Poetry There are a number of poets among the Ovi team, so we have gathered the together here.
I ride on the waves of their lies and tell how vicious men master vain manners for a piece of unhallowed bread.
Sit there on the sofa, in front of the screen.
Baseball, basketball, football, hockey, drag racing - men's business.
Everything at hand: beer, pretzels, sandwiches, potato chips, some slimjims - whatever.
Poetry from me
Is not written,
| ||The Bygone Years|
The matches spilt
Onto the floor
As the girl struggled
To light the fire
| ||The painted birds |
I'm helpless. She knows this and tells me
to forget this place of weeping and change.
She's an afternoon shadow. A crack in the
wall. A crack in the system.
There is no blood
on my hands;
no blood-lust in my heart.
| ||The hands on the clock|
The hands on the clock are broken,
time has caught its first desperate chill.
| ||Window Pain|
The cat... slate gray, stands sentry-
At the bedroom window, sentry for centuries...standing like an old, tall building,
Green eyes panicky...
| ||The Stroll|
The red velvet
One must integrate
With dirt, with dust,
With flaking paint,