The Best of Mad Swirl : 12.20.14
"I try and write honestly about what I see around me now." Billy Bragg
••• The Mad Gallery •••
“Walking around the buzz with the neighborhood” (above) by featured artist Gerard Bendiks. To see more Mad works from Gerard, and our other contributing artists, please visit our Mad Gallery.
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we wrapped a raw resplendent reptile 'round colored convergent contexts; we plied a planetary tryst with a cloak of darkness, washed in light; we wondered why a willow weeps; we stifled the strife of a stunted life, sought god's bequest for a day of rest; we ripped a raw ribbon to a single thread, wound down a war for diminished dead; we made a plea for leniency in the light of skeleton cruelty; we plumbed the depths of pointlessness, succumbed to a sick sense of humor. Our significance derived from reality contrived; our spirits survive by the light of our lives. ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Of Death and Dying
Pay the ferryman twice, just to be
sure you do not end
up haunting the waters of hell’s only river.
Place remaining coins over each eye to show
your life had worth. Subsequently, purpose
may seemingly echo with shadows of pointlessness.
Immortal
gods do not lack
a sense of vindictive humor.
- A.J. Huffman
(1 poem added 12.20.14)
editor’s note: With immortal gods our mortal construct, the joke's on us. - mh
Catch my plea
What is with all "that light"
For just another ordinary day
How in the world can it end this way
No warning, no nothing
And there I lay
Not breathing
Motionless
A heart gone silent
And "that light"
Oops
Wait
It cannot be
I am not ready
This has to be a mistake
I thought I had time yet
To clean up my act
To wipe off my slate
I've repeatedly wronged myself
The horror show of my transgressions
And a closet load of skeletons
Have been plenty cruel to me
Please
Someone, anyone
Catch my plea
Can I live it over
Do it right, do it better
Try and make amends
Get another chance
Go back once
- Arif Ahmad
(1 poem added 12.19.14)
editor’s note: Everyone wants a "do over." Better done now, than regretted later - forgive yourself. - mh
Ribbons
Darkened skies,
thickly smeared
with petrified cries
go unheard.
Mopped up,
merged,
snuffed out.
Eaten up with
screams of hell.
Thunders,
torment reigns
Fists hammering
pent up fury
no mercy strikes
countless blows
unbiased
where they land.
Smashing skulls
and houses alike,
rage has no preference,
let loose,
rips trees from
their roots,
torsos tossed up in the air
Nothing escapes
the wrath of war
once claws are in,
sunk deep, embedded,
shredding every last ounce of life.
Red slashes
the torn up skies
hanging on but
with a ribbon.
All life removed
war dies down too
nothing left to fuel his fury.
Lies down upon
his blackened bed,
falls into restless sleep.
Death escorts
the shell-shocked
nerves scattered
ashen everywhere
dust settles down
on hollowed ground.
nothing left
bar one lone ribbon.
Hanging loosely
tied yellow.
Barely holding on
To a single thread
of hope.
- Tina Clowes Kay
(added 12.18.14)
editor’s note: A wisp of life remains, in spite. - mh
BERNIE
He holds down a factory job
so he can keep the farm.
Early morning,
he punches in twice,
once via hands squeezing cow teats,
the second with a yellow card
slotted into an old gray time clock.
He's a weary man
after a hard day on the assembly line,
a twilight in the tractor saddle,
plowing up the earth and gravel.
He could toss it in any time,
move to a tiny town apartment,
but the farm was in the family
when there was no town.
And under the bed,
there's a box of photographs,
faded glossies of watching eyes.
On Sundays,
it's church
and visiting his wife's grave.
God's no help,
Clara's dead.
It's a day of rest
with a hole in the middle.
- John Grey
(1 poem added 12.17.14)
editor’s note: To look upon this life as "plight" robs us all of hope and light. - mh
The Willow
Weeping willow
Hanging low
Over a pond.
Water so deep
But the water don’t flow
Graveyard silent
No ripple to see.
Bugs won’t fly
Over the absolute quiet
Bubble of restrained time
Breathless, bereft
Could the willow
Be crying for me.
