The Best of Mad Swirl : 04.05.14
”Nothing can dim the light which shines from within.” Maya Angelou
••• The Mad Gallery •••
I rest in my own self (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 looked upon the lack of luster for the legendary downfall; we heard the nightfall shush and shiver of hearing; we found a fool's fascination with the frivolous romping ride; we reigned in the wonder of our erstwhile observations of a poet's peccadillos; we whetted our appetites on gourmet art; we wound words of resounding resurrection; we steadied an old man's hand on his last barrier to burial. Ashes to ashes to dust to trust in the cycle; we come, we go... some remember. ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Cane in Hand
Cane in hand and bald head pale,
he slurs for devices to crack
the hollow crust of pain.
The plate of food is picked at
on pillowed knee and he stares
at the window’s painted movement.
Day collages dark cast and enlightened mist.
He says, He’s just not like he was before,
to the gifted copy singing through speakers on the floor.
The true moment long passed, the gift still circles
again and again for rebirth in willing imaginations.
Perhaps the truth was too conscious of the old man listening.
Rain drapes the ever streets of our routed motions.
The old man stares, but at ocean breath
and sun-baked skin. His own truth calls.
Cane taps the death (a crack in the pain)
and I wonder: what listening voice was it
plumbed the depths of his fragile ear
where his own giving lay disguised?
- Christopher Raley
(2 poems added 04.05.14)
editor's note: That cane is all that's left to hold back earth which will swallow us home. Eventually... (We welcome Christopher to our crazy conspiracy of Contributing Poets with this submission. See another new one with all his previously accepted poems on his new page.) - mh
This poetry
This poetry brings life from death
It raises souls from their deep despair
It speaks the words formed with mute lips
Giving breath to suffocating lungs
A manifestation of nightmares and pleasant dreams
Of thoughts tucked in the back of lively minds
This poetry brings life from death
It heals the deepest of wounds
- Brittany Zedalis
(added 04.04.14)
editor's note: The first word spoken, created this whole mad swirl. Poets have created life from words ever since. - mh
Appetite
Delicate hands
In which shape,
Modulate the canvas?
In what art dyed?
Colors eternal-
Every hiccup
To enlighten
Listless monastic soul
Painted walls reading-
The wheel of life
Spiritual hunger
Belch.
Smells,
From the kitchen
Teasing to the nose
Assurance of a
Strong appetite
Give.
- Hem Raj Bastola
(1 poem added 04.03.14)
editor's note: Appetite, yes! I'll bet the first cave art was painted after barbecue... and a belch. - mh
Meeting the Poet, Andre Goes
He jumped into the road and yelled at the window
of this if somewhere else it would be yellow taxi man
his coarse word metal poems, BLACK HEART DAWNS
TELL YOU MARY HAS A NEW LAMB, WISH HER WELL
AND CYANIDE WAVE GOODBYE AND SCOTCH WILL
TASTE TOO SOUR MY MAN, and we all careered
after him making nothing of ourselves to see his light the brighter,
his golden dew in the hands of night and us just glad to see it.
and off we went off we went blind and drunk
and high on him like mountain goats in town
eating Chinese food with barley wine in a Bolivian neon cafe
'til a cute little street girl took his eye
and he fornicated or wished to try and we all sat
and his wellspring never sprung but blind men drowned
and we filled our glasses next in a rich man's bohemian hole
where fetid static people feared men like him and so adored
his breath and graceless air of pity and we got bored
of the pretension and fell forward out of favour
and left him pirouetting, keen for the absence
and boredom of cobbled over miles.
I wrote my suicide in the morning
and he told me it was too late for that.
- Cayleigh-May Forbes
(added 04.02.14)
editor's note: Ain't nobody gonna douse the light 'til the poet writes darkness! Yes! - mh
ah, fools!
ah, fools!
musicians,
writers,
card players,
lovers of the
night – always
looking for that
perfect time,
willing, oh, so
willing to sacrifice
so much
for that one hour,
one day,
one gig – oh, fools – musicians
booking endlessly;
writers
sending out the continually
rejected manuscript.
meanwhile concocting
new things on paper
and to anyone who will listen.
card players, horse players
throwing away life savings,
dreaming, dreaming
for the bite,
the bite
the biological high of huge winnings.
lovers, with seven wives,
seven husbands,
still not finding it.
mesmerized fools.
here’s another one,
immortalizing you.
and don’t forget
the surfers looking for that perfect ride.
this one’s
over.
