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
Oh beautiful oneOh beautiful one by Swordexpert
Relax, oh beautiful one,
Release all pain and hate,
Dig deep inside your heart,
Feel free and let love take complete control.
Let go, oh beautiful one,
Free your mind of all troubles,
Throw away your guilt,
Start a new path once again.
Try, oh beautiful one,
To be honest with yourself,
Forget all of your regret,
Put the past behind you.
Please, oh beautiful one,
Learn from your mistakes,
Don't be afraid to fail,
Let your heart show you the way.
Let all your anger flee,
The wounds will heal eventually,
One more thing, oh beautiful one,
let me help you along the way.
Your EyesYour Eyes by Pachunka
The Earth and all her jubilee and might,
and self-inflicted hardship overcome,
and doctrine forged to settle wrong and right
no more can tell her doctors from the Sun-
with science and scripture stirred and made the same,
and idols cast from dirt and lust and gold,
and sunlight ploughed and passed a clever name,
and beauty culled and bought and used and sold,
thus, sun and beauty bound and in a mew,
as each one treads your lashes and your hair,
but glossy doctrines cast and mould and skew;
and you can't tell the sunlight from the glare-
and don the golden makeup and disguise,
as lashes keep the sunlight from your eyes.
MatterMatter by Pachunka
A beat of the heart
Disturbs the air-
And its life is carried
High, through the vacuum
Of nights and days
To the very stars above you now,
And plays with the beat of my own.
Do not tell
Is not important.
|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.|