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Best Poems From
LAURENCE OVERMIRE
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57.
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Anjou
My pear are so
Delightful, I must speak now
With a fake French accent
And say, oui oui
Come come
The time is ripe
To peel away the pretense
And taste the sweet aperitif
To everlasting
Joie de vivre.
(Previously published in The Short North Gazette, Nov.2000)
Laurence Overmire
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58.
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Another Birthday
Another birthday leapt across the road today
Nearly scared me half to death
A mangy-looking creature
Like nothing Id expect
Its eyes dark and forbidding
Accusing me of cowardice
Indifference and fear
Of hiding from my fellow man
And castrating my heart
Of feeding on self-pity
Indulging in defeat
And with a horrifying shriek
It spat at me
In mockery
Then vanished out-of-sight...
I picked up a piece of a dream I had dropped
A pebble stone for luck
Tucked a little bit of wisdom up under my hat
And set out once more
The road far ahead of me
The sun high in the sky.
(Previously published in The Short North Gazette, Sept. '99; Poems Md, March '08)
Laurence Overmire
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59.
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Another Cup of Tea?
There are poets
In comfortable houses
Clean beds
Who write of grass and trees and
Flowers
They sing melodies that concord
On tuneful ears
Sing babies to sleep
And say
All the world is well.
Twould be nice to be
Such a poet
To not know and not care
Not really
Not seeing, not dreaming
Not alive, not dead
Just falling
Like a green leaf on a
Summers day.
(Previously published in Apollo's Lyre, Spring 2007)
Laurence Overmire
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60.
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Another Sunday Afternoon
Another Sunday afternoon
in fall
in Brooklyn
dead leaves rustle
over the cracked sidewalks
mixed with the trash
of careless minds
the September sun
is a golden orb
spinning on the web
of the azure sky
and the sound of
children
laughing
dapples the eager air
breathe deep
and feel the warmth
that penetrates the bones
when time is a pendant
you choose not to wear...
A crowd on the corner
women and men
idly
passing the quiet hours
in casual conversation
I pass
and there before me
ten feet away no more
a crumpled figure
in the gutter
drunk asleep? !
a long and frivolous night, my friend?
(chuckle softly
do not wake)
But then...
the smooth line
yes
near the head there
trickled, dried
of blood
is almost
imperceptible
the crowd on the corner
patiently waiting
for someone
to take him
away
Another Sunday afternoon
in fall
in Brooklyn.
(Previously published in Ygdrasil, Nov. '99)
Laurence Overmire
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