- Carl Kavadlo
(1 poem added 04.01.14)
editor's note: Yup, such foolery, romping from ride to ride; takes dreamers from strength to strength. - mh
As night shadows
As night shadows fall
she lays
next to a memory
wrapped in ghost arms
her caught breath
longing
once again
for love to speak there
softly in a whisper
cordially inviting
the hear to hear...
- Elissa Landrigan
(1 poem added 03.31.14)
editor's note: Redundant? Or, the true path exponential growth? - mh
The Artist Downfall
Ironic fads,
America-made superstitions,
Clothes selling past market value,
Outward thinking posing as alternative thinking,
Posing as an artist without the art.
Saying you think for yourself, but
You’ve bought into a fad that’s against all fads,
Kurt Cobain never tried to be Kurt Cobain,
Keith Richards doesn’t give a fuck what anyone thinks,
And that’s the way
Of legends
- R.A. Hernandez
(1 poem added 03.30.14)
editor's note: Downfall, indeed; defies the ideal of the self-made man. - mh
••• Short Stories •••
Need a read? Well we got just what you’re needing! Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick-of-the-week short story, "Objects and Illusions" by Stephanie Bradbury, "GAround here, we embrace madness. We claim to be the maddest of all, actually. Some, though, are madder than we can ever be. And they're what we never want to be: mad enough to where our only saving grace is the sane people we unknowingly punish just by living, just my being mad." Here's a taste to tempt you…
They had the kind of house that looked like no one lived in it. It was a beautiful three story brick home with a brilliantly polished wood staircase curving down the middle. Each piece of furniture in the living room was positioned too far apart from the others, as if to avoid confrontation. On the coffee table a photo album sat precisely in the center. The cover photo was of a boy and his Golden Retriever running on a black and white beach. I assumed it was the picture that came with the album. The rest of the book was empty.
There were too many mirrors in the house. I saw on a design show once how mirrors can be used to create an illusion of space. Being simple minded, I am often been fooled by such things, especially in Chinese restaurants. It really is embarrassing when you almost walk into yourself holding an empty plate, only to discover the buffet and all of its greasy Americanized fare is behind you, and so is everyone else. The house was trying too hard. It didn’t need to create an illusion. It was what it was—the home of a terminally ill woman and her grieving husband.
How can you stop there? You can’t, can you? Get the rest of your read 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...
Shinin’,
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
••• The Mad Gallery •••
I rest in my own self (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 looked upon the lack of luster for the legendary downfall; we heard the nightfall shush and shiver of hearing; we found a fool's fascination with the frivolous romping ride; we reigned in the wonder of our erstwhile observations of a poet's peccadillos; we whetted our appetites on gourmet art; we wound words of resounding resurrection; we steadied an old man's hand on his last barrier to burial. Ashes to ashes to dust to trust in the cycle; we come, we go... some remember. ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Cane in Hand
Cane in hand and bald head pale,
he slurs for devices to crack
the hollow crust of pain.
The plate of food is picked at
on pillowed knee and he stares
at the window’s painted movement.
Day collages dark cast and enlightened mist.
He says, He’s just not like he was before,
to the gifted copy singing through speakers on the floor.
The true moment long passed, the gift still circles
again and again for rebirth in willing imaginations.
Perhaps the truth was too conscious of the old man listening.
Rain drapes the ever streets of our routed motions.
The old man stares, but at ocean breath
and sun-baked skin. His own truth calls.
Cane taps the death (a crack in the pain)
and I wonder: what listening voice was it
plumbed the depths of his fragile ear
where his own giving lay disguised?
- Christopher Raley
(2 poems added 04.05.14)
editor's note: That cane is all that's left to hold back earth which will swallow us home. Eventually... (We welcome Christopher to our crazy conspiracy of Contributing Poets with this submission. See another new one with all his previously accepted poems on his new page.) - mh
This poetry
This poetry brings life from death
It raises souls from their deep despair
It speaks the words formed with mute lips
Giving breath to suffocating lungs
A manifestation of nightmares and pleasant dreams
Of thoughts tucked in the back of lively minds
This poetry brings life from death
It heals the deepest of wounds
- Brittany Zedalis
(added 04.04.14)
editor's note: The first word spoken, created this whole mad swirl. Poets have created life from words ever since. - mh
Appetite
Delicate hands
In which shape,
Modulate the canvas?
In what art dyed?
Colors eternal-
Every hiccup
To enlighten
Listless monastic soul
Painted walls reading-
The wheel of life
Spiritual hunger
Belch.
