An artist must be free to choose what he does, certainly, but he must also never be afraid to do what he might choose.

Langston Hughes

••• The Mad Gallery •••

“Its a nap” by Featured Artist Shriya Rawat

To feel all of Shriya’s humming & colorful photographs, as well as our other past featured artists, visit our Mad Gallery!

••• The Poetry Forum •••

This last week on Mad Swirl’s Poetry Forum…  we saw trees fall with hard recall; then another pain from past regained; we loved and longed for one now gone; we panics ceased for a day of peace; we smiled and mused over happy blues; we tripped and hurled through a true mad swirl; we slumber made in a serenade; we scratched at the seam of holding a dream. When it’s best is when the dream holds us. ~ MH Clay

Wait by Polly Richardson (Munnelly)

When I wake, I ask my dreams to wait awhile
before retreating to clouds’ dispersal,
so I can sit without all consumed,
bathe with meadows stillness as
hooves silently move between wilding imprints
and costal curve, my own wait to breathe themselves
into this moment, count curlews as they cry
among plumes of instinctual call,
and dance with moon’s limitations before
sun greets herself here, manes glisten
cascading below shadows waiting to chase
sands disperse from places of keepsakes,
and I inhale each one’s own fragrance
catching sand watch it fall between fingers
submitting to sky so stars could find a resting spot,
and I lay dreams caress flutter lashes, instincts reach out
place hand on hip arc, forming spoon
that nights turn parted, breaths now synch
joining dreams, fingers feel soft slow rise and fall
of slumber beneath trees contented joy sculpting his own
oblivious to what waits upon waking, interlocked fingers
two faces into the unknown.

January 31, 2026

editors note: The sublime here and now that gets away. – mh clay

A Smooth Serenade by Guest Poet Paula Frew

Silence winds its way to me
when the porch lights
flicker their final goodnight,
the debates of the day
have muttered their final disputes,
and the moonlight
has lulled them all to sleep.
That is when the nightwind
cradles me, and
its soft lullaby
hushes me into slumber.

January 30, 2026

editors note: May such sweet slumber ensue for all. – mh clay

THE EERIEST TUNNEL by Mel Waldman

(on reading Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s poem- “The Long Street”)

Crazy Time
has arrived via express mail, overnight delivery

&
I’m here for a ride through the eeriest tunnel swirling around Brooklyn
on an old-fashioned bike from the 50s without the training wheels,
or if I dare, scurry across its vastness 6 stories below the city
without coming up for air at Brighton Beach to taste the soothing, sultry sun &
walk barefoot on the sand to Coney Island & hear the roar of the Cyclone
squealing & soaring to the Heavens & the Q train screeching into the station.

It’s Mad Time,
an eerie concoction of thrills, terror, & elation swirling nonstop below the city &
around the earth blasting off into inner space where you won’t find a trace of what
used to be, for anything goes & nothing comes back the same or maybe, not at all.

Here,
in the swirl of the eeriest tunnel, I puncture the Stygian blackness with my dreams, &
rush slowly around the earth, whirling across Time in search of hidden kingdoms, or
stopping It-with a blind man’s otherworldly vision of Paradise, risking all
on my journey through the Darkness.

January 29, 2026

editors note: A subterranean sojourn ‘neath memory lane. – mh clay

My Favorite Dark Blue by Guest Poet Jenna Restel

The couch is my favorite
dark blue,
attached cushions,
uncomplicated.

I lie back and watch House,
sipping Ketel.

My tabby lays directly
on my chest.
Her paws spread out,
clawing tiny
puncture holes in my shirt.

I go for a sip and her nose
sniffs my glass,
hoping for a drop.

I swear this cat is my mother.

I see Greg on the screen,
popping pills,
saving lives.

There’s a place for us all,
even the broken.

January 28, 2026

editors note: What’s your favorite (color, furniture, drink, brokenness)? – mh clay

Being a loner with an elderly dog by Michael Holme

Andy Murray won Wimbledon.
It was a day of national pride.
Lucy and I relaxed outdoors.

