The Best of Mad Swirl : 03.22.14
"We speak with more than our mouths. We listen with more than our ears." Fred Rogers
••• The Mad Gallery •••
The infinite resolve of destiny always brings me back to my concentric centre (above) by featured artist David Arthur-Simons. To see more of his works, as well as works from our other contributing artists, please visit our Mad Gallery.
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we embraced the bliss of the floral amoral; we discoursed on things under and over, the madness of earth and the myth of clover; we found new forms for emptiness; we missed a match to hide a patch; we recouped no cost, so lost; we strained through strife and sodden dog's life to infill our flagged enthusiasm; we got the drop on a beast in a shop, or the beast got the drop on us. Words, words, birds... ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
The Bull in the China Shop
How can he be here?
It must have seemed like a good idea.
How could it have seemed like a good idea?
And now he stands
Coated by one inch of empty air. No more.
I watch and cannot breathe.
Don't know what to do is a thought,
And I don't think, I have no thought.
Instead, awareness,
Like no sense in the sense book.
I feel
With every pore in my skin
As waves of him
Ripple outward
Potential of motion
Of what is to come
Chaos, shards of flying death
Shivering shrieking spears
Bursting out, flying outwards
As, maddened, he turns
And turns again
And splits my skull with his bellowing rage
Does he understand
That he himself is the source of his pain?
I can't explain
I can't talk
I can't run
He stands
And I stand
And then, in
One
Hissing
Breath
It begins
- Ann B-D
(1 poem added 03.22.14)
editor's note: Origins or solutions? Getting the hell out takes priority... after breathing, that is. - mh
Dogs Life
We drinkers like Rodin’s thinkers
Sat perplexing over the bar,
Contemplating what went wrong with our lives-
As if set in stone.
You may think we live the life of Riley
But maintaining this lifestyle’s a chore.
Drinking to recover from the hangover of life,
With the hair of the dog like inclement clouds
Meshing with the odour of stale smoke,
Living life to the full glass-
Which is always half empty.
While we remain all alone
Crowded out by our thoughts,
Going over memories.
Our unsettled sentiments left semi detached
Amongst a terrace of personalities.
Their dislodged expressions beaming upon us,
Causing us to cast a shadow
As if we were a gnomon.
And we’re left hunting that elusive enthusiasm,
Wanting to lift our spirits
While dragging our weight behind us,
Like a cadaver heavily decayed
Over years of treading water-
Our eyes callused with internal tears,
While remaining the freshly slain victim
Of our sense of worth.
Our insecurity a vanity
That’s patently selfish.
- Anthony Ward
(1 poem added 03.21.14)
editor's note: Collectively, singularly, in any light; all cast shadows. Selfish to think otherwise... - mh
last known entry
...
dot, dot, dot
I did, I did, I did
it's gone, it's gone
Oh my God, it's gone-
Peace we did not find
I'm lost, I'm lost, I'm lost
without anyone but my
night shadows to distrust
I paid the cost, oh the cost, the cost.
- Rafael Andrade Garza
(2 poems added 03.20.14)
editor's note: In the light of recent events... (More from Rafael on his page; so many questions - check it out.) - mh
Kerry Has Crabs & Doesn’t Know How To Hide The Bald Patches
…and I’m not in love with her, just very tired & lonely.
Just like this poem, it starts out as fun
but doesn’t end up so.
I can’t hide the bald patches of something that isn’t there, either!
- Paul Tristram
(1 poem added 03.19.14)
editor's note: Hard to catalog those blemishes without a mirror. - mh
Mint Condition
I keep a treasure chest
with nothing in it
to remind me that things
that seem too good to be true
often are.
But it doesn’t work.
I often lay awake at night
wonder what could
be inside
it:
open bar
at a Russian wedding,
a loving sea goddess
with gills
instead of shortcomings,
the fountain of youth
built to scale,
a Babe Ruth rookie
in mint
condition…
I’m a romantic, I’ll admit it,
bordering on the
delusional.
I know there should be
nothing in there
but that never stops me
from looking.
- Ryan Quinn Flanagan
(1 poem added 03.18.14)
editor's note: Provocative! What would you put in yours? - mh
An Irish Kinda Spring
On a fine Spring day a friend and I were sitting on a park bench. As we started talking, I gazed down between my feet and noticed I was ankle deep in clovers. I commented to my friend that I have never discovered the four-leaf kind before. He chuckled and informed me he thought they were a mythical make-believe kinda thing.
