We do not write in order to be understood; we write in order to understand.

C. Day Lewis

••• The Mad Gallery •••

“hurry” by featured artist Edward Michael Supranowicz

To check-out Edward’s pulsing kaleidoscopic canvas madness, as well as our other resident artists, visit our Mad Gallery!

••• The Poetry Forum •••

This last week on Mad Swirl’s Poetry Forum… we bore sunshine and wind to gardening rescind; we swam salt-eyed through a riptide; we grid arrayed with a clown parade; we reminisced on naps gone pissed; we had self to please ’neath a Damocles; we spent some breath to speak of death; we closed our eyes to an immigrant’s cries. Why not see what we could be and our blindness defy? ~ MH Clay

The Silence Beneath an Immigrant’s Tears by Ahmad Al-khatat

When an immigrant cries,
when he is happy but not sad,
when he is miserable but not depressed,
when he waters his eyes,
and not the dead roses in the vase.

When an immigrant cries,
when he learns that nothing is the same,
when he listens to music that makes him dance,
when he realizes he must wake up alone
and sleep late by himself.

When an immigrant cries,
when his unshaven beard turns white,
when his long hair grows grey,
when he forgets his father’s birthday
and his mother’s funeral,
when he drinks with empty pockets,
lost after gambling it all away.

When an immigrant cries,
when he waits for the woman
who once dreamed of building a family,
when the baby’s cries next door wake him,
and he remembers his own loneliness,
when he pulls the trigger
to silence his endless path to exile.

When an immigrant cries,
when he stares in the mirror
and no longer recognizes himself,
when he speaks of his voiceless demands
while the world walks above his tomb,
when he asks for help from anyone—
but death answers,
gently convincing him to pass
without a sound.

April 26, 2025

editors note: Why don’t we listen, we who came from immigrants? – mh clay

When DEATH Comes Knocking by Guest Poet Jessica N. Wesseh

what shall we then say when the angel of death visits?
like the coming of the son of man we know not his arrival
the gender of death is unknown but I guess he’s an old man dressed in a black old suit
when he comes knocking he’s careless to know who’s at the door
he allows every pillow to be soaked with tears
what kind of man would bother not to decode the personality of the person he has to withhold?
an heartless old man he is
it was few days to my birthday when death came knocking at the door of grandmother
she begged him for more time but her tears weren’t just enough
he told her no amount of words or money could make him to have a rethink and that was how he wiped her face with the handkerchief of goodbye
for i know not the time, minutes or second he shall come knocking at the door
until then,
guide my thoughts and every word that would come out of my mouth not to hurt angel death

April 25, 2025

editors note: If we lock the door, he’ll come through the window. Kind words, kind words. – mh clay

Hanging by a Thread by David Ratcliffe

With much to process
thoughts become feather light,
out of reach,
impulse held in a vacuum,
loneliness contained
to the point where I’ve become
an addict on a deserted island.

In search of opinion, I rest awhile
meditate or maybe daydream
in an attempt to survive my own mind
as I sink into the rushes of thick brown water.

Untruths betray kindness
overcompensating for what evades my grasp
as the weight words echo in my head
causing ripples that quake along the crust.

Conflicting emotions drive instinct
which manifests evasion
followed by regret
and hopeless reflection.

And now awakened from my dream
I ponder the risk
of preserving the status quo
or challenging my resolve
which leaves the sword above my head
still hanging by a thread.

April 24, 2025

editors note: Don’t dither ‘neath your Damocles. Decide! – mh clay

old poets by J.J. Campbell

old names of the
dead come and go
in this crazy brain
of mine anymore

old poets i used to
drink with, get into
arguments over the
joy and danger of
heroin

suddenly, it’s four
years later and i
apparently can’t
remember which
one of us is dead

think of the laughter
that any of us thought
we were good enough
to be on the cover
of the rolling stone

take a nap on the
concrete and see
which happens
first

a robbery or you
get pissed on

April 23, 2025

editors note: Naptime is harder for some than others. Remember? – mh clay

Gridlines by Paul Smith

Everything could be
reduced to gridlines
now we could
bend the world to our tastes
every intersection of the grid
is flexible
so that
each neighborhood
each township
each water reclamation district
could be reevaluated
its value maximized
plus we could move things around
without doing much damage
the reconfiguration of all we see
becomes our betterment
by adjusting some board pieces
few would be eliminated
a cleric here
maybe a nag or two bites the dust
God save the queen!
that ought to stop any
naysayers
I mean taxpayers
who is she anyway
except
someone we propped up
on the board
till the King arrives
and when he does
what a ceremony
on the checkerboard we call home!
this board game, a crazy quilt of
burgs and districts where there are
parades, clowns
trinkets thrown from floats
carefully designed for everyone
who wants bread and circuses
but doesn’t yet know it

