Dead Starfish
washed up
on the beach
high tide’s brief wasting
a minute more, a minute less
the beach holds
sand secrets
to take or to give
back and forth we go
but time does not wait
as the last wave recedes
the next plunges forth
and wipes the slate
pebble and foam completely
clean.
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poem by Laurence Overmire
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Sink Hole
He made the mistake of standing on top of the television set.
He thought maybe he could conquer it, I guess
But instead
It swallowed him up and burped him out into an
Infomercial.
And if we don’t pay $149.95 in six easy installments
We’ll probably never see him again.
(Previously published in The Short North Gazette, Jan.2003)
poem by Laurence Overmire
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Parent Child
Every poem is an individual
A song with its own music
Its own unique voice
Its own particular way of expression
Suited, in form and style, to its own
Particular taste
Give it room
Allow it to breathe
Allow it to be different
From what you’d expect
And if you’re lucky
Sometimes it will surprise you.
(Previously published by The Stroll of Poets Society, July 2000)
poem by Laurence Overmire
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Blows to the Head
the rules were laid
inside his head
in block cement
we had to take a hammer
to his skull
to break the hardening
of thought and mind
set free the demons
of his passion
allow
the precious seed
of wisdom
to sprout
in fingers
of his art
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poem by Laurence Overmire
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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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