I knew that they weren't but couldn't prove it while sitting there scanning the mound of obviously three-leaved scenes I kept seeing.
And as the seconds turned to minutes turned to hours, my gaze stopped staring downward. We shared some quite right-on insights with one another. Our time turned to talking about less make-believe things. Heavy things. Heavenly things... like the passing of life, the loss of love, the madness of the earth below us and the swirling heavens up above. I could feel change a-comin' and changing me profoundly while sitting soundly in our park side seat. I could feel seeds inside me taking root. I began to see the blessings flowing all around me. Once believed to be make-believe things could once again be a reality...
As the sun started playing hide-and-seek behind the trees, shadows sprouting legs and running from the horizon, we realized time caught-up and life was calling us back home. With a heartfelt embrace, I thanked him for this gift of friendship he had given me and the things he helped me to see and believe in again.
And as we were starting to part, I looked back down towards the ground, where there seemed to be nothing but a sea of three-leafed clovers. Then to my eyes’ surprise I saw it standing clear, like it was there the whole time... the elusively famous four-leaf clover rising above the rest. With an "ah-ha" I reached down, plucked it so tenderly and handed it my friend, who moments before said he didn't believe in such things. His eyes grew child-like and wide when he saw my find. I told him he helped me today to believe again in things I thought were lost and gone forever. And because of that, this lucky clover showed itself to me and told me it was my turn to return the favor in the form of a found four-leafed-clover.
- Johnny Olson
(1 poem added 03.17.14)
editor's note: Pluck one o' these from your four-lobed brain to place in your four-chambered heart to carry you four-ward through your un-four-told future, with luck. (Lucky are we to receive this treasure from our Ed. in Chief, Johnny O'lson. Thanks, JO!) - mh
A Tanka Poem
I stop to rest
in a field of sunflowers--
halos
without saints
to weigh them down
- Sergio Ortiz
(added 03.16.14)
editor's note: Wonderful! We have always hoped that holiness comes with happiness (not heaviness). Thanks, Sergio! - mh
••• Short Stories •••
Need a read? We got one that sings! Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick-of-the-week short story, "Because of You" by Mike Fiorito, "We’re lucky if we have a little Tony in all of us! (No, not in that way, you pervert.) We’re lucky if we not only do all things well, but we do them fabulously." Here's a few notes to get your reading toe tappin’…
Making a big entrance, Uncle Tutti arrived late at my high school graduation party, like a Hollywood star. He wore a smart black suit, buttoned near the collar and black and white Domino shoes.
“My godson,” said Uncle Tutti, pinching my cheek with the thick fingers of one hand and slyly handing me an envelope with the other.
“Now, I’m going to sing you a song,” he said.
Tutti pulled away from me, his periwinkle blue eyes sparkling like precious stones polished by the Mediterranean.
Now with his back to us, Tutti began speaking to the musicians, giving instructions. Tutti adjusted his suit, giving his white-gold pinky ring a twist, making sure the sapphire stone faced forward.
He turned around, looked toward me, and said, “This is for you, kid. I love you.” He then threw a kiss toward me. I turned red and laughed nervously.
The band broke out with a romping intro. Tutti spun around with his hands out, his fingers splayed as he sang “Rags to Riches.” Like a man possessed, his eyes were wide open and red with fire. As he thrust his hands in the air, shaking them, spit sprayed from his mouth. With each rhythmic stop, he clapped his hands together and stomped his foot, right in step with the band…
You wanna hear how the song ends, don’cha? Of course you wanna! Get the rest of your read on here!
••• Expanding the Madness •••
As always, our deepest gratitudes for all the generous support we've received from this campaign. Just to keep you posted of how some of your monies has been spent...
• As of 03.15.14 we have a stock of t-shirts! We're selling and will soon be shipping them out to those who gave at the Burroughs Level.
• As of 03.18.14 we are officially a LLC! MAD SWIRL LLC has a nice ring to it, eh?
We still got some money left in the bank so stay tuned to what we have planned next to invest with your generous donations!
It’s not too late to donate. To help the mad cause, please visit our GoFundMe page 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...
Speakin’ & Listenin’,
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
Madelyn Olson
Visual Editor
••• The Mad Gallery •••
The infinite resolve of destiny always brings me back to my concentric centre (above) by featured artist David Arthur-Simons. To see more of his works, as well as works from our other contributing artists, please visit our Mad Gallery.
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we embraced the bliss of the floral amoral; we discoursed on things under and over, the madness of earth and the myth of clover; we found new forms for emptiness; we missed a match to hide a patch; we recouped no cost, so lost; we strained through strife and sodden dog's life to infill our flagged enthusiasm; we got the drop on a beast in a shop, or the beast got the drop on us. Words, words, birds... ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
The Bull in the China Shop
How can he be here?
It must have seemed like a good idea.
How could it have seemed like a good idea?
And now he stands
Coated by one inch of empty air. No more.
I watch and cannot breathe.
Don't know what to do is a thought,
And I don't think, I have no thought.
Instead, awareness,
Like no sense in the sense book.
I feel
With every pore in my skin
As waves of him
Ripple outward
Potential of motion
Of what is to come
Chaos, shards of flying death
Shivering shrieking spears
Bursting out, flying outwards
As, maddened, he turns
And turns again
And splits my skull with his bellowing rage
Does he understand
That he himself is the source of his pain?
I can't explain
I can't talk
I can't run
He stands
And I stand
And then, in
One
Hissing
Breath
It begins
- Ann B-D
(1 poem added 03.22.14)
editor's note: Origins or solutions? Getting the hell out takes priority... after breathing, that is. - mh
Dogs Life
We drinkers like Rodin’s thinkers
Sat perplexing over the bar,
Contemplating what went wrong with our lives-
As if set in stone.
You may think we live the life of Riley
But maintaining this lifestyle’s a chore.
Drinking to recover from the hangover of life,
With the hair of the dog like inclement clouds
Meshing with the odour of stale smoke,
Living life to the full glass-
Which is always half empty.
While we remain all alone
Crowded out by our thoughts,
Going over memories.
Our unsettled sentiments left semi detached
Amongst a terrace of personalities.
Their dislodged expressions beaming upon us,
Causing us to cast a shadow
As if we were a gnomon.
And we’re left hunting that elusive enthusiasm,
Wanting to lift our spirits
While dragging our weight behind us,
Like a cadaver heavily decayed
Over years of treading water-
Our eyes callused with internal tears,
While remaining the freshly slain victim
Of our sense of worth.
Our insecurity a vanity
That’s patently selfish.
- Anthony Ward
(1 poem added 03.21.14)
editor's note: Collectively, singularly, in any light; all cast shadows. Selfish to think otherwise... - mh
last known entry
...
dot, dot, dot
I did, I did, I did
it's gone, it's gone
Oh my God, it's gone-
Peace we did not find
I'm lost, I'm lost, I'm lost
without anyone but my
night shadows to distrust
I paid the cost, oh the cost, the cost.
- Rafael Andrade Garza
(2 poems added 03.20.14)
editor's note: In the light of recent events... (More from Rafael on his page; so many questions - check it out.) - mh
Kerry Has Crabs & Doesn’t Know How To Hide The Bald Patches
…and I’m not in love with her, just very tired & lonely.
Just like this poem, it starts out as fun
but doesn’t end up so.
I can’t hide the bald patches of something that isn’t there, either!
- Paul Tristram
(1 poem added 03.19.14)
editor's note: Hard to catalog those blemishes without a mirror. - mh
Mint Condition
I keep a treasure chest
with nothing in it
to remind me that things
that seem too good to be true
often are.
But it doesn’t work.
I often lay awake at night
wonder what could
be inside
it:
open bar
at a Russian wedding,
a loving sea goddess
with gills
instead of shortcomings,
the fountain of youth
built to scale,
a Babe Ruth rookie
in mint
condition…
I’m a romantic, I’ll admit it,
bordering on the
delusional.
I know there should be
nothing in there
but that never stops me
from looking.
- Ryan Quinn Flanagan
(1 poem added 03.18.14)
editor's note: Provocative! What would you put in yours? - mh
An Irish Kinda Spring
On a fine Spring day a friend and I were sitting on a park bench. As we started talking, I gazed down between my feet and noticed I was ankle deep in clovers. I commented to my friend that I have never discovered the four-leaf kind before. He chuckled and informed me he thought they were a mythical make-believe kinda thing.