- Steve Roberts
(added 12.16.14)
editor’s note: Man-tree hyperbole; tree-man empathy. - mh
a night in Venus
death is close
acquire the frilled wings
of a winter moth
and meet me
in Venus
let’s build
a borough with our hands
on the narrow bed
of our bodies
then turn off the lights
- Sergio A. Ortiz
(added 12.15.14)
editor’s note: Death ever close, safe haven built; can't die with the lights on. - mh
NEON SNAKES
One snake sleeps in the forest, by the lake
The other in my bed
One snake knows everything but cannot move
The other knows how to read newspapers
One snake wonders how the moon will shatter
Across our desert
Across our reservoir
An implied destiny followed like a june bug toward the porch light
The cactus wonders
How long it will have to hold the water
Is it really suffering
If pain is forgotten
Or remembered differently
Or loved
When it is loved
The snakes are neon
Land beyond the carnivorous acid burn of Austin
Slither across America
And Eurasia and Ireland and Holland
There will be a bear who will come and break the ice shelf
There is a june bug who will look for light
There is sand in the engine
- Cheyenne Gallion
(3 poems added 12.14.14)
editor’s note: Snake as noun, adjectivally colored. Snake as verb, our winding path in a motionless machine. (See two more mad missives from Cheyenne on his page; them and this, a tripping trifecta - check'em out.) - mh
••• Short Stories •••
Need-a-Read? The latest addition to our short stories library, "The Unselfing of Dr. Selby Leigh" by C.B. Johnson, is a bit of a twisted tale about the fine line between smiles and frowns, sane and insane. Yep… right up our mad alley!
Here is what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone had to say about this pick-of-the-week tale: "'Am I happy?' That's the question too many people ask strangers standing behind pews, or athletes throwing footballs, and on rare occasions, the mirror. You can't trust any of them, though, certainly not the face whose lips are asking the question."
Here's a little bit for you to see if it brings a smile and/or a frown to your mug:
Dr Selby Leigh had never been very happy, despite his successes in life. Last Saturday he went down to the village café. On any day before this day it would have been routine procedure. Order a coffee, chit chat a bit with the wait staff while paying and tipping, browse the front pages of the papers, offer a friendly doctor’s smile to the non-professionals sitting about enjoying relaxed village ambience, and get going, hot coffee in hand, quick important patent leather steps.
Except this is the story of a man who played with fire, the fire of his own self.
You may have tried not to notice them, in the supermarket checkout lines, the discount chemists, and the streets of villages that have developed around car parks. You looked away, pretending your attention was caught by something momentarily important. But you looked back in quiet fascination, holding your gaze upon their actions an extra second or two, transfixed by the mini-spectacle of totally abstracted human behaviour.
Dr. Selby Leigh had studied the condition, in the supermarket and at the clinic. He had filled a spiral notebook with observations…
:)? or :(? Either way, you know you wanna, so get the rest of your right 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...
Seein’,
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
Madelyn Olson
Visual Editor
••• The Mad Gallery •••
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we wrapped a raw resplendent reptile 'round colored convergent contexts; we plied a planetary tryst with a cloak of darkness, washed in light; we wondered why a willow weeps; we stifled the strife of a stunted life, sought god's bequest for a day of rest; we ripped a raw ribbon to a single thread, wound down a war for diminished dead; we made a plea for leniency in the light of skeleton cruelty; we plumbed the depths of pointlessness, succumbed to a sick sense of humor. Our significance derived from reality contrived; our spirits survive by the light of our lives. ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Of Death and Dying
Pay the ferryman twice, just to be
sure you do not end
up haunting the waters of hell’s only river.
Place remaining coins over each eye to show
your life had worth. Subsequently, purpose
may seemingly echo with shadows of pointlessness.
Immortal
gods do not lack
a sense of vindictive humor.
- A.J. Huffman
(1 poem added 12.20.14)
editor’s note: With immortal gods our mortal construct, the joke's on us. - mh
Catch my plea
What is with all "that light"
For just another ordinary day
How in the world can it end this way
No warning, no nothing
And there I lay
Not breathing
Motionless
A heart gone silent
And "that light"
Oops
Wait
It cannot be
I am not ready
This has to be a mistake
I thought I had time yet
To clean up my act
To wipe off my slate
I've repeatedly wronged myself
The horror show of my transgressions
And a closet load of skeletons
Have been plenty cruel to me
Please
Someone, anyone
Catch my plea
Can I live it over
Do it right, do it better
Try and make amends
Get another chance
Go back once
- Arif Ahmad
(1 poem added 12.19.14)
editor’s note: Everyone wants a "do over." Better done now, than regretted later - forgive yourself. - mh
Ribbons
Darkened skies,
thickly smeared
with petrified cries
go unheard.
Mopped up,
merged,
snuffed out.
Eaten up with
screams of hell.
Thunders,
torment reigns
Fists hammering
pent up fury
no mercy strikes
countless blows
unbiased
where they land.
Smashing skulls
and houses alike,
rage has no preference,
let loose,
rips trees from
their roots,
torsos tossed up in the air
Nothing escapes
the wrath of war
once claws are in,
sunk deep, embedded,
shredding every last ounce of life.
