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Best Poems From
LAURENCE OVERMIRE
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533.
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When Flora Opened the Door
At the Bonnie Prince there standing
The blood of war hard upon his face
His eyes defeated, all hope lost
She covered his pain in a blanket
As best she could
Water to drink and a bit of bread
Ferried him across in the dark of night
The breaking heart of Skye
Set him down on a farther shore
The sun of some other day to come, surely
She thought, as winter before spring
When the bloom of the heather will
Take the hill and dance with the bagpipe
Again.
Historical Note: Following the disastrous Battle of Culloden in Scotland in 1746, Flora MacDonald helped the defeated Bonnie Prince Charlie flee to safety.
(Previously published on Ancestry.com,2003)
Laurence Overmire
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534.
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When the Shoe Fits
Dont ask me why
The only black at the Country Club
Was
The shoe shine man.
He was smarter than most, friendly and
Infinitely capable
But perhaps too proud to stoop
As low as some would like.
The needless demands, subtle jabs,
Backstabbing remarks
(from those without a prejudiced bone as they say)
Finally broke the patience of his will
Till,
He gathered up his box one day and
Closed the door behind him.
Now
A peachy-faced pimply kid smiles and says
Yes, sir.
How soon would you like your shoes?
(Previously published in Apples and Oranges, July 1999)
Laurence Overmire
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535.
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White Knight
I am your Lancelot
You, my Guinevere
Have you not recognized me
In the far-off meadows of your heart
Racing my stallion oer the wild-flowered fields
Daring the dragons of lust and desire
Their fiery teeth scorching my breast
Drawing the blood of memories lost
And I, captive there
Have laid down my gauntlet
A fight to the death
Let no man intrude
Let time itself my second be
And stay the tide of idle dreams
Onlookers' murmurs to distract
A blunted will
I wear your colors, madam
The green of your eyes
The rose of your cheek
Spur my steed to its final chase
We fly in the wind
A reckless charge to Destiny.
(Previously published in Emotions, Summer 2000)
Laurence Overmire
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536.
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Who Is Without
The woman was indeed a whore
As they say, in popular jargon
But she had kids to feed, no husband
In a time when women werent allowed
To take a job.
Yes, shed slept with half the men in town
Who, incidentally
Were present at the scene
The stones gripped firmly in their hands
Incensed, this wretched slut
Dare remind them
of their faults.
(Previously published in Panic! Brixton Poetry, Oct.2000)
Laurence Overmire
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