“The work of art is a scream of freedom.” ~ Christo
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl’s Poetry Forum… we attempted an atomic bond, bombed instead; we succumbed (again) to the suck of love’s swirl (you could have stepped back, girl); we searched to secure sure love with elusive verse; we omitted invitation for an elderly aunt with a condescending rant; we found a flash of memory to crash in a thunder of tears; we created some talk on the talk of creation; we flipped through frequencies on our dial of memories. Read to remember; write to dream. ~ MH Clay
by Kenneth P. Gurney
Paul reached into his curiosity
for a chocolate chip cookie
but found a bicuspid the tooth faerie dropped
back when he was six or seven.
Paul placed the recovered memories
of being six or seven
in a box in the basement
without sorting them in any manner.
Somehow, this liberated a small pair
of sky blue flip-flop sandals
that tracked nineteen sixties beach sand
across the living room carpet.
And the echo of playgrounds passed
kept coming out of the speakers
when the radio tuner glided passed
ninety-eight point six on the dial.
editors note: Savor those stations on your memory dial. Save the sand in your pockets. (We’re glad to see this mad missive from Kenneth, a long time Contributor to the Swirl. Read another memento from him on his page; about fire and a kicking cow – check it out.) – mh clay
June 13, 2015
by Carl Kavadlo
creating it is always
talking about it is always
editors note: Still, a breath mint before speaking attempts the illusion. – mh clay
June 12, 2015
by Brittany Zedalis
those days spent gliding through the streets
rubber on concrete and distant laughter
with the sun bearing down on our backs
you once told me you loved me
on a trip to an infamous amusement park
shortly before your sickness began
we saw funny hats and there were no long faces
then it came like a landslide
your steps grew slower and each breath more hoarse
and on a night where the sky opened wide
the rain fell like thunderous sorrow
your smile echoed through my screaming soul
editors note: We are the thunder, heard after Death’s lightning strike. (We welcome Brittany to our crazy congress of Contributing poets with this submission. Read more of her madness, including another new one, seeking sparks, on her new page – check it out!) – mh clay
June 11, 2015
by Stefanie Bennett
My love, best not invite
The dowager again
Such an incessant
The bone china
Reheat its fare,
And the pennyroyal
And, come nightfall, she’ll
Sup and marinate
Into a ballroom;
Mark my words,
Of the Un-merry Widow
Won’t stop there.
editors note: Change the locks, pull the shades; better house empty than upended. – mh clay
June 10, 2015
by Sheikha A.
The carnival is long gone
and I’m still waiting in line
to buy me a love poem
by poets who still remember
what these are; can it be spoken
about dreams that bore your face
or ought they best be buried
in code in poetry I should learn
to master the art of divulging
without really telling;
or should I speak eloquently
without slipping over my words
with the tongue of a tot
clumsy but of what you manage
to hear, believe the words
since they may be like fragments
on sand hard to recover,
but they’ll carry waves of the air
unseen, without definite form
but complete like the night
that never shows without a moon.
editors note: A pome booth, like kisses for a dollar? No! More – special. – mh clay
June 9, 2015
Swirl on Repeat
by Nilanka Maldeniya
Done with the promises
pitch it to me all you want
not going down that rabbit hole
or looking glass
or whatever other magical doors.
Stop just stop
the fireworks just ain’t
the thrill of the ride
into the vortex of chaos.
At least some lessons learned
that last time
though always ready
to crumble like sandcastles at the tide
as memories of us in our own private shell
reel me back to the edge of that mad swirl
when I should have known to step back
editors note: More of love’s caprice; titillation and torture. Step up, step up. – mh clay
June 8, 2015
by Scott Thomas Outlar
A nuke for a lover
strapped on tight
into spaces that mutate
around the smoky edges
of a mushroom head
that pushes and pushes
until it wins
editors note: Ah, capricious love! He went for fusion; got fission, instead. (We welcome Scott to our conspiratorial confab of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of his madness on his new page – check it out!) – mh clay
June 7, 2015
••• Short Stories •••
Need-a-Read? Well then, we got just the read for that need!
Here is what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone had to say about this pick-of-the-week tale ”Clinical” by Michelle D’costa: “Each one of us is a product in so many horrible ways. Just because you’re born, you’ll die. Your very blood is spiked with failure and all sorts of folly and insanity. Know that, believe that, and make the most of it. Live, dammit. Live!”
Here’s a taste to tease you with:
My Mom was the first candidate to be subjected to those medicines. It wasn’t voluntary. We had no choice. I was tied to my imaginary chair, hands tied behind my back. Can’t I stop them?
As a child, Mom had protected me from any harm, when a neighbor boy had bitten my arm, she told me I didn’t deserve this and that I had to fight back.
Now she can’t fight them, so I should, right?
It began with a slight twitch in her eye. Then when I asked her about it, it irked her.
She said, “Why does everyone bother about my twitch? As if I can’t handle a little twitch.”
Those words didn’t strike me as odd. But when she had taken tweezers to pry out her eye because of the twitch, a month later I knew something was wrong. But not everything had gone wrong, not yet, anyway.
She then said, “Voices made me do it. They made me feel guilty for having the twitch for so long.”
I took her to the clinic, to them. They said she would be taken care of.
I shouldn’t have left. I shouldn’t have…
Get the rest of your read on here!
••• Blog •••
MH Clay, Mad Swirl’s Poetry Editor extraordinaire with that madman flair is globetrottin’ and is sharing his overseas affairs! Check out his “An Editor Abroad” blog series where we find him fully immersed in the poetic waters of the Poetry International Festival 2015 in Rotterdam. Give it a look-see for yourself right here AND 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…
Short Story Editor