The Best of Mad Swirl : 07.19.14
”Imagination disposes of everything; it creates beauty, justice, and happiness, which are everything in this world.” Blaise Pascal
••• The Mad Gallery •••
woman from behind (above) by featured artist Mike Fiorito. To see more Mad works from Mike, and our other contributing artists, please visit our Mad Gallery.
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we slurped soup, licked lips, let love explore half the depths; we forsook our lust for the public trust (why, oh why did we do that?); we lingered in a loop around, from lost turned back to found; we played the shill for carnival kill, all sparkle without spark; we let deserved admonition pass, we all fight in weights one-over our class; we thought to pick petals, forego the prick of pain from thorns; we danced by the door twixt this and the next one, decided to stop to gaze at tree and sun (leaves on the one, fire in the other). Ignite with words our conflagration, without our flame of pontification there is darkness and silence. ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
ZEN – each day the hour
Each is the whole
As we touch a wave the sea
The atom’s heart the cosmos soul
To see beyond the trees
Where you were there before
A window staring in on us
A brilliant light each suicide
Which is a precious gift
Condemns a world already dead
A darkness born inside its head
A deep blue sea that sets you free
Truth that has been forged from Time
Each star its own unique black hole
Beyond each leaf that is the tree
- Derrick Gaskin
(1 poem added 07.19.14)
editor's note: Constant contemplation; peace to find in this life we live on our way towards death. - mh
Bed of Roses
Life is not a bed of roses.
But who would even want that?
I thank the lord
that life is not a bed of thorns
or a bed of nails,
or a bed pan.
Im really rather happy
that life is not anything bed.
A bed of roses really seems
more like a thing for the dead.
- Alex L. Swartzentruber
(1 poem added 07.18.14)
editor's note: Name perfection without pain. A thorny subject... - mh
A Fistful of Nothing
my nine year old
socked another boy
in the nose and
made it bleed,
they weren't fighting,
he was just playing
too rough,
lacked the impulse control
I talked to him about
keeping his hands to himself,
"don't make a fist,"
I told him
and i thought about
how ridiculous
that request was,
how we come out of
the womb with fists
ready,
gloves at the ready,
featherweight,
welterweight,
or heavyweight,
it doesn't really
matter,
we are ready
to go the distance
looking for our corner man
we have fistfuls
of nothing
- Melanie Browne
(1 poem added 07.17.14)
editor's note: We fight from bell to bell and never want to hear the man say, "TEN!" - mh
Wreckage
Your smile
belongs to a demented clown,
Full of secrets and buried bodies,
Your words,
Genuine as a sideshow huckster
selling tickets to the two-headed goat,
Your remoteness,
A calculated game to ensnare,
Absinthe for my soul,
Fueling an obsession to make you mine,
But I refused to see,
Until one deft move after another,
I picked the lock,
Threw open the treasure chest,
And watched broken trinkets
and glass rubies
dribble through my fingers.
- Linda Haltmaier
(added 07.16.14)
editor's note: The challenge is the treasure; the hunt exceeds the having. - mh
dresses
Every time I walk into
the grocery store
to buy a case of beer
I pass a rack of
tie died sun dresses.
Every time I think
that I would buy one
for you
if you were still alive.
Every time I think
of how beautiful
you would look
in one.
With your beautiful
shoulders
and your beautiful
legs.
You always looked best
in a dress.
Not in the crazy short
skirts
and outfits you would wear
to impress an audience,
that was sexy,
but I loved you best
in just a regular
dress.
Hair curly
and looking like a girl.
But you are gone.
I walk by the rack of dresses
think of you
and buy a case of beer.
I go and drink the beer
with my friend.
But you are always
on my mind.
Yes indeed,
you are always
on my mind.
- Paul Sexton
(1 poem added 07.15.14)
editor's note: Beer to blur the vision of what was, dresses to bring it back, crystal clear. Beer, dress, repeat... (We are happy to have Paul back in the ranks of our Contributing Poets with this one. See more of his madness on his page.) - mh
You’re It.
we played tag at twenty-two
faces facing and knees
bracing for the next attack
we shared breaths
not of heated passion but
of complete exhaustion, and
like clocks ticking, kept time
to the end of our days
we wanted to clasp hands,
brush cheeks, inch closer
and closer and closer
but in a field we shared with others
we had to settle for a play date and tag
- Melani Grace Tiongson
(1 poem added 07.14.14)
editor's note: Tag, to please the field, when the game of choice is touch an' tussle? Trash the field, touch away. (We welcome Melani to our crazy confab of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of her madness on her new page.) - mh
The Soup and Him
He hunches a little,
his elbows sit on the table,
holds the spoon
with his right hand,
eats soup in silence.
