Pyramids in the Tulsa desertAn iron insect spitting sand.
Shaggy black quarry dog,
stray god of the river,
lopes between the dozers.
The Sand Plant
Pyramids in the Tulsa desertTag: poems
Pyramids in the Tulsa desertA Visitor to the Quarry
Limestone dust scoots across the road
And filters into the already dying June grass.
The peacock appears at the quarry windows,
Not looking in, not looking at the trucks,
Not engaged in any way with human life,
Abiding in its own peacock world
Of green velvet and sweeping coattails,
Gold-tipped cigarette holder and champagne
Glass, muddled fruit of peach and apricot. Continue reading “A Visitor to the Quarry”
Silver Changes in Summer
There are things we learn in the summer that we don’t learn in other seasons. In warm climes, we learn and relearn the intensity of heat, the places where sweat pools on our bodies, the way that one cool breeze can redeem a whole day. Poems about summer validate these lessons. Continue reading “Silver Changes in Summer”
Johnny Depp, Poetry Man
Johnny Depp. Today, June 9, is his birthday. He is 49! I am writing this post to see how many hits I can get by putting his name in it. Johnny Depp. Just tagging that. . . . Well, not really. Here’s Johnny Depp and poetry in America:
Johnny read Jim Morrison’s poetry in the documentary about the Doors When You’re Strange. I haven’t seen it, but it came out in 2012. Have any of you seen it? Continue reading “Johnny Depp, Poetry Man”
Dispatching at the Rock Quarry
The trucks are either white or red.
Alliance, the white ones say.
Cowboy, the red ones.
An occasional blue one appears,
All driven by men except one,
whose driver calls in her mission
and adds, Have a nice day.
Pugged aggregate base. Rip rap.
Screenings. Bedding. Crusher run.
The language of rock.
Make a bridge, build a road,
Lay a foundation. It all starts
from a hole in the ground.
–Shaun Perkins
People Talk Too Much
One of the reasons poetry hooked me at an early age was because I admired its efficiency with words. People talk too much. They write too much, text too much, listen to too many other people talking, watch too much TV with people talking. Talk. Talk. Talk. Words get cheap. Poetry tries to help them keep their value.
My recent European tour reminded me of this. I found, however, that hearing people talk too much in a foreign language was not nearly as irritating as hearing it in English. I could imagine that what was being said was of more import and occasioned by the sublime. I could imagine that, at least. Fact was, the same kind of chatter was probably going on. Continue reading “People Talk Too Much”
Rural Oklahoma Museum of Poetry 