|
|
|
|
Best Poems From
LAURENCE OVERMIRE
|
|
| |
|
|
397.
|
The Amish Girl
She stands there looking
Grass growing in fields at her feet
The smell of dung wafts through the air
A pitchfork stabbed into blackened soil
Her blue eyes innocent and wise
Ask questions from a mislaid book
But I
Cannot answer
Sermons have no meaning here
Where fences cleave the world in two
A man emerges from the rear
Dressed in black
Hat beard and stern
Grumbled words
She must obey
Turning at the door
A quick glance
Her eyes to mine
A soft goodbye
And she is gone...
He stands there looking
No riddles in the forbidding darkness of his stare
And I must leave
The graveled road
Stretches before me
Miles to go
Neath an open sky.
Laurence Overmire
|
| |
|
|
| |
|
| |
|
|
398.
|
The Angel And The Devil
Were married in his heart
They slept together and made
Impossible children
Good-natured bastards, villainous saints
And with a kiss and a smile
He'd slip a knife in your back
Tending to your wounds
With a smirk in his eye
And though you loved him like a brother
You had to let him go
The thin rope slipping from your fingers
The quicksand of his nature
Swallowing the last hope
Of something more.
(Previously published in Art Villa, Aug.1999)
Laurence Overmire
|
| |
|
|
| |
|
| |
|
|
399.
|
The Attic
In the dim and frowzy waste
Piled, the used and unwanted
The out of sight and mind
Books, papers, chests, chairs
Broken parts of ourselves that
No longer work
Intending on some day never to come
The necessary time to fix
To heal, to make amends
But the cord below
Pulls at a stair that creaks
With rust, the living in lighted space
Too hard to make the venture
Into darkness, worth the hours
Unsettling glass, sand and fragment.
(Previously published in m.e.stubbs poetry journal, Vol.2, Issue 2, November 2000)
Laurence Overmire
|
| |
|
|
| |
|
| |
|
|
400.
|
The Black Glove of Anger
The black glove of anger
Fit so snugly on his impotent fingers
Flexing and clenching
He curled them into a fist
Reared back from the shoulder to the heart
And pitched a clutch of knuckled rage
Forward through the unjust glass
A window opening on a blast of color
Radiant ecstasy
Caught in splendor
On an unmarked canvas of the mind
Ready and waiting
To receive the light.
(Previously published in The Oracular Tree, June 2000)
Laurence Overmire
|
| |
|
|
|
|
|
|