You show me the basket your mother made,
The light color of the cane entwined with the dyed scarlet,
All so evenly spaced, and the handle a perfect arch. Continue reading “In Indian Territory”
Tag: writing
Note To . . .
On the 13th day,
I recognized the feeling
of you in my body linked
to those boyfriends of my lovely
high school and college past
who I had but did not have,
that I yearned for because
there was a bittersweet beauty Continue reading “Note To . . .”
Observations
“You taste like dust,” you told me.
“But clean dust, gray dust,
gritty but not dirty.”
How to respond?
It is good to taste of dust
that is not dirt, gray
but not brown, with texture
that, nonetheless, is somehow acceptable. Continue reading “Observations”
What is Lost
For Curt
The road goes north or east,
And no one knows if it might end
Or where. The sycamores lift leafy heads
Away from the highway’s movement
Above bridges still being built.
The exit calls to you
Like a childhood classmate you don’t
Remember but recognize anyway.
LED billboards jangle the night
Into a kind of hyperactive silence
On the edge of the city. Continue reading “What is Lost”
Ms Holmes Pretends: Novel Poetic
I know this is my poetry museum site, but I really do write prose that is poetic . . . at least much of the time. Ms Holmes Pretends is a novel I have been writing . . . probably all of my adult life–at least in my head. It’s about a career teacher in a public school facing the crisis of her life. In it, I’ve included the “wisdom” of my experience of over 20 years of public school teaching.
Click the picture to order a copy!
The book also includes the comedy in all of those years too, the chaos, the creativity, the injured and disturbed minds, the uniquely trying and wonderful qualities of the modern teenager. I’m sure some of my former students will find themselves somewhere in this book . . . names all changed to protect the innocent, of course. All fiction, of course. Continue reading “Ms Holmes Pretends: Novel Poetic”
Silver
We are near the silver, approaching it,
The light like nothing, like everything,
The joy of the movement, the day, the heat
Of the color of your eyes and nothing
Between us, the color of nothing
Between us. If you stand here a while,
You will know what I mean.
Stand here a while. Know what I mean.
–Shaun Perkins
Rural Oklahoma Museum of Poetry 