Always with the words, always with the pen,
Always with the fingers upon the keyboard,
Always with the thoughts, always with the clang
Of time on the kettle on the stove, always
With the conversation held back, always with calls
Across rooms deserted and full, always with
The nonsense of rain in the background to enter Continue reading “Always With”
Tag: poetry
Poet Products
Another museum display we will have besides Marginalia and Doors is one devoted to Poet Products. In fact, we will have a little store stuffed with their items. I’m thinking Emily’s Earplugs because a soul must have them to “select her own society” and for “staying at home” on Sabbath days. Continue reading “Poet Products”
Sticks and Stones
I learned yesterday that I am a finalist in this competition. Here is the poem I sent in. I will be sending the rest of the manuscript now.
She was reminded of the aphorisms from childhood:
“This is for your own good” and also,
“This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you.”
He never wanted to spurn her. There was something
Uncontrollable in him, a world of the parent
That enabled him to decide that making his world
Disappear from her was for her own good.
He let her grip on his thighs slide down
To his knees and then to his calves and then
She fell to earth as he continued to fly.
He was so sure he was hurting more.
Ending with “Life”
Yesterday morning, I realized a lot of poems I like end with the word “life.” I even have one I wrote years ago that ends, “and hurriedly—so I wouldn’t be caught—I began to make my life.” There is an innate appeal to a poem that ends with “life.”
Groan
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.
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
Rural Oklahoma Museum of Poetry 