April 22, 2025

editors note: Lately, we’ve certainly got a circus but, where’s the bread? – mh clay

Salt by Guest Poet Sam Calhoun

We know never trust seawater,
bitter in its purpose, our eyes another orb pair
that never could quite stand the sun,
let alone the ocean, and
how it sparkles sea glass, so smooth,
never doubt how any grain could stop
the aperture, lose focus, the scratched lens,
never reason with riptides to chase
our lives disappearing, reappearing—
gulls, pods of dolphins, that distant ship
along the horizon meaning nothing,
so tired, so tired now, for the swim back to shore.

April 21, 2025

editors note: Salt stung swimmer, sapped, but not spent. – mh clay

2 Haiku: Dandelions & Cherry Blossoms by Guest Poet Joshua St. Claire

sunshine and shadow
my neighbor
beheading dandelions

•

STOP!
only the wind can touch
the cherry blossoms

April 20, 2025

editors note: Gardening Dos and Don’ts. – mh clay

••• Short Stories •••

Enjoy some silence while you read “The Word“ by featured Writer & Poet Susie Gharib.

Here’s what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about our featured read:

The pen is mightier, but words don’t need a pen. They can create and wound where nothing but healing existed, or they can heal a wound that just needed a single whisper.

Here’s a few utterance’s to get you goin’:

“The Words” by Tyler Malone

She finds the writer’s name, William S. Burroughs, in an article that introduces some authors whose writing is inspired by the occult. Intrigued by a quotation from his book The Ticket That Exploded (1962), she immediately downloads it. The quotation refers to the strange idea that language “is a virus from outer space,” preventing man from attaining inner silence, a parasitic organism that forces people to talk and is called the Word! Sophie contemplates the possibility of being afflicted with this virus since words dominate her consciousness all the time, even during her sleep, and inner and outer silence has always been impossible to achieve. If she had had the financial means, she would have probably gone to the Far East in quest of inner peace. During the day, if she is not reading aloud, she is reciting compositions that she writes, or giving a much-needed sermon to a blood tie, or silently reminiscing over the past, or voicing her own thoughts out, and all these activities have one sovereign: the word.

Despite feeling intimidated by the first pages of Burroughs’ book, Sophie does not altogether quit reading until she reaches the early scene of the milking of the prisoners’ semen. However, her consequent nausea does not stop her from contemplating this so-called disease. She recalls how a pop song by Depeche Mode assimilates words to violence that breaks the silence. History teems with stories about people who cut their own tongues to prevent the words from entailing their own perdition. Aren’t human beings entrapped by words that eventually initiate their downfall? Sophie asks herself. Why were torture tools devised? Surely to extract words from one’s mouth. Freud spoke of slips of the tongue, which in her view can wreak havoc upon its own speaker/receiver, or both. The first thing that a man receives when seized by the police is the wisdom of remaining silent: ‘You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law’…

Get the rest of this speech about speechlessness right here!

••• Open Mic •••

Join Mad Swirl this 1st Wednesday of May (aka 05.07.25) when we’ll be doin’ the open mic voodoo that we do at Barbara’s Pavillion!

We will get things started with some musical grooves brought to you by Swirve (Chris & Tamitha Curiel, Gerard Bendiks) then hosts Johnny O & MH Clay will set the stage for some open mic madness!

This month we are featuring local mad one, Brett “BA” Ardoin! Here’s a bit about BA:

“BA” is a co-creative performance improvisationalist. Levitating images, thoughts and linguistic constructs into unexpected synchronistic combinations. A Cross Pollinator of Poetry, Collage Art and Three Chords of Mad Swirl Hootenanny Fuel. “B.A.” is the “Washboardist” for Oblong Cassidy and his SpaceHorse.

Come to participate…

(preRSVP at our Facebook event page or send a message to openmic@madswirl.com)

Come to appreciate…

(join us LIVE at Barbara’s Pavillion- located at 323 Centre St, Dallas -OR- tune in to our Facebook LIVE feed starting at 8pm)

Come one. Come all. Come to be a part of this collective creative love child we affectionately call… Mad Swirl!

Here’s a sneak-peek at our the remaining 2025 features: