from my own blame games,
you were always there,
even when we bombed.
- B.Z. Niditch
(1 poem added 03.01.14)
editor's note: Yes, those are the best ones; who stay even when we bomb. Nice one, BZ! - mh
leaving the dream ajar
my hands came clean
when you forced them into yours
'you'll be happier with me'
you nagged,
rubbing the button on my shirt–
i could feel the sea
breaking its promise with the sun
as your ship leaned
into its palm
having walked miles around you,
around us
i screamed at the stone, hot on the sand
as i fumbled with the idea of going with you
'let the tide nibble your foot'
you'd said
'let it remind the blister
which ocean it came from'
so i felt the froth,
the pull of the current
and i begged the waves to bully you
to push you towards the horizon
so i'd lose sight
of your distilled temper–
the quiet anger you'd bury
when i let go
- Mandolyn
(added 02.28.14)
editor's note: Over billows and buttons and blisters bullied - breakup. (Too, bad for the boy.) - mh
P.T.S.D.
Fossilized memories rebirth, obliterating pursuit of happiness, uncultivated mind with an interpretation of fallow espousing renunciation of self-destruction, mental filtering the culprit as the body ossifies and words of comfort don’t satisfy a mind that orbits within an illusionary prison projecting demeanors effecting physically and mentally, mind spirals out of control; lost hope, no willingness and broken conviction having no recognition of a mental condition only the spontaneous reminiscence of a war.
- James Brown
(1 poem added 02.27.14)
editor's note: When memory is reflex, jump down, hit the ground, wail and cry; though all in the head, the illness is real. - mh
Decanter
Released, unleashed,
this spirit is free.
The pale liquid falls,
the aroma wafts.
Just for that moment,
as it pours from a height,
to the depths of the glass.
Innocently it swirls;
the light glimmers through
despite the darkness
that lurks within each drop.
It cascades down;
over crushed ice with hint
of fresh leafy mint,
shocked to life
by the chilled zest of zingy lime,
calling you in sultry tones.
Slowly you cradle him close;
savouring that first taste
as he passes your lips,
you tongue and explore,
teasing your senses
till your mind blows!
Eyes wild, ready to dance.
Bodies move,
in rhythm and heat,
already embraced,
submerged in the Mojito.
Sails blowing free,
Decanter,
cute one calls time.
Eyes open to morning skies,
heads screaming
and you croak, why?
Memories now pour.
Smile,
Decanter,
You laugh...
And think
...oh shit!
© 2013
- Polly Munnelly
(added 02.26.14)
editor's note: What pours out, pours back again. Decanter always has the last laugh! (Eat your heart out, Ron Bacardi!) - mh
WHISPERS OF EARTH AND WIND
She inhales the forest
and holds it in, lets
vines curl around
her heart. Musky scents
of log moss and lichen drift
through her hair.
She eats wild thimbleberries
and stains her tongue, reads
the past in faces of stones.
She becomes soft dirt,
shrugs off each footprint
that has moved across
the path of her skin,
learns to shift
with the wind.
She lifts a finch's feather
and becomes weightless,
floats to the crown
of a hickory and finds
that her hollow bones
can whistle like flutes.
Her voice echoes
through the valley
as a rustle of leaves.
- Patty Dickson Pieczka
(1 poem added 02.25.14)
editor's note: And she'll gentle the spirit of any who give her an ear. Listen... - mh
SUFFOCATION
My days begin with short sighs
and end with a long one.
Reluctantly, I look back
at the miles completed each day.
They resemble the scribbling
of a young child. Meaningless—
like a dream lost in the waking. My desires
are red coals in a furnace. My soles—
on sharp edges— moving to re-realize
that change is like a slow, painful death.
What zigzags and circles
this life has become!
Like strands of straw entangled
on the spike of a moving bicycle,
I'm just making much noise of myself.
In the extremes of angry thoughts,
I curse and confess. I explain
to my people why I've been so negative.
And all they do is sigh with me!
Thwarted, my life is— a creature in a cage,
restless; a fish on a hook, gasping and giving itself
to the hookers. I see them enjoy
the dish that they turn me into. My sweat
is their salt; my weakness, their strength.
They're black cobras that don't stop following
even in my dreams. I don't feel sorry but mad,
mad at these sinful souls.
They stink from afar. I see my flesh
stuck between their teeth. Their yellow teeth
that I want to yank. Their treacherous tongues
that I want to sever. Their whole system
that I want to put on fire. Shameless!
They dance a naked dance in their vanity
and lose sense of who their mother is. What,
what can be expected in these crowds of bogus people?
- Haris Adhikari
(1 poem added 02.24.14)
editor's note: Make more noise! Allow less of bogus people (except their transformation into fellow noise-makers). - mh
A tear in every line
I wasn’t prepared for the stillness
then again how could I have been?
It was personal, life had ended
I was destroyed in that instant.
Death lying there dismantled me
I just wanted to be a child again.
I needed someone to tell me,
to tell me it was going to be alright.
That never came and the offering
was welcome but I shunned it.
Their sympathy was a detachment,
I couldn’t be detached from my loss.
I willed her every laborious breath
knowing each one could be her last.
When it came I still wasn’t ready
I wasn’t prepared for the stillness.
- DCM
(added 02.23.14)
editor's note: Sad is the passing; hardest always on the living. - mh
••• Short Stories •••
Thirsty for a read? Well we got just the thing to quench your thirst! Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick-of-the-week short story, "Back to Bad Homburg, Again" by Addie Soaraki: "The next time you see that vagrant that you pretend sitting there by your favorite coffee shop’s door, strike up a chat. They could be the most thrilling derelict in existence, with stories collecting in their teeth like lint in your pockets." Here's a taste to whistle…
photo courtesy of Tyler Malone
Like, for sure. Got my gutter crown on and I’m pitching rocks from the bank of the crick, drinking cheap beer, a full quart of rot-gut, malt liquor really, and that’s about all there is. For me, at least.
Did I say the park’s gone dark? It’s amazing when you’re sitting in the cool evening of the fall, your back against a tree, maybe an oak or a sumac—how the heck am I supposed to know? I’m not a botanist and biology is not an interest here, man—so satisfied with the iPod and swell of warmth in the stomach that you’re out of Swisher Sweets and it isn’t even 7:30.
All the benches are broken. Gang-bangers. You know, fourteen-year-olds out for the thrill of empires nobody even knows exist except the gangs, the rival gangs, and the other gangs, and then the gangs outside the other gangs, a concentric circle of military activity right under my damned nose.
At least the grass is green. There’s the thrill of a chill after walking miles only to end up in the park like we all do, anyway.
Oh. Sorry for the graveyard humor. At this point, death is so absurd as to make a guy in a battered Homburg that used to be gray before the soot got to it, kettle curl about as limp as I am right now.
Sure. I’m a gimp. Hobbled by the God Almighty dollar. Don’t ask why, just die, go numb and call it artistry. Who cares? I couldn’t draw a stick figure without it being a crook. Which is kind of lame and flawed because beauty is what you want it to be, right?
Go ahead, ghosts; write it down. After all, you’re all the parts of me I left behind when I left the so-called physical world to go on a lark through the park in the dark to make a spark and avoid the narc...
You wanna keep readin'? Of course you wanna! Get the rest of drink... er, we mean READ on here!
••• Open Mic •••
Join Mad Swirl this 1st Wednesday of March (aka 03.01.14), 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, Phil Brewer & Friends! And stick around to get yourself a spot 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 Mad Swirl’s Open Mic page for more details.
AND, as you may or may not know, every 1st Wednesday we get all giddy with the swirlin' madness. COMING in April, ArtLoveMagic
••• Expanding the Madness •••
In case you didn’t hear, Mad Swirl has launched a GoFundMe page. The purpose behind the fundraiser is to "Expand the Madness o' the Swirl World”. Just what does that exactly mean? It means that the Mad Swirl staff got together to list some projects we have been wanting to do to extend the Mad radius of the Swirl. We feel its current pulling and compelling us to do more! But sometimes doing more means we need funding to do all we plan on doing.
For more info on just exactly what we got in mind, as well as to help the mad cause (aka DONATE), please visit our GoFundMe page here.
(For those that have already donated, thank you! It really is wonderful to see that we have other folks out there that believe in us and what we do at Mad Swirl. Each and every one of you have been a huge part in our successes in your own ways... whether it's contributing to our Poetry Forum, performing at our open mic, "liking" our posts, and now by sharing your hard-earned monies with us. For all the staff here on this side of the madness, our sincerest thanks to you all for helping grow OUR Mad Swirl.)
•••••••
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...
Reverring,
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
••• The Mad Gallery •••
Jello Mirror (above) by contributing artists K.R. Copeland/Jeff Crouch.
