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    Pergola
    Pergola
    Pergola
    Ebook282 pages45 minutes

    Pergola

    By Karen Lee Oliver

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Book Review: 


    "Karen Lee Oliver's poetry collection, Pergola, invites readers into a world of images, sensations, illusions, and even fantasy.&nbsp

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherWriters Branding LLC
    Release dateAug 27, 2022
    ISBN9781639453474
    Pergola

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      Book preview

      Pergola - Karen Lee Oliver

      Miss Perfect

      Miss Perfect, Miss Perfect, Miss Perfect, Miss Perfect! Mrs. Soffel.

      Oh my God: Grummond busses.

      Depression in the line of duty

      Making something out of two tomatoes.

      Standing on an eggshell

      Instead of a soapbox.

      Slurping on something icy cold—

      And not even listening,

      Not for a moment listening to him.

      Why converse anyway?

      No one ever gets to really know another.

      Walking on rice paper,

      While society is diseased,

      Leaves little wonder to the suicide rate.

      But Mrs. Soffel, she died alive,

      With her heart taken out by her lover,

      He was too kind to leave it there.

      Men and Women, Miss Perfect,

      Men and Women need time;

      Time used to gently sort each other out,

      One should never be starved in a relationship.

      Society, Ah, graceful society!

      Marking everything down,

      Counting each individual individually,

      Will never give you a moment to yourself.

      That's why suicide keeps bumping

      Against the fender.

      One hit

      And you lie sprawling

      Amidst a wailing crowd,

      Or alone on some darkened highway,

      Miss Perfect.

      .

      Who Cares?

      The world is no place—

      It's transient,

      And disorganized

      At the least.

      People treat one another with—

      Indifference.

      Unless, something serious should take place.

      It's an ongoing show.

      A carnival!

      A carnival of treats and chances

      Spread out like cards

      On a mahogany playing table.

      It is most useless,

      To protest.

      Perhaps, it's because

      We're all invited

      And expected to be there, to show.

      Everyone's part is individual,

      Yet intricately locked

      In the sea of floating faces.

      Feel stranded on an island? Or stuck in a subway?

      Perhaps, you've lost your way on a map

      And there's little or nothing to do?

      Why not pray?

      Who cares!

      .

      Mary Gets A Letter

      Mary has been seen at the garden gate.

      She has been seen there, and there she will wait

      For the right man to come along to her.

      But more likely, she is waiting for much more.

      The hours go by, the sounds of life surround her;

      The babies cry, the neighbors behave wildly,

      There are those, including the postman,

      Who consider Mary a common whore.

      She waiting to receive—how beautiful;

      There she stands, straight up; No—

      Now she is slouching;

      Over the garden gate her arms drape;

      Alluring those brightly colored nails.

      A man goes by, not the right guy for her!

      In fact, at this point in time, no one is

      For she knows too much of what she stands in front of !

      The house. The house is behind her. Nothing else.

      Wonder whether she can ever get in?

      The house, I mean, must be locked.

      Some day I'll walk by and she'll be gone.

      Mary, strange Mary, I hope she gets a letter.

      .

      The Maker Must Hear His Lambs

      Does not the maker want our souls in favor?

      Has he taken some other line?

      Often, I hear my small voice call him.

      Yet, even given time, he simply isn't there.

      Wonderment deceiving, time to time,

      I have heard that to be the illusive way of God.

      Still I cling to his word—

      All fortune laid waste beneath the cross.

      I have no more to live before his eyes.

      Shaken with every turn, I stand a confused man

      Of the twentieth century, pardoned not.

      Which way will they lay me in my grave,

      That's the next best joke…

      Without a dime to give to a poor wretched bum,

      I slither away, my tail between my legs, crying;

      I have wants; I have needs; I work hard for them;

      What is this communion when my God doesn't hear me?

      How simple were the letter of his ways.

      How simple, and yet to the cross he went.

      Am I crying for him or for myself?

      How weak and unforgivable a man am I!

      And I long for death but I can't face it.

      Even the glass's mirrored

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