Entrenched
In the trenches we wait
Rain pouring down
Our mud-soaked uniforms
Pasted to our bones
We wait
Puff on a cigarette
A deck of cards
A broken box
And a tin can meal
We wait
Passing the time
The bullets fly overhead
Occasionally
And sometimes we hear
The screaming
But most of the time
We block it out of our minds
And wait
Sleeping where we stand
Until someone gives the order
And it's our turn to die.
A Pub in the Midwest
(Accents have been changed to protect the innocent.)
Sorry, mate
But I 'ave no respect for a bleedin'
Poet.
Why don't the lily-livered buggers
Get a job, I says
'stead of wastin' our bloody time
With their moanin' and groanin'
'an talkin' about the "bee-yu-ti-ful"
Trees an' flow'rs an'-
Blimey!
I spit on the bastards!
Who needs their bloody little rhymes.
They ought to be strung up and 'anged
For all the good they do in this world.
Christ.
It's almost nine o' clock.
I've got to go 'ome to the missus.
Quick, mate, pour me another pint.
Frankenstein's Little Heads
there were thousands of tiny heads
locked inside a corporate logo
but with one collective breath
they gave life to the monster
a will of its own, independent of its
makers, willing to do
anything and everything, for
good or for evil, to insure
its survival, and thereby increase
the profits of its stockholders-
thousands of other tiny heads
in fancy little gilt-edged boxes of their own.
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Laurence Overmire is an American actor/director/writer who has worked on stage, film and television. His poetry has been widely published in the U.S. and abroad, including "Kimera," "Main Street Rag Poetry Journal," "Bardo Burner," "American Muse," "Lynx: Poetry from Bath," "Poetry DownUnder," "Stirring," "Thunder Sandwich," "Samsara Quarterly," "Jack Magazine," "The Hinterland," "Free Zone Quarterly," "Pogonip," "Kookamonga Square" and many others.
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