Several comings
and goings
of the spoon and lips,
with energy and zest,
until the bowl is empty.
Being with him
at this pub is a treat,
a moment so sacred,
the whispers of others
fade away. I wish I could place
my lips on his,
embrace him tightly in my arms,
cradle his head
against my breast,
I am half in love with him.
- Amy Barry
(1 poem added 07.13.14)
editor's note: A full bowl, emptied; a half love, filling. Carl Sandburg, eat your heart out! - mh
••• Short Stories •••
On the hunt for a fine read? We got the lead on just the thing for your needs! Here's what ACTING Short Story Editor MH Clay had to say about our usual unusual Short Story Editor Tyler Malone’s tale AND this pick-of-the-week short story, “Killing Field”… "From a sleep unsolicited to a sleep unending; all between is nightmare. Death is waking! This one shows that even editors succumb to the seduction of words, the tyranny of stories untold." Here's a taste to tease ya’:
photo by Tyler Malone
The way you can’t swallow, a thick throat, swollen with the need for a wet drop, that was their country. The hunter left his family to gather supper, a hog to slaughter. The kill would happen early, while the woman and children would pick cotton. The hunter would return with blood on his hands, food for bellies. With death, there’s life.
A grown woman and two girls receive kisses from the hunter, heavy with a rifle, ammunition brass, and a canteen of well water from the cool earth odorous with snakes and spiders. Oily, like worm bellies. As if it’s the taste of gold everyone seems to rush towards with cool veins and hot beating hearts, the hunter sips the well’s canteen but its goodness is blind to the eyes of the maker, washing out his wife and babies.
The hunter always knows where to go.
No need to hunt out the rest of the story. We've tracked it's trail for ya’. 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...
Creatin’,
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
••• The Mad Gallery •••
woman from behind (above) by featured artist Mike Fiorito. To see more Mad works from Mike, and our other contributing artists, please visit our Mad Gallery.
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we slurped soup, licked lips, let love explore half the depths; we forsook our lust for the public trust (why, oh why did we do that?); we lingered in a loop around, from lost turned back to found; we played the shill for carnival kill, all sparkle without spark; we let deserved admonition pass, we all fight in weights one-over our class; we thought to pick petals, forego the prick of pain from thorns; we danced by the door twixt this and the next one, decided to stop to gaze at tree and sun (leaves on the one, fire in the other). Ignite with words our conflagration, without our flame of pontification there is darkness and silence. ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
ZEN – each day the hour
Each is the whole
As we touch a wave the sea
The atom’s heart the cosmos soul
To see beyond the trees
Where you were there before
A window staring in on us
A brilliant light each suicide
Which is a precious gift
Condemns a world already dead
A darkness born inside its head
A deep blue sea that sets you free
Truth that has been forged from Time
Each star its own unique black hole
Beyond each leaf that is the tree
- Derrick Gaskin
(1 poem added 07.19.14)
editor's note: Constant contemplation; peace to find in this life we live on our way towards death. - mh
Bed of Roses
Life is not a bed of roses.
But who would even want that?
I thank the lord
that life is not a bed of thorns
or a bed of nails,
or a bed pan.
Im really rather happy
that life is not anything bed.
A bed of roses really seems
more like a thing for the dead.
