The Best of Mad Swirl : 08.23.14
”Beauty of expression is so akin to the voice of the sea.” George Matthew Adams
••• The Mad Gallery •••
Die-Cut 4 (above) by featured artist GM Spear. To see more Mad works from GM, and our other contributing artists, please visit the Mad Gallery.
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we suffered the slings of tantrums torrential, frustrated flings of foundered potential; we ripped and roared, resplendent in our rage; we voiced, a vibrant throng, inspired angelic attention to our song; we quenched the flames of passionate courses, gleaned from the corpses of horses; we colored the brunt of the love we want (her, only; womb, ever); we wasted our weaver, warped her wonder, induced her fever; we stood our stead o'er god or vagrant, six days dead. Let the dead bury… ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
The corpse in the garden
the corpse in the garden
has laid there six days
the sun burns hot
and the garden stinks
a man of clay should go out
and prod that body
with a sharp stick,
see if white worms
bubble from the skin
check for a wallet
and maybe a name
keep the cash
if there is no i.d.
assume it is god.
- Joseph Farley
(1 poem added 08.23.14)
editor's note: What comes from letting the dead do the burying. - mh
Our Mother
“The earth does not belong to us. We belong to the earth.”
~ Chief Seattle, The Chief Seattle's Speech
Does she want us
did she ever ---
Or will she weary of our silliness
and shake us from
her noble cloak
like vexing flecks of lint
- Sandra Rokoff-Lizut
(added 08.22.14)
editor's note: Yes, very likely, she will. What's our plan for shrug survival? - mh
Color Wheel
I want her there in the purple
dark of the nighttime
I want her there in the amber
red of the Tuesday dawn
there in the powder blue
or some random afternoon
when frost is still on windows
when day has given away light
when the light shines later
in the conflagration of autumn,
old man with flecks of grey
when tide meets the edge of mind
when the moon sends it flying
backward into the birthplace.
- JD DeHart
(added 08.21.14)
editor's note: Yes! Me, too; her, it, all. - mh
SCHOOL
at the garbage dump
we looked at the buried horses
as the sun burned down
while astronauts strove for control of space
with billions on the line.
in the fetid air
slender legs and awkward hooves
stuck up out of the dump pile pit
flies in hordes like some hell’s neurosis
so numerous
even my girlfriend, a past-life wrangler
looked away.
this is what happens, I said
when civilization is brought to the brink
I was full of all sorts of truth in those days.
my girlfriend smirked and told me
about how she had to put down her old horse Candy
when she broke a leg leaping a rail
the mare that taught herself how to escape the corral
back when only a little colt
equine head on her lap
as she put a bullet through the brain.
with pygmy ears
I haven’t quit listening, in squirmy shoes
I haven’t quit walking away
though long gone is that woman
long gone the rain
beating on the eaves
of the house her father built
on the foundation of an old school
from floorboards of an old garage
out of scavenged brick and tongue-in-groove cedar
no longer that once eternal night upstairs,
a candle
set too close to the pillow
flames racing up the walls
and our tag-team amateur firefighter brigade saving the day.
her old man never found out
that while I was doing the thing to his daughter
we almost burned the house down.
the old goat would’ve lit the old tobacco pipe and laughed,
or maybe not.
the horses are gone
the fences falling down
the old pick-up truck
rusting in the canopy
of endless raindrop evergreens
I never quit listening
to the hearth of beginnings.
it’s always a rainy day
when the horses quit running.
- Jay Passer
(added 08.20.14)
editor's note: Equine educators, interred; old school. Fire prevention, while burning; new school. Exam on Friday. - mh
They Sing
her name, outside my window,
each one, excited for the day before them
proclaiming to the world life is new again
this morning, in the darkness
and at dusk, as it disappears into the rainbow
of colors, a palate fit for Monet.
Should I be jealous...
their words belong to the wind
lyrics I can only capture by ear, but not duplicate?
If you were here
we could practice the chords together
in our own voices, low and sweet,
create our own melody, a song
that even they would listen to with envy
as they looked in on us
and wept.
- Joseph D. DiLella
(1 poem added 08.19.14)
editor's note: Mortals mouth the melody to make the angels cry. - mh
The Rages
Words whir like insects from books in a pyre,
Swarming in smoke as burning pages rage.
Suns resplendent with gold coronas blaze
With fires that through galactic ages rage.
