Museum Poems - Poems about Museum

Dusty little towns West of the Great Divide Where great-grandchildren of cowboys On ranches still reside. Small western museums With local antiquities inside; Native American artifacts, Some horse tack for a cowboy's ride. There among the fancy Are two dresses hemmed above the knee, 20's Jazz Age fashion Worn far from the speak-easys. Caused a bit of an uproar, As they danced on the sawdust floor. Who...

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I loved you with both hands broken, offered you oceans cupped in cracked palms, watched it leak, leak, leak, through fingers too battered to hold a tide. I made myself a museum of becoming, stitched old prayers into the walls, hung portraits of the selves I killed to be loved, polished my ribs until they gleamed like pearls, sewed silk into my voice, laced...

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Welcome. I'm the one they left behind. An alter ego of sorts— just the keeper, the inventory clerk, interim ghost. New items arrive every day— spat out from my boss's pockets, sometimes still wet, still ticking. I stack them in corners. I don't ask where they've been. This way, please: to the Room of Poorly Considered Promises— frayed friendship bracelets, a mixtape of second thoughts, a half-cooked wishbone...

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I visit the Museum of the Past in my memory. Still life paintings I stroll through, lazily, my hands clasped behind my back. There, the glass you drank from, still holds the print of your bottom lip. I break the rules and pick it up. I fit my mouth where...

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At the World War II Museum, There were crowds in every hall And so much to see and read You couldn’t quite absorb it all. Yet the visitors, so varied, Were attentive and polite, Everybody so intrigued with Every battle plan and fight. There were artifacts and movies, Interviews with those who fought, Which enhanced the schoolbook knowledge That each one of us was taught. Hours...

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I saw a man Hugging a rhino, Why he was I really don’t know! I know some people Like to hug a tree, But a stuffed rhino In a museum, This surely can’t be!...

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My volatile mind wanders in fanciful cauldron of emptiness, floats on the fairy flotilla in the sunburst cloud’s recess, makes a fascinating painting of formless fantasy on the synthetic canvas in the museum of memory. The remains of rustic passion of sensual impression, reflected from the mirror of childhood imagination, entice me to take fantasy flight swirling...

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I love art museums with any kind of art…big or small. I love to see the abstracts, the portraits, the landscapes hanging on the wall. I suppose that’s why I love nature so much… It’s also filled with many kinds of art…big and small. but nature’s museum is unique…for it has no walls at all In fact a simple walk...

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O some day to come, it may be that time will bury my memory deep as the hidden sleep of those who lie in some forgotten churchyard; but my judgment is that the future holds for me a fadeless crown of amaranth and gold. O thou Anonymous Reader, when I, a bard whose graces are...

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To visit a museum Where you’ve never been before Means you have the opportunity To amble and explore. At the Worcester* Art Museum Were mosaics on display And some special arms and armor In an orderly array. There were works by famous artists And a treasure trove amassed Just awaiting our perusal As we slowly moseyed past. In the gift shop, objects beckoned So...

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Diaries left open and letters framed, chronological ink waving from a horizon, gone. Clothes hung to recreate a wedding, a dance, a touch – enclosed in glass cases to trap the scent inside. There’s a recording of his voice that skips back through time. Her handprint in clay, cracked. That first glass of wine, now cobwebbed, stained red, next to...

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On synthetic derelict stage of deception domain, I gyrate the split mind, ensnared by bipolarity chain. Under illusive limelight of ostentatious time, I’m entangled in machinated invasive paradox prime. In make-belief life’s drama I act with no compunction, I face fabricated faces flocking redundant in conjunction. Identity lost in conglomerate of counterfeit facades, I don’t perform by heart's prudent...

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In the cold draft of an empty morning, I sit widowed, engrossed in scattered thoughts, confused by tawny tunes of ticking time, knitting vague colors of changing seasons. In silence, my name remains forgotten, mere memory in an old museum. But when I feel the golden rays of sun- that drapes my winter heart in honeyed glints, I trace truth between these wrinkled...

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you always had a way with words like Amsterdam whose running rhymes of bicycles and harpsichords and bridges over canals caused us both to steer each other's hold to mouths whose distance was decreasing, slowly through museum pieces though I always hoped to linger nestled inside yours...

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In a museum I no longer care To read what they write on the wall. I look at the art, check the names and the dates And don’t need much more info at all. I don’t want to listen to audio guides Explaining the backgrounds of works. Just having the time for some gallery strolls Is the best of retirement’s perks. As I’ve...

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