The Best of Mad Swirl : 04.19.14
”If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you.” Jesus Christ
••• The Mad Gallery •••
I seek myself everywhere (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... This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we tick talked a timely encounter; we followed the example set by a suit; we heard the whisper and wink of a star harvest; we kept cadence to the swing of our other; we countered a confession with peace purloined for a blackened soul; we froze a flashed moment to stare at the flame; we tried once more to stop the door which closes on our time with a wondrous wedge of verse. These words, these words, these words... ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Gray Doves
There is a poem waiting to be written about Time
waiting like the rest of us in checkout lines
and holding pens, holding bellies full of hours
waiting to be born.
Water breaking, slipping through our hands as sparkling rain,
our lives written with sparklers in the air on the Fourth of July,
gone in an instant.
Seen once more, doubled in the window glass.
Doubled, twinned, symbiotes, we nibble at our years,
but Time eats us like watermelon, spits us out like seeds,
gets squashed beneath us in our chairs,
as air squeaks out from cushions.
Like bubbles wrung from laundry, the line
where we hang our pictures and past-due notices,
diplomas and dingy drawers, wet hankies and house keys
to beating time: Swim in the river, let it flow behind you,
clothes stripped before you dive,
shoes, caps, capes,
apron full of days. Flap it and they disappear,
but only as sugar dissolves
when it sweetens the cake,
sand when it fires into glass,
glass into obsidian. Into night.
Into poetry, waiting to be born.
- Gayle Reaves-King
(3 poems added 04.19.14)
editor's note: Every poet is just a mid-wife for their muse... (We welcome Gayle to our crazy confab o' Contributing Poets with this submission. See two more on ways to occupy waking hours on her new page - check'em out.) - mh
Lava Coma
I want to make
less sense, or maybe
no sense at all,
be a base-runner
leaping from phone-box
to window frame,
hillside to hammock;
word and wordsmith
unravelling a long scarf
whose colours stretch
half way round the world,
leaping so high
gravity gives up
and we spin out into a darkness
blacker than an unlit candle,
as bright as lava
the moment before
the volcano bursts
and the people on the hillside
have no time to run,
only stand and stare
and wait for their time
to burn.
- Ian Mullins
(added 04.18.14)
editor's note: Fire and fuel, flash frozen to burn both as art; a Pompeiian performance piece. - mh
Burning Black
It keeps on burning in my head.
The disguised times of amenity
The serene songs of frailty
Inflamed how they all got, so rapidly!
Until the last breath I inhaled the smoke
It blinded my eyes, filled my lungs with grief.
But too naïve I was to bury my insanity
which heaved me into the comfort zone, my peace of mind.
Peace, that gifted me nothing but regret
Peace that built an unbreakable casket
where in darkness I lay questioning myself.
No more I want to feel the weight…
This sutured life calls for an encore
But alas! The curtains have fallen already,
and my empty stage is burning black.
Maybe someday I will kneel and confess.
Unveiling a blackened soul
in desperate need of righteousness.
Will I be bold enough to face the past?
Resurrecting with vengeance,
encircling me with familiar toxic smoke!
Should I try to escape judgement
by uttering words full of piety?
Like an abused dog I cringe, for my master’s
already written the epilogue.
No angels would play their flute;
but just my deeds striking with venom,
whiplashing my body ‘till it’s bloody and broken
and my rueful soul dumped in the inferno,
evermore burning black.
- Jonas L. Rozario
(added 04.17.14)
editor's note: Fuel your fire to light the night. Burn bright or burn out; either way, burn. - mh
L’AUTRE MOI
I am the metronome
mover of measures
wide . . . . . . . . wide . . . . . . . . . . . . swings my pendulum
tracing the tempos of time
Tick-tock
my hands
a poco a presto
strum
staccato
the strings of my mind
I am the hollow
hourglass
Trickle my tunes
to the tilt of the times
The see-sawing sea
paces my sands—
murmurs ageless songs
in major
and minor
Sharp waves
crack my still mirror—
capture the startled sun
in splintered rays
I am the pulse of the wordless deep
Somehow
constant my cadence
Somehow
the play of my tides
echoes
the gravity of the moon
- Harley White
(added 04.16.14)
editor's note: An alter ego of significant weight. See how she swings... - mh
Showerfall
Millions of stars, millions of nights showerfall,
cascading down intoxicating you with light.
Your eyes pulled to those rapidly gathering them up,
shoving them in baskets, stuffing pockets.
The big ones - shiny ones - ones that sparkle bright.