The swirls of Jupiter's cyclonic storms burst
In prismatic fires that through ages rage.
In the Gobi golden whirlwinds laced
With the voices of chanting sages rage.
Screeches & demonic voices emitted
From The Necronomicon's pages rage.
Wings flail amid raucous cackles
As frenzied ravens in their cages rage.
- Steffen Horstmann
(added 08.18.14)
editor's note: Noise makers from cradle to grave; we're all the rage… - mh
Terminus
“Maximum Potential Realized”
Such cold clinical jargon
To signal that it’s all over
But the packing of clothes
Making neat piles of chaos,
Closing the doors you never thought
You could budge.
Will they know that three taps means
“I like you”?
Will they understand that sausage
Is what she will eat for breakfast,
Never eggs, or cereal?
Will they see the anger
In cornflower blue eyes
And simply up the meds
Til she is complacent?
A year I spent
The first face she saw each morning,
Drawing her from sleep
Two year old dreams
In a thirteen year old body,
No words---
Just angry honking
When her pride was offended,
She bruised me,
Flung her breakfast at no one in particular,
And I can forgive every scratch, or kick,
While I count up the things
They will never know in her,
Because she has maxed out,
Little girl lost for all time.
- Lisa Shields
(1 poem added 08.17.14)
editor's note: Every day stopped at the start - mh
••• Short Stories •••
Need a read? We got one you could immerse yourself in to!
Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone had to say about this pick-of-the-week short story, "The Drowner" by longtime contributing writer Mike Lafontaine.… "There's a fine art found in drowning, John Berryman proved that. But like poetry and baptisms, it's not for everyone.” Here's just a lil bit for you to swallow:
After praying all night at the foot of his bed searching for answers to questions that never got answered he decided that today was the day he was finally going to kill himself. After an exhaustive search online of the many and varied ways he could shuffle off this mortal coil.
He decided on drowning.
The beach was preferable, although he ran the risk of the lifeguard mistaking him for a person who needed assistance. He could pick a spot with no lifeguards, but he decided against that. He wanted this to be a deeply personal experience not to be shared with anyone, and the fact that he could not control his environment and that a stranger might pass by and try to be a hero made the solution to his problem all that much easier.
He would drown at home.
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...
Expressin’,
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
Madelyn Olson
Visual Editor
••• The Mad Gallery •••
Die-Cut 4 (above) by featured artist GM Spear. To see more Mad works from GM, and our other contributing artists, please visit the Mad Gallery.
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we suffered the slings of tantrums torrential, frustrated flings of foundered potential; we ripped and roared, resplendent in our rage; we voiced, a vibrant throng, inspired angelic attention to our song; we quenched the flames of passionate courses, gleaned from the corpses of horses; we colored the brunt of the love we want (her, only; womb, ever); we wasted our weaver, warped her wonder, induced her fever; we stood our stead o'er god or vagrant, six days dead. Let the dead bury… ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
The corpse in the garden
the corpse in the garden
has laid there six days
the sun burns hot
and the garden stinks
a man of clay should go out
and prod that body
with a sharp stick,
see if white worms
bubble from the skin
check for a wallet
and maybe a name
keep the cash
if there is no i.d.
assume it is god.
- Joseph Farley
(1 poem added 08.23.14)
editor's note: What comes from letting the dead do the burying. - mh
Our Mother
“The earth does not belong to us. We belong to the earth.”
~ Chief Seattle, The Chief Seattle's Speech
Does she want us
did she ever ---
Or will she weary of our silliness
and shake us from
her noble cloak
like vexing flecks of lint
- Sandra Rokoff-Lizut
(added 08.22.14)
editor's note: Yes, very likely, she will. What's our plan for shrug survival? - mh
Color Wheel
I want her there in the purple
dark of the nighttime
I want her there in the amber
red of the Tuesday dawn
there in the powder blue
or some random afternoon
when frost is still on windows
when day has given away light
when the light shines later
in the conflagration of autumn,
old man with flecks of grey
when tide meets the edge of mind
when the moon sends it flying
backward into the birthplace.
