The Best of Mad Swirl : 05.01.21

The Best of Mad Swirl : 05.01.21
"The artist belongs to his work, not the work to the artist." Novalis ••• The Poetry Forum ••• This past week on Mad Swirl’s Poetry Forum... we dithered away a sweetmeat day; we heartbreak tamed with water and flame; we charged a vamp with muscle cramp; we praised love landing in understanding; we exposed as superficial what isn’t[read more]

Mad Swirl Open Mic : 05.05.21

Mad Swirl Open Mic : 05.05.21
Join Mad Swirl this 1st Wednesday of May (aka 05.05.21) when we'll once again be doin' the open mic voodoo that we do do virtually via Facebook LIVE!! Starting at 7:30pm (CST), join hosts Johnny O & MH Clay, along with musical mad grooves from Swirve (with special musical guest Chloe Curiel!) as we kick off these[read more]

The Best of Mad Swirl : 04.24.21

The Best of Mad Swirl : 04.24.21
"I am inspired. Art comes from art." Cy Twombly ••• The Mad Gallery ••• Kotex - Charles J. March III To witness more of Charles’ curious collage collection, as well as our other former featured artists (over 50 in total), take a virtual stroll thru Mad Swirl’s Mad Gallery! ••• The Poetry Forum ••• This past week on Mad Swirl’s Poetry Forum... we[read more]


Take a few scattered words
assemble them into a thought
which can be woven
into the finest of threads.
Weave the thread into a rhythm and flow
that creates a vision,
an intricate web of idea
to paint a portrait of conditions
and circumstance.

Introduce the characters
that participate in the play on words.
Place them into the scene that unfolds
before you, awakening in metaphors
and dreams
capturing the movement of life
as it begins to seep into the muse.

Get lost within the flow
and feel the fuzzy vibration of energy
as it emanates from your soul.
There is no form nor outline, no structure
just a field of delight, a poetic energy
like the movement of oxygen
to the source of the breath.

Whisper the words down the alley
so they twist and distort
like an effluent prophecy.
Street talk it to slang
and bang it into your vein like a hit
to feel the rush of the rhythm,
the burn of the beat, feeding the fire.

The efflorescence of flame
speaks the essence of your verse
carefully tendered into golden embers
that provide warmth
to all who have gathered
throughout the long night.

– Carl Kaucher

Recently Published

Crushed apples, sweet

Today my fifteen-minute break arrived
Upon the minute that work bade it should
And so I, weary, made my way outside
Where soon beneath an apple tree I[read more]

Backwards, Briefly, Into A Fragmented Nostalgic Interlude, Of Sorts

The word ‘Bellowing’
is a lion’s yawn,
in imagery.
Her hands are timeless,
when kneading dough
… I can see
her shifting ‘Costumes’
back through the ages,
as her fingers work.
Dogs always look[read more]

The More Things Change…

Remember when
the beast
was still approaching?

All the hours,
all the days,
all the years
spent in preparation?

It’s called black boots,
baby, darling,
sugar pie, sweetheart,
& there’s not a damn thing
about them[read more]



I roam a lot. All day long I keep walking from one place to another. Sometimes, I have gone as far as the university where I had studied several years ago, when I was young and ambitious. I wander everywhere in the university. I don’t just visit my department but go to other departments also which I didn’t do when I was studying. I see all my professors who look much different now, more human. During the time when I was studying, I never felt that they were simple human[read more]
Cornball Love

Cornball Love

My life changed when I met a woman. I suppose that’s a cliché you’ve heard before. Stick with me here, don’t get cynical. The restaurant was crowded on that autumn day, and with no chair nearby, the young lady asked if she could sit across from me. I sat alone at a small table with one other chair, reading Shakespeare’s “Romeo and Juliet,” waiting for my order.  I had seen the play in an English class years ago. This was my first read. I’m a bachelor, thirty-one years old, a solitary, but[read more]


Hounded by neighbors and ruthless schoolchildren during the day, their nocturnal, air-rending cries of hunger keep me vigilantly awake. Stoning is the most lenient fate that awaits mums, puppies, or the already lame. My ears have attuned their nerves to catch the slightest bark that has a tinge of dread as it squeals its alarm away. A stray dog has no status in this beneficent part of our planet, so why should I not play the savior, a role I could not play in my earlier years? Unprecedented confrontations with[read more]