Rural Oklahoma Museum of Poetry
Poetry of the People
Poetry from Oklahoma
She used to hate laundry days, the acrid
smell of boiled water poured in rough tin pans,
the cheap soap peeling away her red skin,
and the clothes less than spic and half of span.
The washing machine, a wedding present
From a rich aunt, transformed the shade of brown
In the diapers and left them a clean scent
But couldn’t take sweat rings on John’s shirts out. Continue reading “Wash”
Under the bridge, the white morning glories
rest from the work that has circled them in,
that has pinched energy into rest, life
into death, bloom into shell of that bloom.
I run over that bridge, desire like wood
splintering from me and landing in vines.
I hear them whisper about me. I hear
everything whisper about me—the trees,
the grass, the wind. I am known like I never
was inside those walls. I am known unlike
a girl before people, in the hunting
moon, in the time of the wolf’s breath, my life
hidden in reeds titled by the current.
I appear when thorns etch my lines in dust.
–Shaun Perkins
The way of this life is a tenuous one.
My son flirts with joy at a cherry popsicle
in the afternoon and that evening
must stand his ground in the backyard,
when he tells his new friend Stuart,
I am not a baby. You think I’m a baby.
The way of this life is a tenuous one. Continue reading “Blind in the Hall”
When I return to you, I will remember
My life before the mountain. I will soak
The western wind, the dark musky nights,
The fall, the trials, and those who played
A part all together in the river
Behind our house where I spent
Those days you were not real to me.
I will never pull them out,
Never clip them to a line to dry,
Never fold and put them away. Continue reading “The Return: Psyche & Eros”
(with apologies to William Carlos Williams)
so much depends
upon
a yellow
bath mat
rubber on
bottom
priced firm at three
dollars.
–Shaun Perkins
NOTE: This poem was inspired by (stolen from) the following Craig’s List ad: Continue reading “The Yellow Bath Mat”
When he was 10 and I was 13,
He pulled out all the stitches
From my baseball glove
And strangled a GI Joe with them
Because I called him a pansy
And a lily-ass and something else
I don’t remember anymore. Continue reading “My Brother’s Glass Banana”
Rural Oklahoma Museum of Poetry 