In the general uproar of gifts and unwinding of wrappers it was always a delight for me to step out on the porch or even go out on the street a ways at one o’clock in the morning and listen to the silent hum of heaven diamond stars, watch the red and green windows of homes, consider the trees that seemed frozen in sudden devotion, and think over the events of another year passed…

Jack Kerouac

••• The Mad Gallery •••

“Taking a Break” by Louella Lester

To see more of Louella’s warm-fuzzied snowy scenes, as well as our other resident artists, visit our Mad Gallery!

••• The Poetry Forum •••

‘Twas the days before Christmas when all through Mad Swirl, our poets were giving Yule poems a whirl… we holidays noticed around winter solstice; we met with derision the default position; we punished behavior, de-crossing a savior; we readied to go through Christmas solo; we went merry and bright to a Friday night fight; we cut traces (hoping) to save faces; we were Yuletide dopes for the collective hope; we reveled with rabble in holiday babble; we decked our halls, trimmed our trees, sang our carols and our A – B – Cs; we peace-ly prayed on Christmas Day. With words we call for good will toward all. ~ MH Clay

CANTICLE – in tempore belli by Royal Rhodes

“I heard the bells on Christmas Day” — a line
my mind repeats along the fabled Brattle
Street, the poet’s home the city sign
identifies, whose son was lost in battle
he believed, that made the carols hollow
singing “peace on earth.” And as I walk
on iron snow, the toll of war we follow
hour by hour in idle bits of talk
reminds us that the distant sacrifice
that others bear, a toll of life for life,
is hidden, like the asking price
a child must pay for endless war and strife.
And “peace,” “peace,” “peace” is what I pray
each time I hear the bells on Christmas Day.

December 25, 2024

editors note: Yes! This present we request for every presence. – mh clay

A CHRISTMAS ALPHABET by Rita Moe

Anise, almond, apricot. Adeste, adoramus, Alleluia/angel/angst.
Bells and Bethlehem. Baking with butter. Bathrobed Balthezars.
Cards: Christmas and credit. Children and: chimneys, candy canes, coal.
The City of
David. Decorated doorknobs. Dasher and Dancer. Darker and darker days.
Eggnog. Elves. Everywhere, everywhere, electrical in excelsis.
Feasting and fruitcake and fleecy feeding flocks. Frankincense, fideles,
———and fa-la-la-la-la.
The Grinch.
Hark the Herald. Hallelujah. The Holly and the
Ivy. Icicles and ice skates. The Infant
Jesus, and Joseph, and jingle, jolly, joy.
Kris Kringle’s
Lap. And Lo, the Lamb, the Light, the Lord, the lullay little lying in a
Manger. Mysteries: Mary, messengers, Messiah, myrrh, mortals, missions.
Nativity. Nutmeg. Naughty or nice.
Oranges. Opulence. Office
Parties. Poinsettias, peppermint, pine cones.
Quilted quietness.
Rum and ribbons, rushing and reindeer. Ringing. Ringing
———and the Radiant Rose.
Snow. Spruce and spice. Shepherds, sheep, singing, the Star….And shopping
———and Santa and stockings and sales and stores and scurrilous Scrooges…
———And silence and snow and
Twinkling towns, towering trees, trumpets telling
Unto us:
A Virgin, a vessel, this victory
Whence these wings?
Xmas,
Yuletide. From
Zurich to Zacatecas, Zanesville to Zanzibar—
Hush—
This night of peace.

December 24, 2024

editors note: The sweetness of this Silent Night… – mh clay

Some Moses by Tyler Malone

for Jordan

No humans where public works paint downtown buildings
to tell the poor Merry Christmas! with the gift of grafted skin
to sell for pills from Chevy Malibu broke jaw glove compartments.
Phone music perforates
speaker holes
generational performances in city cemeteries, the plot is never lost
—seed soil for more plastic petroleum trees to re-forest sidewalks.

Some Moses knew we could get along, so they gave us god!
to sound out the limits of language Adam learned
among trees
grown like gas stations
to sell liquefied evolution and canned energy, the only way to wash
out the taste of diamonds grown on tongues as teeth fall out
speaking names of visiting ghosts bright in bathroom flor-essence.

Good words are in need of public works projects as
we don’t walk into Heaven with one another, but babble on in rubble
in memory of someone else, lived out across
our enormous oil spill feathers coated in cold obsidian.

Combustible dollar store THC blooms plastic arms that
light
—all
——at
———once
a fifty-foot tree that never grew rings, a stranger to spring, calls for all to get lit,
come drink on the streets as a stumbling vermilion flannel jacket draws a line
from bar walls, and, like an emptied Solo cup, she’s lain on a bench as if answering
an altar call but lucky no one reads instructions for their sacrificial daggers anymore
tiny knives
tinier voices
assemble as Methodist children mouth sounds called close enough to literacy.

Does she
see ghosts
or happy
we’ll never finish
—so paint over Babylon.

