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Poems by John Olivar

by John Olivar

Goal in Sight

as we dash through caution's

halls, their artifice draws

in torrents, our blood, runs

two starry-dead outlaws

to a purported goal:

a pool of icy black,

temporized, its cold coal

surface shines, drives us back

to belief, an all-fled

release from fire driven

fools, still sane and unbled

refuse, wind scattered in

formation, paper news

hollers of their flat, dry

control; veins, bulging blues

serve to unhue the sky

now become a crawlspace

for weak wills, and the urge

for freedom's battered face

to shine as we emerge.


A lonely bargeman exits

the water, walks

through light night

rain to a bank dwelling,

wood-decked and curtained

Serene, even sentimental

he pays for his bread, and will

sleep dreamlessly

content to be dead for

the night, in out

of the rain, off

the river

Tugboat Race

Hanging by both

arms from a tree, I saw

two raised, two captains

wave, glance the distance

between one another

and sail off; then on

my own way home, I passed

a room filled with people and statues

--statues in motion, people

still, as they watched

the marble heads sway, their

arms remained out of sight