- Alex L. Swartzentruber
(1 poem added 07.18.14)
editor's note: Name perfection without pain. A thorny subject... - mh
A Fistful of Nothing
my nine year old
socked another boy
in the nose and
made it bleed,
they weren't fighting,
he was just playing
too rough,
lacked the impulse control
I talked to him about
keeping his hands to himself,
"don't make a fist,"
I told him
and i thought about
how ridiculous
that request was,
how we come out of
the womb with fists
ready,
gloves at the ready,
featherweight,
welterweight,
or heavyweight,
it doesn't really
matter,
we are ready
to go the distance
looking for our corner man
we have fistfuls
of nothing
- Melanie Browne
(1 poem added 07.17.14)
editor's note: We fight from bell to bell and never want to hear the man say, "TEN!" - mh
Wreckage
Your smile
belongs to a demented clown,
Full of secrets and buried bodies,
Your words,
Genuine as a sideshow huckster
selling tickets to the two-headed goat,
Your remoteness,
A calculated game to ensnare,
Absinthe for my soul,
Fueling an obsession to make you mine,
But I refused to see,
Until one deft move after another,
I picked the lock,
Threw open the treasure chest,
And watched broken trinkets
and glass rubies
dribble through my fingers.
- Linda Haltmaier
(added 07.16.14)
editor's note: The challenge is the treasure; the hunt exceeds the having. - mh
dresses
Every time I walk into
the grocery store
to buy a case of beer
I pass a rack of
tie died sun dresses.
Every time I think
that I would buy one
for you
if you were still alive.
Every time I think
of how beautiful
you would look
in one.
With your beautiful
shoulders
and your beautiful
legs.
You always looked best
in a dress.
Not in the crazy short
skirts
and outfits you would wear
to impress an audience,
that was sexy,
but I loved you best
in just a regular
dress.
Hair curly
and looking like a girl.
But you are gone.
I walk by the rack of dresses
think of you
and buy a case of beer.
I go and drink the beer
with my friend.
But you are always
on my mind.
Yes indeed,
you are always
on my mind.
- Paul Sexton
(1 poem added 07.15.14)
editor's note: Beer to blur the vision of what was, dresses to bring it back, crystal clear. Beer, dress, repeat... (We are happy to have Paul back in the ranks of our Contributing Poets with this one. See more of his madness on his page.) - mh
You’re It.
we played tag at twenty-two
faces facing and knees
bracing for the next attack
we shared breaths
not of heated passion but
of complete exhaustion, and
like clocks ticking, kept time
to the end of our days
we wanted to clasp hands,
brush cheeks, inch closer
and closer and closer
but in a field we shared with others
we had to settle for a play date and tag
- Melani Grace Tiongson
(1 poem added 07.14.14)
editor's note: Tag, to please the field, when the game of choice is touch an' tussle? Trash the field, touch away. (We welcome Melani to our crazy confab of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of her madness on her new page.) - mh
The Soup and Him
He hunches a little,
his elbows sit on the table,
holds the spoon
with his right hand,
eats soup in silence.
Several comings
and goings
of the spoon and lips,
with energy and zest,
until the bowl is empty.
Being with him
at this pub is a treat,
a moment so sacred,
the whispers of others
fade away. I wish I could place
my lips on his,
embrace him tightly in my arms,
cradle his head
against my breast,
I am half in love with him.
- Amy Barry
(1 poem added 07.13.14)
editor's note: A full bowl, emptied; a half love, filling. Carl Sandburg, eat your heart out! - mh
••• Short Stories •••
On the hunt for a fine read? We got the lead on just the thing for your needs! Here's what ACTING Short Story Editor MH Clay had to say about our usual unusual Short Story Editor Tyler Malone’s tale AND this pick-of-the-week short story, “Killing Field”… "From a sleep unsolicited to a sleep unending; all between is nightmare. Death is waking! This one shows that even editors succumb to the seduction of words, the tyranny of stories untold." Here's a taste to tease ya’:
The way you can’t swallow, a thick throat, swollen with the need for a wet drop, that was their country. The hunter left his family to gather supper, a hog to slaughter. The kill would happen early, while the woman and children would pick cotton. The hunter would return with blood on his hands, food for bellies. With death, there’s life.
A grown woman and two girls receive kisses from the hunter, heavy with a rifle, ammunition brass, and a canteen of well water from the cool earth odorous with snakes and spiders. Oily, like worm bellies. As if it’s the taste of gold everyone seems to rush towards with cool veins and hot beating hearts, the hunter sips the well’s canteen but its goodness is blind to the eyes of the maker, washing out his wife and babies.
The hunter always knows where to go.
No need to hunt out the rest of the story. We've tracked it's trail for ya’. 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...
Creatin’,
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
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