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Best Poems From
LAURENCE OVERMIRE
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225.
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I Saw Caesar in the Nude
a puffed-up, doughy sort of man
with flat feet and rolls of flesh that jiggled
improperly in the breeze. He didnt see me,
thank the gods, or he would have had me flailed
for snickering uncontrollably, Im sure. But
I was hiding neath the portico with a toga
stuffed in my mouth to prevent any sound from
escaping. I almost choked from the ordeal, but
to see the naked truth like that- Why, it might be
worth a good flogging now and then, just to put
this whole mortal thing in the proper perspective.
(Previously published in The Short North Gazette, Feb.2000)
Laurence Overmire
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226.
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I Want to Be
I want to be
A coffee pot
And hiss and steam and drip so smooth
And people will say
Damn, thats a good cup of coffee.
I want to be
A popcorn popper
Ill flip them kernels with a casual air
And puff and crackle
And people will say
Damn, this popcorn is de-lish.
I want to be
A big TV
Ill gabble and blab and mesmerize
Ill quibble and fibble and hypnotize
And people will say
Damn, Im sleepy, its time for bed.
I want to be
Something other than me
Something that someone will care about
Something that will mean something to someone day in and day out
And people will say
Wait a minute, who cares what people will say
Damn, Ill be just what I am.
(Previously published in Maelstrom, Vol 2, Issue 1, Dec 1998)
Laurence Overmire
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227.
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Illuminata
The lanterns are lit
Thousands circle, drums beating
Fire dancing on the river waves of darkness
We gather in colors of rainbow night
Our tears still welled within the eyes
Passing along, one hand to another
Our procession bridges
Bank upon bank of feeling
This hope for peace
We claim
Ourselves committed
The black and white yellow red of our
Collected conscience we
Make this place our
Blazoning torch
Freedom in the flame
Constantly burning.
(Previously published in Honor and Remembrance, Indelible Mark Publishing,2007. Note: Illuminata was the name given to a community event that took place in Portland, OR, shortly after 9/11.)
Laurence Overmire
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228.
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Imprisoned
Inside that prison are horrible, unfeeling men.
That there? That? Thats a prison?
The inmates all look the same and wear the same clothes. And they think the same, too.
You mean thisthis building here you mean?
How many lives have they ruined with their dirty deeds, just to satisfy their own petty desires of greed and lust. And, worst of all, they laugh and cackle as they watch their victims squirm in agony.
But that theres the IRS.
Exactly.
(Previously published in Superior Poetry News, Spring '99, vol 5, No.1)
Laurence Overmire
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