This is the rain man crying –
sane man bleeding but
red dirt has no love.
Kurt Cobain, your feedback
promised me release, but
the fuzzy orgasm is yet
to come.
Author: ROMPoetry
The Rural Oklahoma Museum of Poetry is an interactive museum where the common person and poetry meld. ROMP is a 501(c)3 tax-exempt organization.
Working at the Tom Mix Museum
The big white hat has grayed in its case,
Next to 2-inch spiked spurs banned even then
And dried-up lassos and embroidered leather gloves
That would disintegrate if taken out of display.
The suitcases of death are stacked beside a saddle
With the TM logo stamped on the side.
The shiny metal cases have a few dents in them,
Perhaps one in the shape of his head,
As the case flew forward when his convertible crashed.
While the West disappeared around him,
He died on the side of the road, tossed
From a vehicle he would never learn to master.
–Shaun Perkins
The Coming and Leaving
We left by separate doors
Into the changed, other bodies
Of cars . . .
–from “Cherrylog Road” by James Dickey
Another display we’ll have in our museum besides the Marginalia one is one about doors and doorways in poetry.
I found an old wood door in my grandparents’ barn, and poems and musings about doors will be displayed on it. There will also be places for museum visitors to add their comments on the door.
Isolde
On the ship, we watched whales sound,
the rise and fall, the spray plunging into foam
Into something new. We have not spoken,
But we are watching the same scene.
I stood behind you as you spoke to the crew,
As you gave instructions, the muscles of your back
Rising as you took in air, shoulder blades creasing
The material I wanted to touch. You knew I was behind
Life in the Margins
One of our museum’s exhibits is going to be devoted to marginalia. I am a sucker for an old book with some interesting written comments in the margins. I don’t care what the book is about, but if the person writing in its margins and inside covers sounds interesting, I buy it.
Merlin’s Last Art
The heart becomes the master after all
–Even with my first and last art
of fire—blazing or smoldering,
identity is not known.
Heart smothers the flame.
Water banishes it.
And the smoke rising
in the air and the weightless
ash that drifts into the trees
are someone else’s gifts.
I have slept through
the exchange.
–Shaun Perkins
Rural Oklahoma Museum of Poetry 