••• The Mad Gallery •••
“Magdelena” ~ Howie Good
To see all of Howie’s madly mystical collages, as well as our other resident artists (50 and counting!) take a virtual stroll thru Mad Swirl’s Mad Gallery!
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This past week on Mad Swirl’s Poetry Forum… we poked a predilection for first-world addiction; we walked no more for room decor; we missed a meeting with value fleeting; we lauded the ones who go to race but just place and not show; we kayaked notes on the hope of boats; we slightly attached to memory catch; we would turn away from what’s coming one day. But come it shall, so we turn to face it. ~ MH Clay
ONE DAY UNFATHOMABLE by Mel Waldman
One day unfathomable
forth with fury & propelling you
from the life you knew & lived
one day shattering a shared reality so
again shall you & she possess/see the magical dream of quiet everlasting love
a sweet phantasmagoria pirouetting across unending years together
forth with fury & epiphany
truths nestled in a ravaging reality & a nuclear bomb of
unbearable crushing emotions entangled with sempiternal love
in metamorphosis with the looming ghost of ghosts
the omnipotent phantom coming forth in pitch-blackness
penetrating/drilling through our darkness
devouring our souls & flesh
& possessing us
until our last
October 8, 2022
editors note: Brace yourself… – mh clay
slightly attached by Jean Bohuslav
bye-bye, my kitchen’s attention seeking
cheerio my blue mountains, curtains to
au revoir my fireplace, warming hearts
and body parts on queue
adios passage, putting green for
my well-earned prize
keep it together, hot water pipes in
your concrete slab
take it easy, my proud mover king-
let bygones be bygones, colourful
stickers in my lav
forget me not, my song drowned shower
walls, reverberating drain
peace be to you, my ridiculing calls
from cocky’s cage
i leave my valley’s slopes, gumboots
not needed anymore
good riddance to those ignoring my
padlocked gate, inciting age
farewell my pretty boy, another
rabbit killed, the dog next door
You did me well my virgin soil with
i’ll remember my black sheep chasing
fish ponds, waterfowl, pussy cats on
blossoms, shrubs, flowers along each
memories, moments when we flew
October 7, 2022
editors note: Larks on a lark, in memory flying. – mh clay
FRIDAY AFTER LABOR DAY by Robert Demaree
Monet convinced himself
That each glint of light on haystacks,
Each angle of the sun,
Changed by one degree,
Could be a new canvas.
But I have decided this morning:
No more kayaking poems,
Have said most of what I want to say,
More than once.
On my ritual end-of-season loop
Around the pond this quiet morning
Of the Friday after Labor Day
The only voices are the guys
Working on the huge new place
Where Gaston’s cottage used to be.
I watch to see whose boat
Is still in the water,
Whose dock, pulled up on land,
Waits for the winter,
Hopes for June.
October 6, 2022
editors note: A poem roll to right another pass around the pond. – mh clay
Bronze by Karen Withecomb
You were never the winner nor the runner up, you were bronze.
You were the finalist child pianist prodigy (regional)
You were the County champion who gave it all up
You were the nearly took a Master’s degree
You were the face on the inside, not the cover of the NME
You were the one that could have had a doctorate
You were your mother’s only son except you weren’t
You were the flu that was only a cold
You were bronze.
You were gorgeous until they knew you better and laughed at you
You were charming until you were unmasked inevitably as a bore
You took out patents for the things we never even knew we needed
You followed the complicated recipe, but it never ever did taste good
You were the lover extreme you thought, but you were just needy
Your band was the romo-ist of the romos on the day that music changed
You were bronze.
You were yesterday’s man, the also-ran, the flash in the pan, the house built on sand
You were numbers one to eight on a ten-point plan
You were the poemless poet, the easily led, the gutless hero, the Procrastinator General.
You were not the Bradley Wiggins nor the pinnacle of perfection
And your bike ride revolutions will not be televised
You did like green eggs and ham and were not Sam I am
You were not a Jeepster for my love
Nor were you any type of victim when you dumped me
It was not some enchanted evening nor a tragic B-side tale from the beloved Smiths.
You were not ol’ blue eyes, Johnny Thunders, Albert Einstein, nor Garbo.
You were not writ large upon the firmament of fame.
You were bronze.
October 5, 2022
editors note: Even though you place, you’ll leave no trace. – mh clay
POMO POME by Doctor Koshy AV
There are no origins
When did it begin?
When Sterne painted a black door?
When was Frank Lloyd Wright born?
With the Bauhaus?
When video killed the radio star?
When Lyotard wrote The Post-modern Condition?
When rodeos ended?
When Rodgers Hammerstein yielded to Holland-Dozier-Holland?
Where does it end?
With Lana del Rey worshipping John Wayne and Marilyn Monroe?
Nothing has value anymore
Everything has value only for a few seconds
How to navigate through or negotiate with such a world?
Search for meaning?
Micronarrative and subculture are the graffiti flowers on my wall
Where is the connect?
Humans matter and flora fauna earth Nature the universe
Lesser devil world no choice other than system too big to beat
There must be more like arts culture sciences humanities history eco-civics philo-psychology neo-disciplines
Static at 9.0 something on the car stereo desist devastate dehisce deconstruct destruct
October 4, 2022
editors note: Where to begin when you’re well past the end? – mh clay
Rugby by Carl Kavadlo
of the room!
October 3, 2022
editors note: If you’d look good, then walk you should(n’t). – mh clay
ADDICTION FOR SOME IS JUST A GAME OF TENNIS by Bradford Middleton
The phone-in on my radio this morning
Leaves me feeling nothing but cold
Certain that this country will get hit by
Another bout of virus-related deaths
Idiots call in speaking of their need
To visit internet cafes
And tennis courts because, they claim,
‘I know i’m addicted.’
When hundreds, sometimes 1000s,
Every single day, are people so
Deluded by their own self-importance
To think, or probably
That their life can go on as normal
Just because of some
Need to be seen, to carry on just
(soon to be defined in any good
Dictionary as someone thick-
Skinned, thick of mind, and certain
Of their own deluded superiority
Before they died out during an
Early twenty-first-century world
Remembering to always just
Keep calm and carry on
Living whilst clapping the
Key workers every Thursday
Night and disregarding the
Advice to stay home
Save lives and help the wonderful
October 2, 2022
editors note: It ain’t just a British thing; this thickness runs through everything. – mh clay
••• Short Stories •••
Here’s what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick’o the weekend:
What’s mine is yours. But on occasion, it’s not my choice.
Here’s the a few strokes to get you on your way:
“Finder’s Weepers” by Tyler Malone
My friend Lonnie asked me could I paint his sister’s kitchen on my day off? He would pay me $150 and it would take two, three hours tops. $150? I said. He told me his sister Nessa lives in a bad neighborhood in West Agoglia, and that was why he was paying so much. So much? (I did not say that, although I almost did). It’s on the ground floor so you don’t hafta climb up to the third floor or something, he said. Are you gonna buy me a new car if mine gets stolen? I asked. He said if you’re not interested say so and I said I’m happy to do it, Nessa is a sweet kid, but the kitchen’s gotta be prepped before I get there or we both know it’s not gonna be two three hours tops. He said okay.
There was masking tape on the windows and a coat of primer on the three walls (out of four) that had been spackled so let’s say the kitchen was prepped, or at least there had been a good faith attempt. I opened the windows for ventilation. Inventory: two buckets of white paint, two new brushes, a roller (not new), a pan (very not new), and a Sunday paper. I spread the papers out on the floor and got to work. After an hour I took a break and looked for a comic strip to read. Think I dripped on all the punch lines, I said…
Get the whole picture over here!
Here’s what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick’o the weekday:
We’re in the business of doing business. But of course business is in the business of doing us, too.
Here’s a memo before we let you go on your way:
“Place of Business” by Tyler Malone
I picked up the phone and answered it. It was my boss, Bob Fischer.
“Hi, Jack,” he said. “Can you come down to my office.”
It was not a question.
I was surprised and not a little irritated. Fischer knew I was working on the quarterly report and how important it was for me to work with minimal interruptions so I could concentrate on the report.
I hope this is important, I said to myself as I walked to Fischer’s office.
He had been looking out the window when I walked in.
“Close the door and have a seat,” he said. Then he started rocking back and forth and not looking at me.
He shook his head and said, “I don’t know how to say this.”
I wished he would say whatever it was so I could get back to the report.
“What is it?”…
Find out what it is by taking a walk on over here!
••• Open Mic •••
If you joined Mad Swirl Open Mic this past 1st Wednesday of October (aka 10.05.22) at our OC home, Barbara’s Pavillion, then you know that once again whirl’d up the Swirl and got the Mad mic opened for all you Mad ones out there!
Here’s a shout out to all who graced our stage (both live & virtual) with your words, your songs, your divine madness…
Swirve (Chris & Tamitha Curiel, Gerard Bendiks)
James “Bear” Rodehaver
Greg Cisneros/Charles Hancock
HUGE grats to ALL the participators & appreciators who rode the Mad wave live at Barbara’s as well as our FB Live feed! We know you have a few choices of what to do with your Wednesday night & you picked to hang out with lil ol’ us!
’til next 1st Wednesday (aka 11.02.22)… may the madness swirl your way!
P.S. In case you missed the LIVE feed, your eye can spy on the whole virtual Swirl’n scenes right here…
The whole Mad Swirl of everything to come keeps on keepin’ on… NOW! Every second, every minute, every hour, every day, every week, every month, every year, every decade, every EVERY there is! Wanna join in the mad conversations going on in our Mad Swirl’s World? Then come by whenever the mood strikes! We’ll be here…
Short Story Editor