Clare would cut roses
from her wheelchair.
I could picture her bending
over the multicoloured, shin-high wall
that the dogs had stripped with their claws.
Lucy’s sober now.
At 112 she just excites about apple cores.

Today smoke and laughter diffused
across several plots. I smelled sausages.
Lucy looked tired and flattened herself
on the evening-cooled concrete.
I was tired too; tired of saying I was Okay
when I meant I’d improved:
panics had stopped.

Andy Murray will be in the papers tomorrow.
Good for him.

January 27, 2026

editors note: Interspecies mental health maintenance. – mh clay

Epitaph J.M. by Guest Poet Antoine Votaw

Scarred cheek matched your
Cherub grin. Often hidden under slurs
And Dropped lids. Encyclopedic knowledge
Of cult classics and underground B-side tracks.

Always returning anger with compassion
That I saw smeared across the pavement
On more than one occasion.

Rapunzel turning shame
Into humor with a dash of
Excuses.
What I never understood,
What I never planned.
What you didn’t believe in,
When your light grew dim.
Why you were content with
Simply dwindling.
Sliding so far down.
Growing so thin.
So I could barely hear you,
Or your Jeff Buckley hymns.

Were you a brother,
Or a mirror
I stared into
Like an abyss?
You were too kind for this
And you paid the price,
Or maybe just took a piss.

Those last moments, you and I,
Those antiseptic smells,
And respirator drum machines.
I felt your peace.
Unlike me,
Who took years
For it to sink in.

I imagine you in heaven with Gogol Bordello.
Making sleazy looks to all the angels and demons in hell.
Sunglasses on, a pair of cut-off jeans,
Acid washed fade.
Waxing and waning on obscure
Genres and conspiracy theories.

Unapologetic.
Completely forgivable.
Too strange to live in this world.
I’ll keep a place
In my heart
Instead.

January 27, 2026

editors note: Where better to hold a friend now gone? – mh clay

The Drowning Game. by James Rodehaver

The game was simple.
You take a breath, then another.
You let the lake press its fingers over your mouth.
You pretend the world has stopped loving you.

She was eight, maybe nine,
all ribs and sunlight,
hair slicked flat as confession.
He was smaller, but a little older—
the kind of boy who laughs like a dare.

Below the waterfall, the water boiled cold.
Above them, their mother gathered shimmer— bits of fool’s gold,
the kind of treasure that glints just enough to hint at ruin.

She did not watch them. She trusted them.
That’s how these stories begin.

The girl went under first.
She liked the silence there,
the way the light fractured and the air turned to glass.
Her brother followed,
arms outstretched, eyes open to the blue-brown murk,
playing at dying.

When they came up—
gasping, laughing—
they decided to do it again,
this time louder.
This time, she would scream.
This time, he would make it sound real.

And from above, their mother turned.
The gold in her palm winked like a cruel star.
She heard them—
a sound no mother forgets.
Her heel slipped. The rock said nothing.
The world folded itself in half.

She struck the basin with her head—
a dull, wet smack.
Then the water took her.

The children surfaced,
faces raw with triumph,
water running from their noses,
the echo of their own joke still ringing
as silence replaced it.

They called again.
They waited for the scold, the sharp inhale,
the threat of no more skinny dipping.
The threat of going home.

But only the waterfall answered,
laughing in its thousand small mouths,
chewing the light,
mixing her fool’s gold with blood.

Later,
they would tell the story differently—
how she fell like a saint,
how they only screamed in delight,
how the water wanted her more.

But for now,
they were only naked children,
and the game was over,
and the world,
for the first time,
had rules.

January 26, 2026

editors note: A childhood triumph turned to true life tragedy. Oof! – mh clay

2100 A.D., CO2 Concentrations Still Rising, September 2100 by Marianne Szlyk

After artwork by Keith Kozloff

Last leaves yellow like fading bruises, dangle
in heavy air and hot wind, then flood the pond.
Roots find much too much water in marshy ground.
Poets once said trees speak to each other. Alone,
this tree gasps. Maple, apple, white oak, all gone.

The old woman swallows pills, washes them down
with Coke. Then laughs at ghosts’ tales of the future,
remembers running outside, eating ripe fruit,
drinking tap water, counting the trees that hid
the pond from her, August sun pushing past clouds.

Algae blooms on water-logged lawn, turns it green.

January 25, 2026

editors note: In 100 years, what will we remember? – mh clay

••• Short Stories •••

If you’re needing a quick read, “Downsized“ by Contributing Writer Cheryl Snell fits it’s title to a tee!

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

In the smallest of places does a garden grow.

photo by Tyler Malone

Clocking in at 95 words, a tease would give it all away so move on over to here to get this read on!

•••

If you seek a mysterious story, “The Red Room at the Top of the Stairs“ by Contributing Writer & Poet Mel Waldman is sure to stymie you!

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

We diagnose you as human, better get to cutting.

Here’s how Mel’s twisted tale begins:

To the Rooms by Tyler Malone

In the Devil’s Hour, the maimed shamus lay in bed, opened his eyes, and looked up at the spectral stranger looming above him with a knife. The shadowy man lunged at him. He screamed. He woke up sweating and shaking from the same labyrinthine nightmare that had engulfed him almost every night.

Trembling, he recalls the lucid dream where he shambled up several flights of stairs, stopped on a landing, and noticed the door ajar. Slowly, he entered a desolate apartment, trudging across the rooms until he discovered the Red Room. On the floor, a decomposing, bloody corpse stared ominously at him. His cringing body shook violently.

Yet when he heard footsteps in the adjacent room, he shuffled into the bedroom. He witnessed the gruesome attack. Heard the bestial scream. Blacked out.

Six months ago, the P.I. received an anonymous letter, $10,000, and a request to investigate the Red Room Murders. In New York City, an alleged serial killer had butchered three women and three men in six different locations, painting two fateful words—Red Room—in blood on the living room walls.

“I don’t want this grotesque case!” he cried out in his studio apartment, shrieking curses in the claustrophobic room. “But I can’t return the money to an unknown client.”…

That’s all this android knows—walk until you get to the factory for reprogramming…

Get to the bottom of this story right here!

••• Open Mic •••

Join Mad Swirl this 1st Wednesday of February (aka 02.04.26) 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 our long standing house band Swirve! (Chris & Tamitha Curiel, Gerard Bendiks). Then, starting at 8pm, hosts Johnny O & MH Clay will set the stage for some open mic madness!

This month we will be featuring Chloe Curiel! She has asked Bob Cummins Jr on keys and papa bear Chris Curiel on trumpet to join her as she performs her original compositions. Here’s a bit about Chloe:

Chloe Curiel is a visual artist and singer-songwriter from Dallas, currently living in Austin, TX. She’s currently completing her Master’s of Arts in Counseling with a concentration in Expressive Arts Therapy. She is a practicing artist, creating visual art and music and participating in gallery showings and musical performances. In February of last year, she released her first EP titled ‘I Love you Baby,’ a body of five songs written by a yearning heart, leaning into the tension between telling stories of the past and being in love in the present.

Her counseling practicum work includes community outreach, therapeutic art experiences, and mental health support in central Texas. Chloe’s art and music seek to give power to vulnerability, exploring different ways to be intimately known by herself and others.

Come to participate…

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

Come to swirlabrate…

(join us LIVE at Barbara’s Pavillion- located at 323 Centre St, Dallas OR watch us on Facebook LIVE)

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

•••••••

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 world? Then come by whenever the mood strikes! We’ll be here…

Free & Carefree,

Johnny O
Chief Editor

MH Clay
Poetry Editor

Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor

Madelyn Olson
Visual Editor