I knew that they weren't but couldn't prove it while sitting there scanning the mound of obviously three-leaved scenes I kept seeing.
And as the seconds turned to minutes turned to hours, my gaze stopped staring downward. We shared some quite right-on insights with one another. Our time turned to talking about less make-believe things. Heavy things. Heavenly things... like the passing of life, the loss of love, the madness of the earth below us and the swirling heavens up above. I could feel change a-comin' and changing me profoundly while sitting soundly in our park side seat. I could feel seeds inside me taking root. I began to see the blessings flowing all around me. Once believed to be make-believe things could once again be a reality...
As the sun started playing hide-and-seek behind the trees, shadows sprouting legs and running from the horizon, we realized time caught-up and life was calling us back home. With a heartfelt embrace, I thanked him for this gift of friendship he had given me and the things he helped me to see and believe in again.
And as we were starting to part, I looked back down towards the ground, where there seemed to be nothing but a sea of three-leafed clovers. Then to my eyes’ surprise I saw it standing clear, like it was there the whole time... the elusively famous four-leaf clover rising above the rest. With an "ah-ha" I reached down, plucked it so tenderly and handed it my friend, who moments before said he didn't believe in such things. His eyes grew child-like and wide when he saw my find. I told him he helped me today to believe again in things I thought were lost and gone forever. And because of that, this lucky clover showed itself to me and told me it was my turn to return the favor in the form of a found four-leafed-clover.
- Johnny Olson
(1 poem added 03.17.14)
editor's note: Pluck one o' these from your four-lobed brain to place in your four-chambered heart to carry you four-ward through your un-four-told future, with luck. (Lucky are we to receive this treasure from our Ed. in Chief, Johnny O'lson. Thanks, JO!) - mh
A Tanka Poem
I stop to rest
in a field of sunflowers--
halos
without saints
to weigh them down
- Sergio Ortiz
(added 03.16.14)
editor's note: Wonderful! We have always hoped that holiness comes with happiness (not heaviness). Thanks, Sergio! - mh
••• Short Stories •••
Need a read? We got one that sings! Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick-of-the-week short story, "Because of You" by Mike Fiorito, "We’re lucky if we have a little Tony in all of us! (No, not in that way, you pervert.) We’re lucky if we not only do all things well, but we do them fabulously." Here's a few notes to get your reading toe tappin’…
Making a big entrance, Uncle Tutti arrived late at my high school graduation party, like a Hollywood star. He wore a smart black suit, buttoned near the collar and black and white Domino shoes.
“My godson,” said Uncle Tutti, pinching my cheek with the thick fingers of one hand and slyly handing me an envelope with the other.
“Now, I’m going to sing you a song,” he said.
Tutti pulled away from me, his periwinkle blue eyes sparkling like precious stones polished by the Mediterranean.
Now with his back to us, Tutti began speaking to the musicians, giving instructions. Tutti adjusted his suit, giving his white-gold pinky ring a twist, making sure the sapphire stone faced forward.
He turned around, looked toward me, and said, “This is for you, kid. I love you.” He then threw a kiss toward me. I turned red and laughed nervously.
The band broke out with a romping intro. Tutti spun around with his hands out, his fingers splayed as he sang “Rags to Riches.” Like a man possessed, his eyes were wide open and red with fire. As he thrust his hands in the air, shaking them, spit sprayed from his mouth. With each rhythmic stop, he clapped his hands together and stomped his foot, right in step with the band…
You wanna hear how the song ends, don’cha? Of course you wanna! Get the rest of your read on here!
••• Expanding the Madness •••
As always, our deepest gratitudes for all the generous support we've received from this campaign. Just to keep you posted of how some of your monies has been spent...
• As of 03.15.14 we have a stock of t-shirts! We're selling and will soon be shipping them out to those who gave at the Burroughs Level.
• As of 03.18.14 we are officially a LLC! MAD SWIRL LLC has a nice ring to it, eh?
We still got some money left in the bank so stay tuned to what we have planned next to invest with your generous donations!
It’s not too late to donate. To help the mad cause, please visit our GoFundMe page 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...
Speakin’ & Listenin’,
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
Madelyn Olson
Visual Editor
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