Which is mine?
Darting, grabbing, stealing all around, their drunken greed
hungrily fed - frenzy - leaving you lost.
Silence sleeps.
The stars are gone - missed moment – weighted air
The crickets chirp their call.
You’ve never come in crashing
your lullaby quietly mine.
Ears straining to hear - waiting for my star to fall.
- Heather M. Browne
(added 04.15.14)
editor's note: So much sparkle and flash. Just need one in your pocket... yours. - mh
This suit
This suit looks
like
my dad, home for
his
lunch.
This suit catches
the attention
of
lovely young
ladies.
This suit clings
to me
when the
sun is
out.
This suit reminds
me of
where I
want
to
be.
- Anthony Arnott
(added 04.14.14)
editor's note: Dress in a manner befitting career expectations; or, at least, lunch expectations. - mh
GOT THE TIME?
Talkin’ to me Mutha Fucka?
Yes, do you have the time?
3:30, Mutha Fucka.
3:30, it’s got to be later than that?
Ok Mutha Fucka, 9:30!
- Hal J. Daniel III
(1 poem added 04.13.14)
editor's note: You're only as late as you need to be, mutha... - 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, "Anything Goes" by by Oleg Razumovsky… "Cakes, knives, and vodka. These are the things men live to die for, all because some women have long ago fallen in love with different ways to die." Here's a taste to tempt you…
One day I sat with Natasha near her house, eating cakes. Her parents hated me. They thought that I was a useless scum. Even her Father, a pathetic drunk, despised me. But Natasha sorta loved me and sometimes brought some food from home. Even booze, on occasion. She was a kind girl.
Just the day before we had got shitfaced drunk. After we had finished two bottles of vodka at my place, we decided to go somewhere. I don’t remember exactly where and it is not very important. Maybe to Van Gogh, who had invited us to visit him last weekend. When we went out it was already getting dark. When drunk, Natasha rushes straight forward like a tank, and does not see anything in front of her. And there on the corner, near a bus stop, a Mercedes, was making a U-turn, and the girl crashed right into it. Natasha fell down. I began to lift her, but she collapsed on me... Eventually we sobered up a bit and began to laugh like two idiots, sitting on the ground.
But this is not very important, either. The most interesting things are to come…
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...
Bringin’ IT Forth,
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
••• The Mad Gallery •••
I seek myself everywhere (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... This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we tick talked a timely encounter; we followed the example set by a suit; we heard the whisper and wink of a star harvest; we kept cadence to the swing of our other; we countered a confession with peace purloined for a blackened soul; we froze a flashed moment to stare at the flame; we tried once more to stop the door which closes on our time with a wondrous wedge of verse. These words, these words, these words... ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Gray Doves
There is a poem waiting to be written about Time
waiting like the rest of us in checkout lines
and holding pens, holding bellies full of hours
waiting to be born.
Water breaking, slipping through our hands as sparkling rain,
our lives written with sparklers in the air on the Fourth of July,
gone in an instant.
Seen once more, doubled in the window glass.
Doubled, twinned, symbiotes, we nibble at our years,
but Time eats us like watermelon, spits us out like seeds,
gets squashed beneath us in our chairs,
as air squeaks out from cushions.
Like bubbles wrung from laundry, the line
where we hang our pictures and past-due notices,
diplomas and dingy drawers, wet hankies and house keys
to beating time: Swim in the river, let it flow behind you,
clothes stripped before you dive,
shoes, caps, capes,
apron full of days. Flap it and they disappear,
but only as sugar dissolves
when it sweetens the cake,
sand when it fires into glass,
glass into obsidian. Into night.
Into poetry, waiting to be born.
- Gayle Reaves-King
(3 poems added 04.19.14)
editor's note: Every poet is just a mid-wife for their muse... (We welcome Gayle to our crazy confab o' Contributing Poets with this submission. See two more on ways to occupy waking hours on her new page - check'em out.) - mh
Lava Coma
I want to make
less sense, or maybe
no sense at all,
be a base-runner
leaping from phone-box
to window frame,
hillside to hammock;
word and wordsmith
unravelling a long scarf
whose colours stretch
half way round the world,
leaping so high
gravity gives up
and we spin out into a darkness
blacker than an unlit candle,
as bright as lava
the moment before
the volcano bursts
and the people on the hillside
have no time to run,
only stand and stare
and wait for their time
to burn.
- Ian Mullins
(added 04.18.14)
editor's note: Fire and fuel, flash frozen to burn both as art; a Pompeiian performance piece. - mh
Burning Black
It keeps on burning in my head.
The disguised times of amenity
The serene songs of frailty
Inflamed how they all got, so rapidly!
Until the last breath I inhaled the smoke
It blinded my eyes, filled my lungs with grief.
But too naïve I was to bury my insanity
which heaved me into the comfort zone, my peace of mind.
Peace, that gifted me nothing but regret
Peace that built an unbreakable casket
where in darkness I lay questioning myself.
No more I want to feel the weight…
This sutured life calls for an encore
But alas! The curtains have fallen already,
and my empty stage is burning black.
Maybe someday I will kneel and confess.
Unveiling a blackened soul
in desperate need of righteousness.
Will I be bold enough to face the past?
Resurrecting with vengeance,
encircling me with familiar toxic smoke!
Should I try to escape judgement
by uttering words full of piety?
Like an abused dog I cringe, for my master’s
already written the epilogue.
No angels would play their flute;
but just my deeds striking with venom,
whiplashing my body ‘till it’s bloody and broken
and my rueful soul dumped in the inferno,
evermore burning black.
- Jonas L. Rozario
(added 04.17.14)
editor's note: Fuel your fire to light the night. Burn bright or burn out; either way, burn. - mh
L’AUTRE MOI
I am the metronome
mover of measures
wide . . . . . . . . wide . . . . . . . . . . . . swings my pendulum
tracing the tempos of time
Tick-tock
my hands
a poco a presto
strum
staccato
the strings of my mind
I am the hollow
hourglass
Trickle my tunes
to the tilt of the times
The see-sawing sea
paces my sands—
murmurs ageless songs
in major
and minor
Sharp waves
crack my still mirror—
capture the startled sun
in splintered rays
I am the pulse of the wordless deep
Somehow
constant my cadence
Somehow
the play of my tides
echoes
the gravity of the moon
- Harley White
(added 04.16.14)
editor's note: An alter ego of significant weight. See how she swings... - mh
Showerfall
Millions of stars, millions of nights showerfall,
cascading down intoxicating you with light.
Your eyes pulled to those rapidly gathering them up,
shoving them in baskets, stuffing pockets.
The big ones - shiny ones - ones that sparkle bright.
Which is mine?
Darting, grabbing, stealing all around, their drunken greed
hungrily fed - frenzy - leaving you lost.
Silence sleeps.
The stars are gone - missed moment – weighted air
The crickets chirp their call.
You’ve never come in crashing
your lullaby quietly mine.
Ears straining to hear - waiting for my star to fall.
- Heather M. Browne
(added 04.15.14)
editor's note: So much sparkle and flash. Just need one in your pocket... yours. - mh
This suit
This suit looks
like
my dad, home for
his
lunch.
This suit catches
the attention
of
lovely young
ladies.
This suit clings
to me
when the
sun is
out.
This suit reminds
me of
where I
want
to
be.
- Anthony Arnott
(added 04.14.14)
editor's note: Dress in a manner befitting career expectations; or, at least, lunch expectations. - mh
GOT THE TIME?
Talkin’ to me Mutha Fucka?
Yes, do you have the time?
3:30, Mutha Fucka.
3:30, it’s got to be later than that?
Ok Mutha Fucka, 9:30!
- Hal J. Daniel III
(1 poem added 04.13.14)
editor's note: You're only as late as you need to be, mutha... - 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, "Anything Goes" by by Oleg Razumovsky… "Cakes, knives, and vodka. These are the things men live to die for, all because some women have long ago fallen in love with different ways to die." Here's a taste to tempt you…
One day I sat with Natasha near her house, eating cakes. Her parents hated me. They thought that I was a useless scum. Even her Father, a pathetic drunk, despised me. But Natasha sorta loved me and sometimes brought some food from home. Even booze, on occasion. She was a kind girl.
Just the day before we had got shitfaced drunk. After we had finished two bottles of vodka at my place, we decided to go somewhere. I don’t remember exactly where and it is not very important. Maybe to Van Gogh, who had invited us to visit him last weekend. When we went out it was already getting dark. When drunk, Natasha rushes straight forward like a tank, and does not see anything in front of her. And there on the corner, near a bus stop, a Mercedes, was making a U-turn, and the girl crashed right into it. Natasha fell down. I began to lift her, but she collapsed on me... Eventually we sobered up a bit and began to laugh like two idiots, sitting on the ground.
But this is not very important, either. The most interesting things are to come…
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...
Bringin’ IT Forth,
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
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