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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The Whistle Blower
Took the sins of the Corporation
Upon her shoulders
The indignity of her firing
Struggling to make ends meet
Unemployed, without prospect
Children crying, hungry
Yet she endured
The barrage of punishing lawsuits
A legion of lawyers platooned
To make her life unbearable
Anonymous threats
Phone calls and burning
Mailboxes
Almost beaten, she clung
With bleeding fingers to the
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poem by Laurence Overmire
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Out of the Depths
In the creative clash
Wit and inspiration
Desperadoes of the soul
Struggling
Hand-to-eye, knife-to-throat
Illusion and fact head-locked
Aesthetics sucker-punched with
Second-guessing
A blur in the clutch of
Tunnel vision
Head pounding on closing wall
Hour upon hour
Day upon night
Caffeine and cigarette, sweat and blood
Stain the solitude
Paid in sacrifice of bread and clay
Hell’s black fire
Char the midnight silence
A gash of moon for
Penance.
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poem by Laurence Overmire
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Song for Marty (A Tribute to Marty Robbins)
The cowboy poet
Still sings
His storied melodies ‘round a flickering fire
On the wide open range
Of the midnight sky.
And sometimes when the stars are out
You can hear his lilting voice
Carried on the wind…
He tells of roundups long ago
Bandits and outlaws
Rugged men who tamed the West
Places like Tombstone and Laredo
And the “west Texas town of El Paso”
Where young lovers bid farewell.
Farewell to you, old friend.
Farewell.
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poem by Laurence Overmire
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Sitting Bull's Dream
Sitting Bull saw it in a dream
White men falling from the sky
And for a time
We believed
The prophecy was fulfilled
The soldiers came to kill us
Our women, our children
Our future, our dreams
Foolish men
They did not see
They join in the Ghost Dance
Now
Together in sorrow
Our blood flows like two rivers into one
Brothers we are
Brothers we have always been
Oh Mother Earth
Forgive us.
Truly
Now
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poem by Laurence Overmire
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Mr. Baggot
Mr. Baggot is a very successful man
Stocked and bonded, nouveau Richelieu
Belongs to the club, leisurely suited
To playing golf and drinking iced
Tea with just a hint of lemon.
His conversation, properly edified by a prestigious
Eastern school, revolves around the
Pressing issues of the day:
Why, for example, must a grilled cheese
Sandwich be outrageously priced at
Three dollars and ninety-five cents
When a slice of cheese costs only a nickel?
Summoning the waiter with a demanding
'Hey you! ' nameless, faceless lad
Who nods submissively to the
Punishing invective, assures Mr. B
He will not be charged, offering
Profuse apologies for slandering the
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poem by Laurence Overmire
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Cold Driving Rain
It’s raining.
Cold driving rain.
Commuters rushing home from work
Home to hubby, wife and family
Spot and Cleo
And a fire on the stove.
Another day of brutal business
Accounts are squared
And errands run
No more phone calls
No more hassles
Watch some boob tube
Think of sex
Spare some change, sir
Spare some change, ma’am
I haven’t eaten for three days
You haven’t washed for three days either
Get a job, you dirty bum
I wonder how my stocks are doing
Shelter some money in a tax-free fund
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poem by Laurence Overmire
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