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Best Poems From
LAURENCE OVERMIRE
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165.
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Curtain Down
the stage is dark
barren
my footsteps echo
hollowly
no one hears
but me
the swish of a broom
melodic
constant
the janitor bids goodnight.
i sit at the mirror
a face looks back
with tired eyes
hears the voices
that matched the faces
laughing voices silent now
faces detached
drifting
to their final resting place
in the twi-lit coffin of memory.
i step into the night
cold air
gently close the door
the lock clicks
quietly
like the latch on my brittle heart.
(Previously published in Wings, Aug.1999; The Poet's Porch, Oct.2001)
Laurence Overmire
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166.
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Dance Of The Wounded Heart
Tread lightly through the forest branch
Quiet wanderer,
Disturb not the sleeping peace of cunning predator.
Too soon the hunters horn will sound the death-knell
of your tender breed.
Lap quickly the nourishing drops that flow in freshets
from a careless spring,
Tarry not long to quench your thirst
Lest your brittle life be fast extinguished
In the hungry jaws of the lurking beast.
Fly, fly at the sound of crackling leaf
The scent of death upon the air.
Stay not, wide-eyed in frozen fear
To gaze upon a shadow poised
with outstretched arm.
One second lost and fire and thunder
shall rip the dark
Fly, fly
Let not your russet coat be splayed with blood
And tacked upon an unworthy wall
Tribute to the victors
Indifferent hand
Your proud rack hanging
By a wire and a screw.
(Previously published in ken*again, May 2001)
Laurence Overmire
Read more: dance poems, spring poems, death poems, peace poems, fire poems, fear poems, lost poems, dark poems, heart poems, sleep poems
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167.
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Dangle (senryu)
The dangling of a thread
hope suspended by a whim
latchkey of despair
Laurence Overmire
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168.
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Dark Theater
His father made him work in the hot fields
From sun-up to sun-down
When he was just a lad.
Called him a thin-lipped sissy boy
When he sat by the fire reading Chaucer
A no-good, lazy, son of a
Well
His mother died when he was nine.
There she lay in the one-room shack
Cold and blue and
Father made him cut the box
Throw the dirt on till the last tear was buried.
In New Orleans he saw them
Chained
Fat white men poking at their teeth
Smoking thick cigars
Piling them in wagons with
Sacks of flour and beans.
At Gettysburg he saw the blood
Dark stains that wouldnt wash away
The pieces of men who lay in tents
The mothers who came to weep over white stones.
What good were words in such a place?
Our American Cousin was such a
Delightful play
A frothy diversion from all the pain
But the bullet cut the comedy
Short.
The tragedy is not to be denied.
From generation to generation
Lights are extinguished
And darkness threatens
Until some one stoops
To bear the torch.
(Previously published in Mind Fire Poetry Journal, Nov.1999; Liberty Grove Poetry Review, Vol 2, Issue 19, Aug 8,2000; Poets4Peace, Nov.2000)
Laurence Overmire
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