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Poems By Poet Laurence Overmire  11/23/2014 9:49:11 AM
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  137.     

Candle

Half-burnt
On a mantel
Wax dripping from some fond estuary
Of an evening past

Un-lit now
The memories stalled upon the stem

Waiting for a new match
To strike
And light the dark room with
The fire of romance.


(Previously published in Cotyledon, Catamount Press, #15, April 2000)
 
Laurence Overmire
   
 

   
   
 

  138.     

Card Game

Do me a favor and have the guts
To show your face
Lay your heart upon the table
Not hidden up your sleeve
Waiting for the chance to
Cheat
The hands you’ve not been dealt.

The fan that blocks the beating of your lashes
The made-up beauty of your seemly look
Is but a temporary obstruction
The dissembling of a mean intention
Is not so easy to mistake.

In the backrooms of your mind
An upstairs bed awaiting
The dash of the stranger
Boots to the floor
May succumb to the whim of indifference.

But the holster laid upon the nightstand
Carries the bullets of love’s lost cause.


(Previously published in The Underbeat Journal, July 2003)
 
Laurence Overmire
   
 

   
   
 

  139.     

Castle Loch

In great hall
Kilt and bonnet
Crest upon the wall

By cold stone, a fire burns
Ale poured in goblets
A grim Scots tale of woe.


(Previously published in The Poetry of Scotland, Aug 2007)
 
Laurence Overmire
   
 

   
   
 

  140.     

Chances

1 a.m. in Brooklyn
Out of the subway’s cold, enveloping dark
The man emerges
Briefcase in hand, hurrying to get
Home
Wary eyes watching, glance in all directions.

The streets deserted, foreboding in the stillness
The light of lamps unable to spell the lingering dread
Shadows creeping across the brick
Inside vestibules where doors are locked.

Walking faster
Past shops barricaded with steel curtains
Fortification against the night
While somewhere in the deepening fog
A siren bleeds.

At the end of one long block
Another two to go
Just outside a closed cafι
Something on the sidewalk
By the sewer grate
Large and—what—?

A body.
Lies unmoving.
Alive or dead? What to do?
Finger nails polished, red on pale white skin
Female.
Face down, tucked and covered in dark hair.
What to do? To get involved in what?
In Brooklyn 1 a.m.

Not my business, not to know
He thought
Move on, she must be sleeping
Drugged or drunk
Someone else will stop.
The hour is late
A morning’s rise at 6 a.m.
Meetings to be deadlined
No time to waste
She must be sleeping.
Someone else behind me
Someone else will
Stop.
Move on.

In the slanting rays of the rising sun
The bustling of a new and proper day
Keepers opening windows, shops
He walks past quickly
A bright cafe
An empty sidewalk
Nothing by the sewer grate
But stuck in his head forever
The nagging not knowing
Alive or dead? He didn’t stop.


(Previously published in Kookamonga Square, Feb.2003)
 
Laurence Overmire
   
 
 
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Poems By Poet Laurence Overmire