One of my occasional gigs is taking my Montgomery Ward typewriter to a festival or conference and setting up to write poems in a minute. You give me three words, and I will make a poem for you with them in it. Today, I am snowed in and could use some practice. If you put your name (or a fake name) in the comments box along with three words, I will write you a custom poem and post it on this page. You can see samples of the poems I’ve written in the past. It’s what I do. Continue reading “Poem in a Minute”
Tag: writing
The Yellow Bath Mat
(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”
Come With Me, My Love
Sea of Love, a thriller from 1989, is not your typical police drama. Yeah, there’s the career cop drinking too much (Al Pacino) and the sexy woman who becomes a suspect (Ellen Barkin), and the cop’s buddy who offers comic relief (John Goodman). But the killer finds victims through poetic ditties in the newspaper personal ads. Continue reading “Come With Me, My Love”
My Brother’s Glass Banana
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”
Blue Jay
The man who walked to the end of the sidewalk
was looking for a dog–
a dog trailing a chain leash with a red imitation
leather handle, and he found Continue reading “Blue Jay”
Dear Winter,
You hold the prints of my terrier dog Socks, the dog of my son’s childhood who died after the ice storm of 2007. You held her prints for a week after she was gone. I still remember walking by them when I went around the house. They were in the dark place where the sun doesn’t reach beneath the southern edge of the carport. You didn’t take her, but I will always remember when she left because of that path you kept after she was gone. You are a season for imprints. Continue reading “Dear Winter,” 
Rural Oklahoma Museum of Poetry 