The Best of Mad Swirl : 07.16.17

The Best of Mad Swirl : 07.16.17
“Part of the fun of art is that it invites you to interpret it.” ~ Tony Kushner ••• The Mad Gallery ••• "People’s Republic of Cork” (above) by featured artist David J. Thompson. To see more of David’s mad snaps, as well as our other featured artists, visit our Mad Gallery! ••• The Poetry Forum ••• This last week[read more]

The Best of Mad Swirl : 07.09.17

The Best of Mad Swirl : 07.09.17
••• The Mad Gallery ••• Cobbler” (above) by featured artist David J. Thompson. To see more of David’s mad snaps, as well as our other featured artists, visit our Mad Gallery! ••• The Poetry Forum ••• This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we were warned against our domi-nation; we got the measure of a child's treasure;[read more]

Notes of Gratitude to the Mad Ones : 07.05.17

Notes of Gratitude to the Mad Ones : 07.05.17
This past 1st Wednesday of July (aka 07.05.17) Mad Swirl​ swirled it up madly in the live way that we do every month. This month we opened the mic up to all you mad poets, performers and musicians. Here’s a shout out to all YOU YOU's who graced us with their words, their songs, their[read more]


I sit here tracing these words across this screen
Looking for other possibilities
That can slide beyond the measures of reason
These days my day’s measure is spent
Searching possible futures
That leave me stranded here
In this distant present:

Measuring each word written
I sit in a shady place
And pace each line away
Writing a last refuge
A prisoner pacing the yard
Each word a step
In this battle with meaning

Experience will remain
A mixture of loss and gain
I am torn between a head
That reasons
And a heart that knows

I trace borderlines
Weighing possibilities
One past with another
Looking for connections
Still experience remains
Wrapped by silence
I will not let this rocky world
Shatter me.

Recently Published


I kneel in gravel, no tears, just
fascinated with six tiny purple petals
poking through light snow. I don’t know
their name. I have arrived
here limping through decades[read more]


I was an incredibly angry young man
Those times at primary school were hell
Plagued by a restless energy and a sense
That I was never going to[read more]


We know the cut, but we don’t yet know the scar. We were never pretty, but this, this one is going to be an[read more]



I grew up thinking my mother was magic. She recited memorized poetry in the bath every night and when she was home (which was often), she was naked, if not in her long silk robe that always drooped lazily, untied, and exposing her all the same. She smelt of rum and frankincense and had hair so long and so thick that her braids looked like manilla ropes. She had never worked a day in her life, she never had to. She painted still life and they would hang in coffee[read more]
The Puppeteer

The Puppeteer

Bobo inherited the corporation from his father, becoming the principal shareholder and chairman of the board of directors. His first executive action was to have a meeting with the management team to brainstorm new ideas for the budget. “I think we should invest more in long term infrastructure,” said Manager #9. “A review of current tax liabilities and implications would be prudent,” said Manager #7. “I feel that we need more puppets!” blurted Bobo. Manager #9 interrupted patiently, “We’ve already utilized extensive puppetry in the education and training divisions, we’re overrun with felt and[read more]
McGillicuddy's Wake

McGillicuddy's Wake

Two new crutches and two double shots of Bushmills Irish Whiskey enabled Joe Faherty to move from the back seat of Moira Murphy's 1976 Buick into Eagan's Funeral Home for Tim McGillicuddy's wake. At 87, Joe was in bad shape, only a tad better than McGillicuddy who looked splendid in a rococo casket. The way the funeral home had painted McGillicuddy's face, he looked better than most of the folks who had come to say good bye. Many of them were in their eighties. Even Moira, who still had her driver's[read more]