- JD DeHart
(added 08.21.14)
editor's note: Yes! Me, too; her, it, all. - mh
SCHOOL
at the garbage dump
we looked at the buried horses
as the sun burned down
while astronauts strove for control of space
with billions on the line.
in the fetid air
slender legs and awkward hooves
stuck up out of the dump pile pit
flies in hordes like some hell’s neurosis
so numerous
even my girlfriend, a past-life wrangler
looked away.
this is what happens, I said
when civilization is brought to the brink
I was full of all sorts of truth in those days.
my girlfriend smirked and told me
about how she had to put down her old horse Candy
when she broke a leg leaping a rail
the mare that taught herself how to escape the corral
back when only a little colt
equine head on her lap
as she put a bullet through the brain.
with pygmy ears
I haven’t quit listening, in squirmy shoes
I haven’t quit walking away
though long gone is that woman
long gone the rain
beating on the eaves
of the house her father built
on the foundation of an old school
from floorboards of an old garage
out of scavenged brick and tongue-in-groove cedar
no longer that once eternal night upstairs,
a candle
set too close to the pillow
flames racing up the walls
and our tag-team amateur firefighter brigade saving the day.
her old man never found out
that while I was doing the thing to his daughter
we almost burned the house down.
the old goat would’ve lit the old tobacco pipe and laughed,
or maybe not.
the horses are gone
the fences falling down
the old pick-up truck
rusting in the canopy
of endless raindrop evergreens
I never quit listening
to the hearth of beginnings.
it’s always a rainy day
when the horses quit running.
- Jay Passer
(added 08.20.14)
editor's note: Equine educators, interred; old school. Fire prevention, while burning; new school. Exam on Friday. - mh
They Sing
her name, outside my window,
each one, excited for the day before them
proclaiming to the world life is new again
this morning, in the darkness
and at dusk, as it disappears into the rainbow
of colors, a palate fit for Monet.
Should I be jealous...
their words belong to the wind
lyrics I can only capture by ear, but not duplicate?
If you were here
we could practice the chords together
in our own voices, low and sweet,
create our own melody, a song
that even they would listen to with envy
as they looked in on us
and wept.
- Joseph D. DiLella
(1 poem added 08.19.14)
editor's note: Mortals mouth the melody to make the angels cry. - mh
The Rages
Words whir like insects from books in a pyre,
Swarming in smoke as burning pages rage.
Suns resplendent with gold coronas blaze
With fires that through galactic ages rage.
The swirls of Jupiter's cyclonic storms burst
In prismatic fires that through ages rage.
In the Gobi golden whirlwinds laced
With the voices of chanting sages rage.
Screeches & demonic voices emitted
From The Necronomicon's pages rage.
Wings flail amid raucous cackles
As frenzied ravens in their cages rage.
- Steffen Horstmann
(added 08.18.14)
editor's note: Noise makers from cradle to grave; we're all the rage… - mh
Terminus
“Maximum Potential Realized”
Such cold clinical jargon
To signal that it’s all over
But the packing of clothes
Making neat piles of chaos,
Closing the doors you never thought
You could budge.
Will they know that three taps means
“I like you”?
Will they understand that sausage
Is what she will eat for breakfast,
Never eggs, or cereal?
Will they see the anger
In cornflower blue eyes
And simply up the meds
Til she is complacent?
A year I spent
The first face she saw each morning,
Drawing her from sleep
Two year old dreams
In a thirteen year old body,
No words---
Just angry honking
When her pride was offended,
She bruised me,
Flung her breakfast at no one in particular,
And I can forgive every scratch, or kick,
While I count up the things
They will never know in her,
Because she has maxed out,
Little girl lost for all time.
- Lisa Shields
(1 poem added 08.17.14)
editor's note: Every day stopped at the start - mh
••• Short Stories •••
Need a read? We got one you could immerse yourself in to!
Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone had to say about this pick-of-the-week short story, "The Drowner" by longtime contributing writer Mike Lafontaine.… "There's a fine art found in drowning, John Berryman proved that. But like poetry and baptisms, it's not for everyone.” Here's just a lil bit for you to swallow:
After praying all night at the foot of his bed searching for answers to questions that never got answered he decided that today was the day he was finally going to kill himself. After an exhaustive search online of the many and varied ways he could shuffle off this mortal coil.
He decided on drowning.
The beach was preferable, although he ran the risk of the lifeguard mistaking him for a person who needed assistance. He could pick a spot with no lifeguards, but he decided against that. He wanted this to be a deeply personal experience not to be shared with anyone, and the fact that he could not control his environment and that a stranger might pass by and try to be a hero made the solution to his problem all that much easier.
He would drown at home.
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...
Expressin’,
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
Madelyn Olson
Visual Editor
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