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Best Poems From
LAURENCE OVERMIRE
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105.
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Nuclear Fission
Most of what makes me
What I am
I am
Ignorant of
Not understanding
Much of anything
About the mind
The body
The spirit
How can I pretend
Then how
Can anyone
To take this vast uncertainty
And claim it be the absolute
Truth.
(Previously published in Boloji, Apr 2003)
Laurence Overmire
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106.
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Old Shoes
Old shoes
Broken-soled brothers
Have seen happier days
I remember when I bought them
My young hands pulled the laces tight
I looked smart in those shoes
Dancing with the girls on a hot summer night
Smoking cigarettes in the gloom
Waiting for a dream to slip into the back seat
Of a 57 Chevy.
Ah, but
Old shoes
Dont last long
And old feet grow tired
From all the walking.
There comes a time
When both must part
An ignominious end
In some forgotten field
Covered with pungent earth
Discarded debris.
(Previously published in Some Words: A Place For Poetry, Feb.2000)
Laurence Overmire
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107.
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Once in Camelot
The girl on the hill
runs across the fields of my mind
strewing flowers on the parchιd ground
lost in Camelot
where the mighty King must weep
for love betrayed.
She holds a basket
of secrets
dewdrops gleaned from distant clouds
long since passed upon the breeze
and lets it open for me to see
I reach to touch
my hands too numb
I cannot
grasp.
She sings a song Ive heard before
in some forgotten dream
of some forbidden time
the verse is new
the meter blank
I want to sing
but breath is
out of tune.
She stands there blushing
then skips away
laughing in the gypsy wind
rushing to the castle
beyond the ridge
beyond my view.
I sit alone
pick up the flower she dropped behind
innocently on the dust
and a dewdropp trickles down the severed stem
like a tear that stings the heart.
(Previously published in Potpourri, Dec. '99)
Laurence Overmire
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108.
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Our Baby Boy
(The parents slammed him against the wall)
When they didnt listen
(Beat him upside the head)
When they didnt answer
(Locked him in a room without supper)
When they went to work all day and night
(Put a shotgun in his hand)
When they didnt pay attention
And finally, never asking what he needed
(Laid the wreath upon his grave) .
(Previously published in No Alibi Press, Feb.2002)
Laurence Overmire
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