Rural Oklahoma Museum of Poetry
Poetry of the People
Shower the world with crackling leaves,
Dead and limp before but now firm
From frozen dew, this ground your signal
To the creatures you watch in the night.
Shower the broken places with jangles
Of icy prairie grass and let the spring thaw
Spark life never imagined, never believed
In the time of winter’s locked prison.
Shower me with kisses melting hours
Apart, reclaiming late winter sun
When we walked along a silent river
And I saw how you had changed my life.
for Ken
–Shaun Perkins
You lie on the naked bed, the sheets
Finishing the spin cycle, the trailer walls
Shuddering slightly with the motion.
One cat is at your feet, the others
Line the rooms like Egyptian statues
On guard for a dropped piece of cheese. Continue reading “After October Rain”
The ravine is littered with fallen branches
From elm trees refusing to become corpses,
With the crumpled bark of sycamore
And the decaying cedar that crackles
Like popcorn when you put it into the fire.
Beat your chest, lover, and summon the gods
Who made you to gloat upon your power,
Your camouflaged care, your with-one-paper
Kindling responding to the placement
By intentional hands, bringing me beauty. Continue reading “What Remains”
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”
Red. Yellow. Green. Hint of blush and falling leaf,
Necessary as bread, sweetness of life lived
Out of time and in the stolen, hidden moments
We forget even as we breathe them in. Red.
Yellow. Green. You see them from a distance
In the orchards between farmhouses, bruised
In the stiffening grass, marked by months
On limbs, marked by limbs branched over secrets
The seasons tell. Hard to hold, skin a sheen
Of untouching, one’s own skin aged in comparison. Continue reading “Enter Reaching”
for Ken
The burn pile is full of branches
You wrested from a neglected arbor.
They will light the November sky
When we find the perfect chilly night. Continue reading “Nuisance”
Rural Oklahoma Museum of Poetry 