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum...we grappled with the ghosting of one gone love; we strove to suck air into poet's life, struggled to sequence words from strife; we delved into depths of dryad divulgences; we bounced to brash imbibed banter, staggered to stand 'neath a stark dawn decanter; we emoted unchecked to old IED encounters; we wrested a raucous rip-tide rejection to frolic in foam from a fresh disconnection; we harbored Harley hounds downtown, not done with the scene, but lonely and lean, except for the ones who stayed true. So, true up your leaning lintils, let your doors open wide. We've nothing to hide. ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
NIGHT OWLS
We were the last
of the Friday night owls,
our young band
when we wet met to jam
in the Big Apple
on city streets passing us
with intersecting signals
in a once red light district
our parents called it,
like dances of the 80's
now forgotten,
we take a ride
on a stolen Harley
and abruptly cut out
with every nightfall excuse
of always being late,
now we're moving sidewise
blinded by new construction
in a rush of city traffic
prepared against us
outside a downtown club
that has legendary jazz
with a run for my life
along tinted bar
and gig soundings,
suddenly flakes of snow
appear on my pea jacket
knowing the raw reality
of another dead cold storm
will not change my fate
in tempests of traffic
on weary alleyways,
yet you went with me
even as I told you
I'm still pledged to a chip
on my dark shoulder
always wishing to recapture
back my energy
from bygone strangers
even those who heat up
the atmosphere
in boiling altercations,affairs
accidents,rumors,encounters
on this familiar road
which separates us
from my own blame games,
you were always there,
even when we bombed.
- B.Z. Niditch
(1 poem added 03.01.14)
editor's note: Yes, those are the best ones; who stay even when we bomb. Nice one, BZ! - mh
leaving the dream ajar
my hands came clean
when you forced them into yours
'you'll be happier with me'
you nagged,
rubbing the button on my shirt–
i could feel the sea
breaking its promise with the sun
as your ship leaned
into its palm
having walked miles around you,
around us
i screamed at the stone, hot on the sand
as i fumbled with the idea of going with you
'let the tide nibble your foot'
you'd said
'let it remind the blister
which ocean it came from'
so i felt the froth,
the pull of the current
and i begged the waves to bully you
to push you towards the horizon
so i'd lose sight
of your distilled temper–
the quiet anger you'd bury
when i let go
- Mandolyn
(added 02.28.14)
editor's note: Over billows and buttons and blisters bullied - breakup. (Too, bad for the boy.) - mh
P.T.S.D.
Fossilized memories rebirth, obliterating pursuit of happiness, uncultivated mind with an interpretation of fallow espousing renunciation of self-destruction, mental filtering the culprit as the body ossifies and words of comfort don’t satisfy a mind that orbits within an illusionary prison projecting demeanors effecting physically and mentally, mind spirals out of control; lost hope, no willingness and broken conviction having no recognition of a mental condition only the spontaneous reminiscence of a war.
- James Brown
(1 poem added 02.27.14)
editor's note: When memory is reflex, jump down, hit the ground, wail and cry; though all in the head, the illness is real. - mh
Decanter
Released, unleashed,
this spirit is free.
The pale liquid falls,
the aroma wafts.
Just for that moment,
as it pours from a height,
to the depths of the glass.
Innocently it swirls;
the light glimmers through
despite the darkness
that lurks within each drop.
It cascades down;
over crushed ice with hint
of fresh leafy mint,
shocked to life
by the chilled zest of zingy lime,
calling you in sultry tones.
Slowly you cradle him close;
savouring that first taste
as he passes your lips,
you tongue and explore,
teasing your senses
till your mind blows!
Eyes wild, ready to dance.
Bodies move,
in rhythm and heat,
already embraced,
submerged in the Mojito.
Sails blowing free,
Decanter,
cute one calls time.
Eyes open to morning skies,
heads screaming
and you croak, why?
Memories now pour.
Smile,
Decanter,
You laugh...
And think
...oh shit!
© 2013
- Polly Munnelly
(added 02.26.14)
editor's note: What pours out, pours back again. Decanter always has the last laugh! (Eat your heart out, Ron Bacardi!) - mh
WHISPERS OF EARTH AND WIND
She inhales the forest
and holds it in, lets
vines curl around
her heart. Musky scents
of log moss and lichen drift
through her hair.
She eats wild thimbleberries
and stains her tongue, reads
the past in faces of stones.
She becomes soft dirt,
shrugs off each footprint
that has moved across
the path of her skin,
learns to shift
with the wind.
She lifts a finch's feather
and becomes weightless,
floats to the crown
of a hickory and finds
that her hollow bones
can whistle like flutes.
Her voice echoes
through the valley
as a rustle of leaves.
- Patty Dickson Pieczka
(1 poem added 02.25.14)
editor's note: And she'll gentle the spirit of any who give her an ear. Listen... - mh
SUFFOCATION
My days begin with short sighs
and end with a long one.
Reluctantly, I look back
at the miles completed each day.
They resemble the scribbling
of a young child. Meaningless—
like a dream lost in the waking. My desires
are red coals in a furnace. My soles—
on sharp edges— moving to re-realize
that change is like a slow, painful death.
What zigzags and circles
this life has become!
Like strands of straw entangled
on the spike of a moving bicycle,
I'm just making much noise of myself.
In the extremes of angry thoughts,
I curse and confess. I explain
to my people why I've been so negative.
And all they do is sigh with me!
Thwarted, my life is— a creature in a cage,
restless; a fish on a hook, gasping and giving itself
to the hookers. I see them enjoy
the dish that they turn me into. My sweat
is their salt; my weakness, their strength.
They're black cobras that don't stop following
even in my dreams. I don't feel sorry but mad,
mad at these sinful souls.
They stink from afar. I see my flesh
stuck between their teeth. Their yellow teeth
that I want to yank. Their treacherous tongues
that I want to sever. Their whole system
that I want to put on fire. Shameless!
They dance a naked dance in their vanity
and lose sense of who their mother is. What,
what can be expected in these crowds of bogus people?
- Haris Adhikari
(1 poem added 02.24.14)
editor's note: Make more noise! Allow less of bogus people (except their transformation into fellow noise-makers). - mh
A tear in every line
I wasn’t prepared for the stillness
then again how could I have been?
It was personal, life had ended
I was destroyed in that instant.
Death lying there dismantled me
I just wanted to be a child again.
I needed someone to tell me,
to tell me it was going to be alright.
That never came and the offering
was welcome but I shunned it.
Their sympathy was a detachment,
I couldn’t be detached from my loss.
I willed her every laborious breath
knowing each one could be her last.
When it came I still wasn’t ready
I wasn’t prepared for the stillness.
- DCM
(added 02.23.14)
editor's note: Sad is the passing; hardest always on the living. - mh
••• Short Stories •••
Thirsty for a read? Well we got just the thing to quench your thirst! Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick-of-the-week short story, "Back to Bad Homburg, Again" by Addie Soaraki: "The next time you see that vagrant that you pretend sitting there by your favorite coffee shop’s door, strike up a chat. They could be the most thrilling derelict in existence, with stories collecting in their teeth like lint in your pockets." Here's a taste to whistle…
Like, for sure. Got my gutter crown on and I’m pitching rocks from the bank of the crick, drinking cheap beer, a full quart of rot-gut, malt liquor really, and that’s about all there is. For me, at least.
Did I say the park’s gone dark? It’s amazing when you’re sitting in the cool evening of the fall, your back against a tree, maybe an oak or a sumac—how the heck am I supposed to know? I’m not a botanist and biology is not an interest here, man—so satisfied with the iPod and swell of warmth in the stomach that you’re out of Swisher Sweets and it isn’t even 7:30.
All the benches are broken. Gang-bangers. You know, fourteen-year-olds out for the thrill of empires nobody even knows exist except the gangs, the rival gangs, and the other gangs, and then the gangs outside the other gangs, a concentric circle of military activity right under my damned nose.
At least the grass is green. There’s the thrill of a chill after walking miles only to end up in the park like we all do, anyway.
Oh. Sorry for the graveyard humor. At this point, death is so absurd as to make a guy in a battered Homburg that used to be gray before the soot got to it, kettle curl about as limp as I am right now.
Sure. I’m a gimp. Hobbled by the God Almighty dollar. Don’t ask why, just die, go numb and call it artistry. Who cares? I couldn’t draw a stick figure without it being a crook. Which is kind of lame and flawed because beauty is what you want it to be, right?
Go ahead, ghosts; write it down. After all, you’re all the parts of me I left behind when I left the so-called physical world to go on a lark through the park in the dark to make a spark and avoid the narc...
You wanna keep readin'? Of course you wanna! Get the rest of drink... er, we mean READ on here!
••• Open Mic •••
Join Mad Swirl this 1st Wednesday of March (aka 03.01.14), 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, Phil Brewer & Friends! And stick around to get yourself a spot 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 Mad Swirl’s Open Mic page for more details.
AND, as you may or may not know, every 1st Wednesday we get all giddy with the swirlin' madness. COMING in April, ArtLoveMagic
••• Expanding the Madness •••
In case you didn’t hear, Mad Swirl has launched a GoFundMe page. The purpose behind the fundraiser is to "Expand the Madness o' the Swirl World”. Just what does that exactly mean? It means that the Mad Swirl staff got together to list some projects we have been wanting to do to extend the Mad radius of the Swirl. We feel its current pulling and compelling us to do more! But sometimes doing more means we need funding to do all we plan on doing.
For more info on just exactly what we got in mind, as well as to help the mad cause (aka DONATE), please visit our GoFundMe page here.
(For those that have already donated, thank you! It really is wonderful to see that we have other folks out there that believe in us and what we do at Mad Swirl. Each and every one of you have been a huge part in our successes in your own ways... whether it's contributing to our Poetry Forum, performing at our open mic, "liking" our posts, and now by sharing your hard-earned monies with us. For all the staff here on this side of the madness, our sincerest thanks to you all for helping grow OUR Mad Swirl.)
•••••••
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...
Reverring,
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
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