Rural Oklahoma Museum of Poetry
Poetry of the People
Yonkers, Oklahoma, was abandoned and flooded
To create Lake Fort Gibson in 1933.
Eighty years later, in the scrub oaks of
Northern Wagoner County, it remains in
Foundation puzzles and a one-room skeleton
Of the school where Cherokees and whites
Learned together until water was needed more. Continue reading “Flooded Town”
I have not written a Craig’s List poem in a while, a poem wherein I take a strange, sad, semi-literate, or otherwise entertaining ad from that fine website and write a poem to accompany, or perhaps, explain it in some way. I just found this ad in the General listings and went WHOA. What in the hell is going on in this painting? Continue reading “Butch’s Painting”
Since we met over a year ago, Ken has sent me lists. He says he is not a poet, but I tend to disagree. Here is the list he sent when I returned from a long weekend in San Diego.
Red Dirt
Redbone Hounds
Ken
Needy Cats
Needy Ken
Cold Weather
Cold Cabbage
Ken Continue reading “13 Welcome Back Things”
Ida Red, one half of the museum mascot team, has decided that she needs to contribute more to the ROMP mission. Thus, she will occasionally make a post on this blog. Though she is a redbone coonhound, she does not hunt so much as she . . . waddles around on the land and hogs the golf cart. She needs to at least exercise her mental and creative faculties, so in her first blog, she would like some help in writing a poem:
RRRRRuff! RRRRRRuff! RRRRRRRuk uk uk uh uh . . . Pardon me, got a bark caught in my throat. It’s getting cold out here in the sticks. Anyone got some kibble? Yeah I know I just ate. Continue reading “Add-A-Line for Ida”
She hasn’t had this many people in her house
since her husband died. She found his upper
dental plate in the whatnot drawer while looking
for a package of yeast. The floor is collapsing
and they’re all riding the beeline to hell.
Her aunt used to tell her uncles when they drank
too much: You’re in first class on the beeline to hell, Continue reading “Thanksgiving”
In the general store north
Of Toronto, Kansas, I bought
Handmade postcards from
A local artist, a rusted Ford
In a field of weeds, rooster,
Meadows of sunflowers.
The dusty baggie held
Five cards. It is hard to find
Postcards anymore. Gone
With them are letters
And notes and notebooks
Full of notes and notes on
Lined paper or stationery. Continue reading “Ephemera”
Rural Oklahoma Museum of Poetry 