Let there be lights made new for concrete cracked people
as dressed-up ladybugs in their only Walmart chartreuse sweater,
sites on white elephant eyes, black pecan shell centers—

—before painted buildings, a friend bought lottery tickets
a promising concept
worth 16.3 million dollars
with a wrinkled baggie of drive-thru-vacuum-stolen quarters
so I had a Christmas, my creation of a silver shavings parade
for his body’s blue tarp Christmas Eve burial
—red and green
M&M pills still stuck in his neck, this same ceremonial tree in vigil.

Let it shine!
Hallelujah! is only spoken
to be understood
as babble.

December 23, 2024

editors note: A fine anthem to Christmas commercialism and erstwhile altruists. – mh clay

Splash some laughter this Christmas by Soumya Doralli

This Christmas wear
ankle length boots
splash some laughter
and tap to the beats of mirth,
stars I see them when the world’s
unwilling to wake, snoring a harsh
puff of truth, but this time
of the year the world’s
listening to the chirpy tongue,
blinking at the glittering beads of
light, flying back and forth,
rushing in and out,
the sky’s my roof
stacked with the joy of celebration,
I outwalk the lanes in search of
a better view, better than snuggling
cosily under a warm blanket,
the bells of my memory tinkle
I time travel backwards, Jesus in
my school church, the high ceiling
freezing my breath, the pews
echoing the silence, the celebration,
the cakes, the waffles, the biriyani,
the spirit of ending the year right,
the crisp wintery evening bringing
blessings galore, the night embellished
with playful banter, Christmas is
fetching the stars from the clouded sky
and gluing them to Archies cards,
Christmas is yet another day
of the triumph of the human soul,
universal, unrelenting, ethereal,
embossed with flesh and bones,
greeting, folding hands and
marrying the collective hope.

December 22, 2024

editors note: Hope for the Holidays? And all the after days? Yes! – mh clay

Christmas Scissors by Heather M. Browne

She asked Santa for scissors.
She likes to cut
—-—-—-—-paper
—-—-—-—-—-dolls.
Bonded stark white
It must be linen crisp & firm.

She carves them carefully.
A plastic surgeon’s precision
Slicing away excess
—-—-—-—-—-unwanted
—-—-—-—-—-—-parts.
Leg
—-Arm
—-—-Mouth
—-—-—-Eye

The Amish quilts have one extra stitch – hers one less –
dropping part with snip.

Watching the piece fall
to the floor,
she smiles

Unless the part lost
Is
her face.

December 21, 2024

editors note: Self-care (or condemnation) for the Holidays. – mh clay

Crombie Boys (Black-Eye Friday) by Paul Tristram

The very last Friday before Christmas
is lovingly referred to as ‘Black-Eye
Friday’ in our little part of Wales.
Most of the ‘Settled Down’ types
stay out of the Taverns on that night,
it’s Notorious and Violent-As-Fuck.
My mother would always say
the same things “You’re all looking
Marriage, Funeral or Crown Court
smart… best, expensive clothes on
and you’re all going out ‘Scrapping’
… I don’t understand it, your father
and his Mob were the same… crazy.”
As she kept running to the front door
to let more of the rowdy boys in…
we lived on the edge of Gangland,
a subway and 2 streets before Town.
My brother and I, would come down
the stairs dressed in Sta Press trousers,
Ben Sherman shirts, Crombie coats
and highly polished Dr. Marten boots.
Then, Ganged-Up, we’d swagger our
way up the terraced street laughing,
joking, drinking beer cans, singing
Oi! and Punk songs… getting ready
to throw our Trilby hats into the Arena.

December 20, 2024

editors note: There’s no time finer to give (or get) a shiner. Ho Ho How about that? – mh clay

First Christmas by D. R. James

Never up first, he was always
downstairs first, his four little boys
aligned like ascending angels
up the polished staircase, already
dressed, eager to see the tree,
their piles of presents, when he gave
the word. But this—his first since
moving out, holed up in a grayed
box on a slab with a stoop just
blocks away: Christmas Eve with
him, a canned ham, and trifles
stuffed into four new matching
stockings; Christmas day with her.
At forty-four, he’d never spent
this morning alone with its luxury
of infomercials, happy-holiday sales
inserts, fried eggs, and left-over ham.
A nice woman stopped to exchange
commiseration, gifts meant to flatter,
their festive fronts. Later, the phone
said what everyone had gotten—
what he already knew—and that night,
back at the rental after kissing four
happy foreheads through their front
porch door, he watched winter turn
his red wine black, fell asleep weeping,
Miles Davis playing Blue in Green.