Red slashes
the torn up skies
hanging on but
with a ribbon.
All life removed
war dies down too
nothing left to fuel his fury.
Lies down upon
his blackened bed,
falls into restless sleep.
Death escorts
the shell-shocked
nerves scattered
ashen everywhere
dust settles down
on hollowed ground.
nothing left
bar one lone ribbon.
Hanging loosely
tied yellow.
Barely holding on
To a single thread
of hope.
- Tina Clowes Kay
(added 12.18.14)
editor’s note: A wisp of life remains, in spite. - mh
BERNIE
He holds down a factory job
so he can keep the farm.
Early morning,
he punches in twice,
once via hands squeezing cow teats,
the second with a yellow card
slotted into an old gray time clock.
He's a weary man
after a hard day on the assembly line,
a twilight in the tractor saddle,
plowing up the earth and gravel.
He could toss it in any time,
move to a tiny town apartment,
but the farm was in the family
when there was no town.
And under the bed,
there's a box of photographs,
faded glossies of watching eyes.
On Sundays,
it's church
and visiting his wife's grave.
God's no help,
Clara's dead.
It's a day of rest
with a hole in the middle.
- John Grey
(1 poem added 12.17.14)
editor’s note: To look upon this life as "plight" robs us all of hope and light. - mh
The Willow
Weeping willow
Hanging low
Over a pond.
Water so deep
But the water don’t flow
Graveyard silent
No ripple to see.
Bugs won’t fly
Over the absolute quiet
Bubble of restrained time
Breathless, bereft
Could the willow
Be crying for me.
- Steve Roberts
(added 12.16.14)
editor’s note: Man-tree hyperbole; tree-man empathy. - mh
a night in Venus
death is close
acquire the frilled wings
of a winter moth
and meet me
in Venus
let’s build
a borough with our hands
on the narrow bed
of our bodies
then turn off the lights
- Sergio A. Ortiz
(added 12.15.14)
editor’s note: Death ever close, safe haven built; can't die with the lights on. - mh
NEON SNAKES
One snake sleeps in the forest, by the lake
The other in my bed
One snake knows everything but cannot move
The other knows how to read newspapers
One snake wonders how the moon will shatter
Across our desert
Across our reservoir
An implied destiny followed like a june bug toward the porch light
The cactus wonders
How long it will have to hold the water
Is it really suffering
If pain is forgotten
Or remembered differently
Or loved
When it is loved
The snakes are neon
Land beyond the carnivorous acid burn of Austin
Slither across America
And Eurasia and Ireland and Holland
There will be a bear who will come and break the ice shelf
There is a june bug who will look for light
There is sand in the engine
- Cheyenne Gallion
(3 poems added 12.14.14)
editor’s note: Snake as noun, adjectivally colored. Snake as verb, our winding path in a motionless machine. (See two more mad missives from Cheyenne on his page; them and this, a tripping trifecta - check'em out.) - mh
••• Short Stories •••
Need-a-Read? The latest addition to our short stories library, "The Unselfing of Dr. Selby Leigh" by C.B. Johnson, is a bit of a twisted tale about the fine line between smiles and frowns, sane and insane. Yep… right up our mad alley!
Here is what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone had to say about this pick-of-the-week tale: "'Am I happy?' That's the question too many people ask strangers standing behind pews, or athletes throwing footballs, and on rare occasions, the mirror. You can't trust any of them, though, certainly not the face whose lips are asking the question."
Here's a little bit for you to see if it brings a smile and/or a frown to your mug:
Dr Selby Leigh had never been very happy, despite his successes in life. Last Saturday he went down to the village café. On any day before this day it would have been routine procedure. Order a coffee, chit chat a bit with the wait staff while paying and tipping, browse the front pages of the papers, offer a friendly doctor’s smile to the non-professionals sitting about enjoying relaxed village ambience, and get going, hot coffee in hand, quick important patent leather steps.
Except this is the story of a man who played with fire, the fire of his own self.
You may have tried not to notice them, in the supermarket checkout lines, the discount chemists, and the streets of villages that have developed around car parks. You looked away, pretending your attention was caught by something momentarily important. But you looked back in quiet fascination, holding your gaze upon their actions an extra second or two, transfixed by the mini-spectacle of totally abstracted human behaviour.
Dr. Selby Leigh had studied the condition, in the supermarket and at the clinic. He had filled a spiral notebook with observations…
:)? or :(? Either way, you know you wanna, so get the rest of your right 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...
Seein’,
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
Madelyn Olson
Visual Editor
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