“Draw your pleasure, paint your pleasure, and express your pleasure strongly.”
Pierre Bonnard
••• The Mad Gallery •••
“Growing” by Featured Artist Madelyn Olson
Here she comes again with another round of her (uniquely)assertive, (softly)affrontive, (nervously)abashing, (unsettlingly)arousing artwork for your eyes and self-analysis. Madelyn Olson’s portraits challenge us with every image. Her use of color, form, and whimsy (uncommon with any we’ve seen) are her vehicle to make statements about life in our modern wasteland. What’s with the disproportionate bodies? How about the faraway gazes? The odd couplings or lonely settings? Is she saying something about body-positivity? Is it about role-playing as a substitute for genuine intimacy? Or a sense of futility in our efforts to connect? What’s going on in Madelyn’s mind? Or, one better, what going on in your mind when you view her work? It’s time you found out…
~ MH Clay
To see ALL of Madelyn’s (uniquely)assertive, (softly)affrontive, (nervously)abashing, (unsettlingly)arousing artworks, as well as the rest of our Resident Artist’s works, visit our Mad Gallery!
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week on Mad Swirl’s Poetry Forum… we were taken to task for not being asked for; we traded strife for gems of life; we smiled, not vexed, o’er what comes next; we loosed a goose; we heard some bees, a swarm of zzzees; we took fairy tales for ego fails; we saw love suffice with mom’s advise. We write what we learn. ~ MH Clay
for my Daughter by Opalina Salas
Brushstrokes
rake my scalp awake
soggy mirror reflections drip
colorless portraits
ever changing in the steam
I’m washed clean
but my eyes still ache
with the memory stain
Refrain
voices became still
truth was unimportant
When you lost yourself in kind and your mind
Became camouflaged
pink and blue hues
girls and boys make a mess of things
give each other hope
and rings
forget the lives they lived
before they became
someone other
than themselves
Hope
I hope
I hope that you can see
I hope you will dig
into your heart
Like earth
dig the weeds
crust your fingers
twisting them between the tendrils
of unknown ideas
I hope
you will
plunge and dissect
your own phantom roots
of what you believe
Love can really be.
We will know
but knowing
doesn’t warm
Or illuminate
the need of tears
or the rising crescendos
That the moon
Carries our gem
Our femininity
The turning of our
Ocean selves
Rushing the tides of blind passion
throats
spilling certainties
like spells
into wishing wells
Fresh with truth
Green with vines
Resolving the thirst
Of identity that ran dry
I whisper to you now,
My thin reed of
mesquite branch
girl,
Eyes
smokey as mescal
Mija,
run the wild llorona winds.
find love in your own
repose
And then
You will know
Reflected in dreams
you will know
Real self
Self regard
Self reflection
Self compassion
Self esteem
All these sometimes
Intangible things
Become gifts
Then
You will know
What real love means
October 3, 2026
editors note: From one self to another. – mh clay
Quality Time with a Small Ego by Beate Sigriddaughter
She sits under a slim desert moon, arms wrapped around her fears and her small ego which is clinging to her neck with tiny hands of desperation. People have been bullying it behind her back again. “I’m not the enemy,” it cries. “I’m just like your liver or your toes.” Back and forth she rocks its much-maligned existence, all the while wondering why God gave her this ego in the first place when in the end it allegedly is nothing but a nuisance. She tries to comfort it, knowing full well that the younger we are, the smaller we are, the more we tend to hide behind incomprehensible intensity. Nobody comes to the hospital with roses when all you have survived is a mild cancer of belittlement. She is cold, like the little match girl in the fairy tale, trying to sell a little light, warming herself by the bright illumination of her own insignificance. Like a cat dreaming of a haystack in the sun, she dreams of being elsewhere. She does love fairy tales. Reality is always so busy, and they are good company.
October 2, 2026
editors note: You and your ego, best frenemies. – mh clay
The Bee Zees! by Kleio B
The confetti was flying. The music was swooning.
Balloons were declaring happiness,
and the environment pulsated
in merriment.
It was nice and dandy, for the flowers swayed,
and the trees and leaves synced their moves.
And then…
Right then…
They arrived.
Buzzing and buzzing, more off-key than a broken record.
With no remorse.
With complete mirth,
the swarm of bees chorused—
“Zzzz… Zees!”
October 1, 2026
editors note: They can come in black tie or business casual. – mh clay
My Grandmother’s Geese by Lorri Ventura
The scrawny baby perched on her father’s shoulders
has bruises on her arms, legs, and face
that are prominent enough to be the focal point
in the old Baby Brownie photo
that is the catalyst for her earliest memory.
I was that child, bearing the battle wounds
Incurred when I made an ill-fated attempt
to toddle up my grandmother’s driveway
when she wasn’t nearby
to call off her avian stormtroopers…
I’ve learned that a pair of enraged geese
protecting their territory
have enough ferocity in their frenetically beating wings
and hammerlike, serrated beaks
to leave a youngster with a lifelong discomfort
when in the company of barnyard fowl
as well as a souvenir scar on the chin.