—first published in Why War (Finishing Line Press)

December 19, 2024

editors note: If it’s gonna be blue, best to get through. – mh clay

THE JUNCTION by Ken Edward Rutkowski

I was told a story about these Vietnamese kids who took down Jesus from the Cross freeing indoctrination unaltered constraints on a wall where I too was taught to bleed but wanting nothing to do with this ritualization or mortification on someone else’s wall the catholic church who played games like allowing kids to place money in long-armed baskets shoved down tight-knit rows I sat in church impatiently bored and dreaming of being outside with my friends riding my bike they tried to teach me the admonitions of life when I did a single thing wrong morality corrupt in the arms of a patriarchal resemblance to some sort of freedom other people dreamed about while working all day long these boys I talk about got caught and for redemption of their sins they had to nail Jesus back on the cross as if they weren’t hurting anybody a human symbol disgusted by the crowd and well-being they will not touch can’t gain or swim in the blood of ever-living truth the buffalo the animal-realm human traits without the animal in mind announced to one another fellow human beings they would slaughter the lamb left hanging in the tree deliberation on the ground the meaning of life of value the boys See! there is no meeting at the junction of the cross only deliberation and fear and for those who are near the center acknowledge one another as one another trying to cross over in the direction from where they came those boys who were tried in trying to be taught a lesson about adherence to laws some of us never understood I would stand when the priest said Rise! and confirm his communion with the dark shadow of idolatry to resist any temptations in believing in the sins and proclamations of power that withhold our freedom therefore refrain our peace of mind individuals of light seeing cross-eyed roads pulled out in front of them under their feet trying to move forward consistently being tied in place of being and mind.

December 18, 2024

editors note: These trees we see, better for nesting and nurture than for fomenting fear. Noel! – mh clay

HOOLIDAZE by M. J. Arcangelini

It’s the time when plastic snowmen
and reindeer, lit from within, try to
sell good cheer in malls everywhere.

Songs which lost their meaning
decades ago invade the ears anew;
ubiquitous metastasizing tinnitus.

Every worthy non-profit you’ve
ever given any money to uses
every cent you ever gave them

trying to get more out of you.
Bribery and guilt their currency.
They offer calendars, shopping bags,

address labels, daypacks, and
environmentally sensitive blankets
woven from plastic water bottles.

The expected seasonal default position
is tolerance for hypocrisy, for fanatic
believers, for obsessive consumption

masquerading as love. Let it all slide
in the spirit of the holiday season,
whether tolerance is returned or not.

Meanwhile suicides sharpen their razors,
count their pills, their missed blessings,
stare down unholy nights and mornings.

December 17, 2024

editors note: Hang in there; just 8 more days to manage and keep the hotline number handy. – mh clay

The God of Winter Solstice by Neile Graham

Solstice, and the moon is targeted, ringed,
first with bright moonlit cloud,
then with blood, then

blood cooled by night sky,
with a raw branch rioting
a scrawl, a message, tearing across it.

The final ring is pure sky.
All of it. Night-cloud grey.
Grey and grey—

thanks to that moon, to the streetlights,
to the needles of city light
that could almost be

the stars we know are hidden
behind them. If we could only lift
that shield of cotton wool

there they’d be gossiping
about the gods like the treasures
they are. The stars

and how we see them
firing tales against the dark
like that branch’s dark against light.

Like the black curve of orca leaping
from the day’s bleak grey,
its bounding back

arcing in the air, with what
tastes like meaning after all,
what tastes just like joy.

December 16, 2024

editors note: Make your own meaning this solstice; you and the stars. – mh clay

••• Short Stories •••

In the spirit of our Mad holiday hijinx, here’s a short seasonal story, “Sweating It Out by the Fireplace“ by Jeff “Rip” Bender.

Here’s what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this holiday tale:

What’s a better gift than a new experience? One to carry forever but is always new.

Here’s a few sprinkles to get your cockles warmed:

“Antiquing” by Tyler Malone

With all the anticipation of Christmas, I got so excited about what was under the Christmas tree one year that my dad medicated me before bedtime with a baby aspirin, which he told me would put me right to sleep. I didn’t want to miss Santa, so I slipped the pink pill to our toy poodle, Coco, who weighed in at 9 ounces. After eating the pill, Coco wandered half asleep to the kitchen where she snuggled into a box of baking supplies and slept like a dog, which she was.

When our toy poodle woke the next morning and made her wobbly entrance into the decorated living room, flour and baking soda fell around her like a delicate blizzard. For a moment, I thought that I had killed our poodle, and that she had gone to heaven where she was cleansed and returned as a celestial replica of our former pet. My mom began humming “Angels We Have Heard On High,” and Coco, embarrassed by her new powdery coat, came towards me, baring miniature canines. Thus, our family was reminded that Christmastime and the sensitive spirit of holiday cheer can change on a dime.

Shortly after hosing the baking residue from our poodle, our family resumed our Christmas traditions, complete with twinkling lights and a perpetual nutmeg candle that had probably been burning since Armistice Day in 1918. Taking their prominent places in the room were the two staples seen in all our family photos, a Sears Silvertone record player, and a giant fireplace. The fireplace was built on a brick hearth, which allowed my mother to sit close to the fire and let the heat penetrate her to the bone. As such it became a kind of a throne for her, where she could insist on drinking her morning coffee in her own empire…

Dash on over here to get the rest of this holidazed inspired tale!