The Blue Girl


My uncle Walter still cannot believe he’s dead.
In those times he requires companionship, sitting
by the tilted world comprised of a pastiche, of lives.

The prairie near Winnipeg, howling hollows of
Buffalo; open coal pits above which my father abides
among train carriages at the ready: preparing

to watch the small television propped in the sky
canvas, against the backdrop of a playground,
laundry hung like kites across the horizon stop sign.

A little bit of home goes a long way in this hell,
or purgatory you must alter to the habitable says
the beautiful blue girl: her body abandoning
the battleground, the
absent atmosphere for which oxygen is a bribe.

©Dean Baker

©All Rights Reserved

  • from forthcoming Phantoms Of The Northern Forests

my books on Amazon https://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM/

© deanbakerpoetryandsongs.com

“An inspired set of poems. Dean gets to the essence of a subject.”

IF YOU CAN, IT WOULD BE APPRECIATED

  NEW BOOKS COMING SOON

 

SHADOW BOXING THE INFINITE

THE NEW POETRY HOTEL

STEEL BUTTERFLIES

and

PHANTOMS OF THE NORTHERN FORESTS

The Path Rises Up To Meet Us

for C.L.B.

Long ago you spoke of how we walked
along this road, somewhere in the country
talking of books, huddled in quiet surroundings
without any need for eyes on depth, nor
any deed misplaced: no errors stayed if they
even took place where we tread a measured pace

Listening I thought, always listening to the sky
for instance talking above us without intrusion
we carried it on our backs until it could not
be told where the presence arose: we
sheltered in the spaces between words, memory
made from the path unfolding from our steps

I like to think in that dimension we still move
there; shorn of memory, and absent bitterness,
the ache of circumstances flea-biting at our necks,
not ghost-like those of whom I spoke, but these
times conquered: altered by an alchemy we cannot
pretend to understand but rise to meet again

©Dean Baker

©All Rights Reserved

my books on Amazon https://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM/

© deanbakerpoetryandsongs.com

IF YOU CAN, IT WOULD BE APPRECIATED

  NEW BOOKS COMING SOON

 

SHADOW BOXING THE INFINITE

THE NEW POETRY HOTEL

STEEL BUTTERFLIES

and

PHANTOMS OF THE NORTHERN FORESTS

I’m Your Poet

I had no investment in failure

Even now as I am surrounded
drowned out
eclipsed by lesser minds of the
compromised
those contrived by contumacious
diplomacy

whose only requirement is for
their names to be added
to the roles of individuals
called as typical of the times

the committee
of the designated in this century
admired and feted
for what they supposedly suggest

I did not cave in
under the subtle torment of fresh
anonymity

or the fact that I’d be rescued
if only I could be blessed
by those who confess to nothing

absent ideas
somehow satisfied to betray
everything they do not represent

©Dean Baker

©All Rights Reserved

my books on Amazon https://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM/

© deanbakerpoetryandsongs.com

“An inspired set of poems. Dean gets to the essence of a subject.”

IF YOU CAN, IT WOULD BE APPRECIATED

  NEW BOOKS COMING SOON

 

SHADOW BOXING THE INFINITE

THE NEW POETRY HOTEL

STEEL BUTTERFLIES

and

PHANTOMS OF THE NORTHERN FORESTS

My Heart A Fist


All around was destruction and futility,
my heart become a stone centering this, now
target of opportunity knowing I must
escape the closed fist clenched against
what had already crept in unannounced

except by sleeplessness amid alien shifts
of those who would not welcome anything
but all must prove obedient and adrift
while a longing for what had been pleasant,
uncomplicated and feeling missed

remained signals of the slow collapse of all
absences compressed into the mist, the
invisibility, a loss too pronounced
to be defined by sentiment capturing it
into anything else but representatives

of the good and true and beautiful
not masquerading as anything but themselves
free above the landscapes looked upon,
subject not to the evil minions of trivialities
raised up and worshipped senselessly

in an obsession with decay and cowardice
captives of all that’s ancient and untrue, yet
aware that flight is song and life not death-in-waiting
nor the traditional suicide of massed conformity
of minds closed and refusing the abyss

©Dean Baker

©All Rights Reserved

  • from a forthcoming book, Phantoms Of The Northern Forests

my books on Amazon https://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM/

© deanbakerpoetryandsongs.com

“An inspired set of poems. Dean gets to the essence of a subject.”

IF YOU CAN, IT WOULD BE APPRECIATED

  NEW BOOKS COMING SOON

 

SHADOW BOXING THE INFINITE

THE NEW POETRY HOTEL

STEEL BUTTERFLIES

and

PHANTOMS OF THE NORTHERN FORESTS

In The Garden


Your scent on me lingers,
so sweetly I imagine,
it’s changing my fingerprints,
transforming my identity

Leaving me with another aura,
than the one I had
when we first met, and
confessed to making love

Until there’s no resemblance
to the man I was –
the person I now am,
the one who wishes, again

To enter you, and drink
from this fountain of youth,
while you taste
of the hidden knowledge

forbidden fruit, paradisiacal bliss

©Dean Baker

  https://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM/

©All Rights Reserved
deanbakerpoetryandsongs.com

Abandonment


The past is longer than the future can be. Winters
are now limited, as are the beautiful mild and temperate
days of May.
My personal calendar has switched from notching months or weeks.
Years now represent decades. All the holidays fade toward permanent vacation.
Nothing of bad measure becomes an unexpected surprise.

Wild women or forward men are no longer even incidents
that did not happen to another. Society itself has become
an idiot child, pablumed and cooing, diaper full.
Money a wish for more than less, waning with it the
benefits of better health and food, less stress, even friends.

You know who’s speaking, should you so choose.
Under that snow, poised for flight; that pile of clothes, the vanished
take refuge in plain sight among the fiercely knowledgeable.

Look closely. They leave nothing whether they remain, or go.

©Dean Baker

  https://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM/

©All Rights Reserved
deanbakerpoetryandsongs.com

Limbo: Stasis


Limbo now is not a dance
the dangling participle no entrance
suggestive of sex or science

or language masticated by the toothless
but too much exile
waiting for the light of the world

to atom blast your face
against the concrete realities
overwhelming everything by

the Babel feast of lost stories of innocence
as if that were a gift, a credit at
the merchant store of false narratives

of success over the one slice
dimensional forces
spewing forth a dialogue

in a broken tongue neither you nor I
anymore wish to speak or learn
or eat

or kiss anyone with such a device
good only for swallowing tripe
so that we could endlessly

repeat again
lives led in slaughter and denial
our white hats smothering

what occurs
while we tightrope walk across the abyss
to a music made by monsters

©Dean Baker

  https://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM/

©All Rights Reserved
deanbakerpoetryandsongs.com