|
|
|
|
Best Poems From
LAURENCE OVERMIRE
|
|
| |
|
|
309.
|
Niagara
Niagara sends her watery heralds
Dashing to the depths of hell
Great spiraling mists invade the trembling air
Spewing forth the devils legions
Into billowing shrouds of aqueous fire
The rocks explode
Like a thousand roaring lions
Leaping headlong in carnivorous chase
Trumpets sound on the errant wind
And blazing there
From jagged cliffs
A banner bold
Arcs across the awakening scene
The Seven Colored Bow
Christened by angelic wings
Shoots its burning arrow deep
Into the darkest doubt of blinking Man
And sets his new-made heart afire
Behold the final triumph of the victor
And know the majesty
Of God.
(Previously published in Niagara Falls Poetry Project, Feb.2001)
Laurence Overmire
|
| |
|
|
| |
|
| |
|
|
310.
|
Niagara (haiku)
Niagara falls
with elegant dignity
divine majesty.
Laurence Overmire
|
| |
|
|
| |
|
| |
|
|
311.
|
No Control
I was traveling down the road
On a pleasant Sunday afternoon
Music on the radio
My hands firmly on the wheel
When suddenly
The van I was following swerved to the right
A wall of gray appeared in front of my windshield
Slammed into me like a hammer
A second later, the car behind
Stepping on the brakes
Plowed into my rear.
Stunned
I took two deep breaths
And staggered out the door
No one was hurtonly minor cuts and bruises
But the cars were demolished.
It seems a trailer had broken from its rig
Careened into my lane and smashed into my car.
Had the angle been slightly different, I might have been
Decapitated.
There was no time to avoid the impact.
Nothing I could have done.
I was lucky to be alive.
Or unlucky that the trailer came unhitched.
Or was it luck at all to be on this particular road
At this particular moment in time?
In the way of the world
There will always be questions
Without answer
Things that are beyond our comprehension
Forces over which we have
No control.
(Previously published in Some Words: A Place For Poetry, Nov - Dec '99)
Laurence Overmire
|
| |
|
|
| |
|
| |
|
|
312.
|
No Guitar, No Voice
Lennon and McCartney
Were poets who could play
Guitar, good thing too
Otherwise theyd have just been
Poets, but then
John would never have been shot
And Paul would still be
Looking for a publisher in a
Grimy hole in Liverpool.
(Previously published in The Hold, Sept.2003)
Laurence Overmire
|
| |
|
|
|
|
|
|