|Random feed from "the hits".|
BeardNow a lot of you don't know this,Beard by oddlyaromatic
but I'm a really good singer.
People often ask me how I sing so well.
The answer is borderline obvious,
but I give it nonetheless:
facial hair. Carefully groomed.
When I trim this beard, I sing.
I hum. I do some orating.
I'm not shaping hair, really,
I'm shaping tone.
A beard attenuates the voice's
harsher qualities, which travel
along the cheeks, as is well documented
I go at it like a Bonsai master.
"Some… where over the rainbow…"
That's what you'll hear from my bathroom
of a Saturday morning.
"Way… up… high..."
The beard smooths,
it softens, it makes your voice
like a blanket.
People just want to wrap
themselves up in it.
I'm talking about your Barry Whites,
your Bobby McFerrins, your Ronnie Drews,
your ZZ Tops, your Ray LaMontagnes,
your Cat Stevenses, your Pavarottis...
and your early Kings of Leon.
This isn't just off the top of my head.
These are prepared words
based on careful research.
I don't need advice from a gardenThe timber-fenced yardI don't need advice from a garden by oddlyaromatic
overrun with weeds and ivy leaves
says you've lost your way,
you should be eating from trees like a giraffe -
you have the neck for it, it says.
But this year's memories
are shaping up a treat:
I get out of bed, dress myself,
undress myself and get back into bed,
occasionally omitting one of the four steps,
or doing the same thing twice.
Other things happen too,
but are not reinforced by repetition
and if this year was a day, it would contain
only these four steps
and your beautiful lips.
Good Evening, and Welcome to the Poetry ReadingSince you have all come to hear poems,Good Evening, and Welcome to the Poetry Reading by oddlyaromatic
when poems are freely available in book form,
I assume you are here
because for some reason or other you felt obliged,
or this kind of thing is the kind of thing you want to support,
or maybe it just feels good to be here. That's okay too.
I'm not sure why there are so few/many of you,
but—surely—it is the prevailing condition
of poetry in this area, and such a number
in such a place represents the deplorable/commendable
level of local investment in the arts and culture,
for which those responsible should be duly applauded/castigated.
I'm afraid you will be hearing six kinds of poetry this evening,
which is to say there will be slow poems, fast poems,
loud poems, quiet poems, poems about tea, and of course,
poems that we are not really sure are poems at all,
of which this is arguably the first. Emergency exits are available
in case the rhetoric is literally inflammatory.
Heckling is permitted whenever I hold up this sign,
but at other times, for y
City 7, T. G. I. F.The city is full of Fridays -City 7, T. G. I. F. by oddlyaromatic
get the 9.30 out of town
and check out the losers
going home early.
They glance out the window.
of a road frequently travelled,
and another week done
One of them thinks of saying something,
but the bus is louder than usual
and people sit further apart.
Driver, turn off the lights;
we can sit in the dark
and you just keep on driving.
Can you feel the wind
shake this thing?
A little incident on GraftonStHe threw his head to my shoulder, bawlingA little incident on GraftonSt by oddlyaromatic
you're me only fuckin outlet
you can't go, you just can't go
I'd be fucked without you.
And I'd never seen him before in my life -
but sure I can't go now, can I?
I'm this lad's only fuckin outlet.
He'd be fucked without me.
|Random feed from "the hits".|
Soft WingsSoft Wings by nonentity
Soft wings beat inside my heart,
From the blue butterfly in your eyes
looking into mine.
Shuddering as your soft hand carasses me,
I slowly touch your cut scarred skin.
Soft emotion washes waves of dreams come true
through the pathways of my self
And I cannot help but love you now,
Eternal love last for a moment
which is long enough.
Your lips meet mine then part,
To leave me wanting
the offered more,
We kiss within this sacred now,
With non-existant movie cameras zooming in
for the close up end scene,
That makes the audience sigh,
And leaves them with thoughts
That love can exist for them.
A perfect moment held in your arms,
As you are held in mine.
A strand of your hair softly follows
your touch across my cheek.
A hand poised...
And later as I'm forced to go,
We tell each other sweet nothings
like "I love you".
And I love you.
My ForestMy Forest by Pachunka
It is not cloudy..
And no snow will fall..
A gale soaring through me as I stand with all..
And standing and gazing.. I now see it all..
Mountains of morning, of night-time and dusk,
Valleys of trees, and of rivers.. and trust.
A cool wind is flying, with no sound at all;
No fear of the night-time, nor snow, nor its fall.
Gazing 'pon valleys and mountains so tall..
Standing and gazing.. I now see it all..
..I close my eyes..
There was a dark cloud.. not of snow nor of rain,
Nothing of gain, nor of loss nor of pain;
..I see you smile..
..The wind soars once more..I open my eyes..
..And shake my head, and laugh..
It was only the wind..
..I see the first star of the evening..
That I never should leave here.. not melt as the snow,
Not falter 'neath dark clouds nor doubt that I know..
I stand by my forest; not once shall I fall,
The wind soars; I smile, and I now.. see it all..
Pach, 48th night of Spring, MMII.
Tears on a PierTears on a Pier by necropsy
Tears on a Pier
Her legs hang off the edge of the pier
An Inch above the icy water
Each swell wets her angled feet
As she stares into the sun.
Hoping it will show her everything
But secretly wishing it would blind her
I dont know her but I sit by her side
And stare like her and hope to see
What it is she is trying to see
I turn to her and yet she stares
With a salty residue on her cheeks
And a scrunched up chin and trembling lip
Eventually she turns to me
And sees unwanted sympathy
She sees no understanding in my eyes
And I accept that she is right
There are no more tears from exhausted minds
Her body will not let her cry.
I start to speak and she answers
Her voice forced out through her filtered pain
Our conversation lasts for hours
The tide changes and her feet are dry again
The sun begins to set and the moon becomes our friend
I tell her that I might help her, that she is nowhere near the end.
My eyes replace the sun.
ScarScar by Pachunka
Her house no longer hectic; her parents quite prepared,
She only knew of Christmas that she'd be bestowed with glee.
She was unscarred and innocent; they gazed at her and smiled,
As all they knew, was what they saw; her sight 'fixed 'pon the tree.
The streets had been so crowded; where was it all this day?
Though scars and decorations stayed, all life had gone away.
She slept 'till it was early, but sacrificed her warmth,
She rose from bed to venture down towards her endless gifts.
Her parents forced, but smiling; now standing, watching close.
Watching as she laughs and opens, sifting after sift.
Emerging from his home, his simple shelter by the street,
He rubbed the sun that stole his eyes, but heard the passing feet.
"Why don't you play with this one, dear?"; ambrosia, untouched.
But unaware, she went on holding tightly, a small bear.
No decorations, ribbons, nor jewels upon his face.
Just a smile that loved her, and held her in its care.
This must have been the
|I write poetry, plays, and music. I've published, read, and had work performed in Ireland and the US. I now live in Atlanta, play the banjo, and work for a small folk music label. I don't know what to do with my DA account any more, except occasional outbursts.|