Painting an Inch Thick
The paint on my face is peeling
Too long without a fresh coat to
Cover up the blemish of mistaken
—identity—
People will see through
The raw, exposed grain of flesh
Much too real for
Aluminum-sided strangers
Weathering storms in happy hamlets
Hailing golf balls bouncing off
Simulated walls, chuting through
Spidered spouts of infantile
Disregard.
(Previously published in CER*BER*US, # XLVI,2002)
poem by Laurence Overmire
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Tree Frog
The tree frog
sits
on a green leafy branch
and stares at me with bright orange persimmon eyes
and a goofy expression that says,
“I’m a tree frog, what did you expect? ”
His yellow gumby-like legs
and bulbous sticky fingers
are poised and
ready to jump
straight out of the calendar
and onto my keyboard.
Ah, the things that go through your head
when divining for inspiration.
(Previously published in Creative Voice, Feb.2000)
poem by Laurence Overmire
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Pinnacles
Only a couple of rungs from the top
He fell
Down into the chasm of his
Truest self
The giddiness of the heights
Cooly reflected in the stillness of his
Finally present mind
Able to reject the folly of false illusion
Rivers breaching dams
Rocks pouring out of mountains
Trees taking shape with new limbs
Rich with the fruit of
Wisdom
Feet planted at last
In heavenly stench of saturate Earth.
(Previously published in Kookamonga Square, July 2000)
poem by Laurence Overmire
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Poisoned Apples
Tenth grade teacher, a Mr. Suchandso
slashed a C minus across her very first poem
ashamed to be qualified as less than mediocre
it was many years before she dared compose another
and, indeed, may never have
(a loss the world might long regret)
but for an insistent voice within her that
refused to succumb to
the unwitting cruelty of a witless pedagogue
who should have known better.
(Previously published in Spilled Ink, July 2000; Stroll of Poets Society, July 2000)
poem by Laurence Overmire
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Maybe The Trees
Maybe the trees have lost their eyes
And the wind its wicked wisdom
The sand sifts through the glass
Unnoticed
The rivers cry in the dark phase
Of an old moon
Hear me, O Sun
Give life to the branch
Soil to the root
Fast water, graceful rain
A rising tide to wash away
Sorrow
We must emerge
Together
The upheaval of a great mountain
Through stratified rock
A peak of glistening snow
To claim the heavens as our
Own.
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poem by Laurence Overmire
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Workahol
Taking a bottle of work to work
In the desk, the file, the flask
Tucked inside the third piece of
A suit not suited to public
View, then stop at the store
To pick up more, work to
Put on the table, after dinner
Nightcap laptop under the
Covers, or a cell phone in the
Bath, working hard to make it all
Work, house car wife kids
Bigger and faster, sexier smarter
A skid row of home-ly places
Just south of Easy Street
A mile from the nearest
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poem by Laurence Overmire
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Poetry is Dead
Capital D.
Go to the bookstore if you don’t
Believe me
See if you can find the poetry
Way back in the back where
Most people seldom go
If you do find it, what
Do you see?
Frost and Dickinson and
Susan Polis Schutz
Oh, yes, Poetry is Dead.
Who killed it? And why?
We need to find the corpse
Get a sample of DNA
Re-construct a new being
A Poetry people can relate to
A Poetry people want to hear
A Poetry not only striking
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poem by Laurence Overmire
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Sand In The Mouth
The hot Earth blisters
Opening to the unwitting tear of
Man’s insensitive hand
The glaciers crack and crumble
Centuries plunging into
Too warm waters
Fish and bird
Too soon entombed in
The rising wave
The frail creatures who
Cannot protest lie
Twitching in the gathering dust
Dry are the bones of
A million lost hopes
Broken in a desert of mind
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poem by Laurence Overmire
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The Convention
There was a convention
Of hypocrites
That convened in redundant
Adulation
But he was not invited
The man of the Daring Deuce.
They spouted their
Aspersions
Redeemed their
Aspirations
Towering mediocrity
To dwarf the voice
That shatters glass
And mingles with
The blood of Earth.
No, he was not invited
But conveniently
Exposed
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poem by Laurence Overmire
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Father Boy
Oh Father Boy, Oh Father Boy
You didn’t see the signs
You didn’t hear a thing did you
Oh Father Boy, my dear
You didn’t see, you didn’t look, you didn’t listen either
You didn’t try to understand
You didn’t take the time
You weren’t a Father, Father Boy, you weren’t a Father, Father.
Oh Father Boy, Father Boy
When a Father has a Boy
To be a Father, Father see
You have to see the Boy
The Boy inside the Father
And the Father in the Boy
But Father Boy, Oh Father Boy
You just didn’t pay attention
For a Boy to be a Father, Father
He cannot be a Father Boy.
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poem by Laurence Overmire
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