To this day, the folkloric image of storyteller Mother
gliding through the skies atop a friendly-looking, gray goose
gives me proverbial goosebumps.
September 30, 2026
editors note: The hard truth from one who’s goosed. – mh clay
Who doesn’t want to die? by Taya Sanderson Kesslau
Like cotton floating in blue sky
on a soft June breeze.
Like trail snake in glistening new skin
sliding away from the old growth.
Like sunrise over forest mist,
the backyard ablaze in dandelions.
This world offers itself in delight,
teaches the deep truths.
Life gives way to more life.
One stunning reality births another.
Why not death then?
And the next thing
and the next.
September 29, 2026
editors note: It’s coming anyway, right? – mh clay
What’s The Good? by Joseph Farley
In between the missile launches,
the fires, and the floods,
keep your eyes open
for those gems of life
you might otherwise miss.
You only come this way once,
seeing what you see.
It can be a better trip
with a smile, a sense of humor,
and a selective memory.
September 28, 2026
editors note: Remember what? That WAS a good time. – mh clay
Finally, we are no one. by Frank Phelan
We are owners. We are rulers, ruiners, colonisers.
Dominion, we are arrogant. We are fleas on the back of.
We are the deluded destroyers, occupiers.
Anointers, we are who we elect. We are
hostage. Captive to them
and their mates.
We are the blaze of the first trail trailing destruction.
Trailing still disharmony.
Turning our backs on forests flailing.
Dousing the flames with shiny things. And culture wars.
We are in total denial
of our own arses on fire.
Irritants are we! Couching our worst
in a coat of arrogance,
with no self-reflection on which to hang it.
We are blind surveyors
deaf to retribution rumbling in Mother’s keening,
her patience thinning.
The devastating sum
of all our parts,
we are the children she never asked for.
September 27, 2026
editors note: Enough to make no mother proud. – mh clay
••• Short Stories •••
Clocking in at just over 50 words, “Dispensation“ by Guest Writer Diony Scandela is short but one HELL of a read!
Here’s what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this weekend read:
When you welcome the shadow, you become the shadow.
“Shadowline” by Tyler Malone
Read what the devilish deal is right here!
•••
If you’re lookin’ for one doggone good read, “Mad Dog, Mad World“ by Contributing Writer Phyllis Souza is sure to fetch your affection!
Here’s what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this weekday read:
We got that dog in us all the time. What happens when it lets itself out?
Here’s how this story sniffs out:
“Dog Inside” by Tyler Malone
I’m a mean son of a bitch. I bark. I growl. Grrr! Don’t mess with me. You’ll regret it. My name is Killer.
Sometimes I hear music in the walls—a circus tune or the sound of a thousand tiny paws tapping at the window glass. The melody never stops. It twists and writhes, filling my head until I want to howl. Last night, I dreamed I was a cat, yowling at the moon, convinced it was made of bones. When I woke, I still wanted to climb the curtains.
The madness inside me boils over. I see red. The world turns strange; everything feels threatening, and I snap at shadows. Even my own tail—if I had one—wouldn’t be safe.
What do I look like?
Well, I’m not tall; my legs are short—bowed—big feet. Coat—tan with blotches of white.
Ugly—ugly. Bulldog ugly. My slobber bubbles like baking soda—giving me gas. Relief!
I have a stump for a tail… even the devil would be furious if someone cut off his tail.
Imagine: A devil without a tail… a head without horns… carrying a spoon and leaping over the moon. Pure fucking madness…
Chase this tale (not tail, that’s gone) right here to get the rest of this read on!
••• Open Mic •••
Join Mad Swirl this 1st Wednesday of October (aka 10.07.26) 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 mad musical house band, Swirve: Chris Curiel on trumpet, Gerard Bendiks on skins, Tamitha Curiel on vocals and special guest Rick Eye on guitar! Then, starting at 8pm(ish), hosts Johnny O & MH Clay will set the stage for some open mic madness!
This month’s feature is Contributing Poet Trier Ward! Here’s a bit about Trier:
Trier Ward is a mother, poet, and wildlife caretaker. She was an Air Force brat, grew up around the world, and currently lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico. She owns cats, practices yoga, and plays the lyre. She identifies as a queer feminist, anarchist, and anti-racist. Her poetry has appeared in The Nervous Breakdown, The Stygian Lepus, Chachalaca Review, and Mad Swirl. Her latest collections of poetry are: The Hollowscape (Penhall Publishing, 2016) and The Art of Escape (Hercules Publishing, 2024). Find her on YouTube at The Poetry Factory where she has a channel dedicated to the visual expression of poetry.
Come one. Come all.
Come to participate…
(preRSVP HERE on this 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 to be a part of this collective creative love child we affectionately call… Mad Swirl Open Mic!
•••••••
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…
…pleased,
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
Madelyn Olson
Visual Editor