Smells,
From the kitchen
Teasing to the nose
Assurance of a
Strong appetite
Give.
- Hem Raj Bastola
(1 poem added 04.03.14)
editor's note: Appetite, yes! I'll bet the first cave art was painted after barbecue... and a belch. - mh
Meeting the Poet, Andre Goes
He jumped into the road and yelled at the window
of this if somewhere else it would be yellow taxi man
his coarse word metal poems, BLACK HEART DAWNS
TELL YOU MARY HAS A NEW LAMB, WISH HER WELL
AND CYANIDE WAVE GOODBYE AND SCOTCH WILL
TASTE TOO SOUR MY MAN, and we all careered
after him making nothing of ourselves to see his light the brighter,
his golden dew in the hands of night and us just glad to see it.
and off we went off we went blind and drunk
and high on him like mountain goats in town
eating Chinese food with barley wine in a Bolivian neon cafe
'til a cute little street girl took his eye
and he fornicated or wished to try and we all sat
and his wellspring never sprung but blind men drowned
and we filled our glasses next in a rich man's bohemian hole
where fetid static people feared men like him and so adored
his breath and graceless air of pity and we got bored
of the pretension and fell forward out of favour
and left him pirouetting, keen for the absence
and boredom of cobbled over miles.
I wrote my suicide in the morning
and he told me it was too late for that.
- Cayleigh-May Forbes
(added 04.02.14)
editor's note: Ain't nobody gonna douse the light 'til the poet writes darkness! Yes! - mh
ah, fools!
ah, fools!
musicians,
writers,
card players,
lovers of the
night – always
looking for that
perfect time,
willing, oh, so
willing to sacrifice
so much
for that one hour,
one day,
one gig – oh, fools – musicians
booking endlessly;
writers
sending out the continually
rejected manuscript.
meanwhile concocting
new things on paper
and to anyone who will listen.
card players, horse players
throwing away life savings,
dreaming, dreaming
for the bite,
the bite
the biological high of huge winnings.
lovers, with seven wives,
seven husbands,
still not finding it.
mesmerized fools.
here’s another one,
immortalizing you.
and don’t forget
the surfers looking for that perfect ride.
this one’s
over.
- Carl Kavadlo
(1 poem added 04.01.14)
editor's note: Yup, such foolery, romping from ride to ride; takes dreamers from strength to strength. - mh
As night shadows
As night shadows fall
she lays
next to a memory
wrapped in ghost arms
her caught breath
longing
once again
for love to speak there
softly in a whisper
cordially inviting
the hear to hear...
- Elissa Landrigan
(1 poem added 03.31.14)
editor's note: Redundant? Or, the true path exponential growth? - mh
The Artist Downfall
Ironic fads,
America-made superstitions,
Clothes selling past market value,
Outward thinking posing as alternative thinking,
Posing as an artist without the art.
Saying you think for yourself, but
You’ve bought into a fad that’s against all fads,
Kurt Cobain never tried to be Kurt Cobain,
Keith Richards doesn’t give a fuck what anyone thinks,
And that’s the way
Of legends
- R.A. Hernandez
(1 poem added 03.30.14)
editor's note: Downfall, indeed; defies the ideal of the self-made man. - mh
••• Short Stories •••
Need a read? Well we got just what you’re needing! Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick-of-the-week short story, "Objects and Illusions" by Stephanie Bradbury, "GAround here, we embrace madness. We claim to be the maddest of all, actually. Some, though, are madder than we can ever be. And they're what we never want to be: mad enough to where our only saving grace is the sane people we unknowingly punish just by living, just my being mad." Here's a taste to tempt you…
They had the kind of house that looked like no one lived in it. It was a beautiful three story brick home with a brilliantly polished wood staircase curving down the middle. Each piece of furniture in the living room was positioned too far apart from the others, as if to avoid confrontation. On the coffee table a photo album sat precisely in the center. The cover photo was of a boy and his Golden Retriever running on a black and white beach. I assumed it was the picture that came with the album. The rest of the book was empty.
There were too many mirrors in the house. I saw on a design show once how mirrors can be used to create an illusion of space. Being simple minded, I am often been fooled by such things, especially in Chinese restaurants. It really is embarrassing when you almost walk into yourself holding an empty plate, only to discover the buffet and all of its greasy Americanized fare is behind you, and so is everyone else. The house was trying too hard. It didn’t need to create an illusion. It was what it was—the home of a terminally ill woman and her grieving husband.
How can you stop there? You can’t, can you? Get the rest of your read 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...
Shinin’,
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
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