Each Happy Being

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Someone broke into my home
last night and took me for granted.
A different kind of robbery, yet
theft nonetheless. You alone now

Would know what is meant, if
not for the happy accident of claiming
possession while being absent,
in the realms of those who love nothing they possess.

(©)Dean Baker

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Unearthly View

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Missing you, I
step off the edge
of routine; constrained, yet

held by boundaries,
the skeleton of this costume,
this envelope of flesh

where I cannot sleep or rest,
almost a dream awake
before the sudden drop

to the flatlands, the crash
soft, epidermal; sloughing off
another season

that may last one more
unmeasured length
against the strength

of daily storms
I contain in unearthly view: amid
too mortal awareness, and remains

©Dean Baker

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Your Beauty

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Your beauty has nothing to do with you.
Just because I admire what’s
Sweet and good, does not mean it is true.

Your truth may be right and straight, but
This belongs to what is old, not new.
Your beauty has nothing to do with you.

Your wonder is all you may own, your
Joy at what inspires and works alone.
Your truth has never been a ghost.

Your beauty and your truth are one at last.
I can see them in the mirror now:
In the reflection, not the shadow that you cast.

©Dean Baker

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  • “Highly recommended…”

    “If all the reader is looking for in a poetry anthology are the poetic ramblings of someone trying to impress with their command of language or a gently rolling stream of consciousness then this probably isn’t it; but for poignant and thought provoking insight and new ideas, one would be hard pressed to do better than Dean Baker’s ‘Silence Louder Than A Train.’”

    “Poetry and prose poems of a passionate & intense originality which transcends the boundaries of the everyday. Words that speak, sing, and witness to convey us beyond the poems themselves to allow fresh discovery with each reading”

    “… for poignant and thought provoking insight and new ideas, one would be hard pressed to do better than Dean Baker’s ‘Silence Louder Than A Train.”

    latest e-books $5.99, https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B08YBJTJFP Shadow Boxing The Infinite

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    https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B08ZJLWZ13 The New Poetry Hotel

    On Many Mornings

    There were mornings
    I said I will see it through
    I cannot give in
    that being an idea you had

    I took refuge in books and women
    My consolation led me nowhere
    I was utterly lost
    I am back baking bread in the kitchen

    When you come to this
    As no doubt you will
    Remember everything you wanted
    Consider how to kill

    ©Dean Baker

    The Mythologies Of Love

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    deanbakerpoetryandsongs.com

    “Dean is a combination of thought and torment that has made him write more than a baker’s dozen of fine poems.. he might produce a collection that could astound us all.” – Irving Layton, (“Canada’s greatest poet”- Leonard Cohen), nominated twice for the Nobel Prize for Literature.

    Illegal


    Illegal immigrants are dangerous. They rob, they rape,
    they cheats, they spreads disease.

    They make committees who do not keep their words,
    they make beehives for us to work. When things get
    worse they stretch their reach in the name of charity,
    they shrinks our heads in the name of territory: they say
    look, there’s gold, pick that up for me and make a
    slave. Then all you know, knowing nothing, is no doctor
    or book can cure your sore ass, your bent knees, the
    ravages of some disease tearing up by degrees.

    They make soup kitchen charities like Al Capone, no
    mercy to those they know: murder is the treaty known,
    don’t look, don’t plead, slaughter is your fortune told.

    They impose high ideals and low defeats, always
    something you must live up to, invoking religion or
    some other big smoke choked with lies and fantasies.

    You beat yourself, you beat the neighbor, you beat
    the world and rail for some savior who’s asleep in
    the cold under blankets of disease uncontrolled. You
    stroll and bleed, you ache to please, you wish to climb
    some Texas tower to eliminate monsters in your sleeps.

    For relief some goodwill, some perfume, some visions
    made of the unreal rich and famous: celebrity’s my aim,
    fame the game away from the swollen ego which lacks
    a discipline to create yet cannot speak but in clichés.

    They cannot accept their nature, thus no apologies
    unless too late for the party favors. They do not wish
    to know for what they weep, for what they stage
    until much later comes as an idea: the ideal to which
    they pleads guilty, now get on with it, stranger.

    This is them, that is me, which is you, confess your
    hatred, your special inability.

    Illegal immigrants from countries known and blamed,
    we are them they are we, this is the danger.
    Illegal immigrants from house and home, from isles
    of sorrow and unknown responsibilities:

    this is us, illegal immigrants making dust of dirt and bones.

    Illegal immigrants are dangerous, ask any Indian, inquire of any native.

    ©Dean Baker

    ‘Poetry that is classic and timeless.’

    ‘Vital, intense and uncompromising – singular in clarity, artistry, and authenticity.’

    ‘Work which illuminates as it informs – a reviving sense of discovery and perspective.

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    Blood Upon The Moon


    1
    Poetry is far behind me now:
    I have lost the gift of music,
    the memory-hidden silences.

    That place where once I lived, in
    glory, is occupied: by
    cruel forces of the invasion.

    The armies of the ignorant
    twitch, and kneel:
    they leave their blood upon the moon.

    2

    So alright you know more than me,
    I concede to your competitive
    vanities and the telescope of ambition

    Where attitude substitutes for
    actual accomplishment by
    the surrogates of the soul and sad deeds

    In the committees of abandonment,
    authorities I do not sanction
    governing what occurs between me and thee.

    3

    As if money wasn’t every measure,
    for what cannot be missed
    in the absences of real treasure

    No more a garden nor oasis,
    no safe heart or places traded
    for what is lost within the traces

    That do not feel like grace or the swift
    awareness beyond the judges awaiting
    verdicts with which they already agree again.

    ©Dean Baker

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    NEW BOOKS: Shadow Boxing The Infinite, Phantoms Of The Northern Forests, The New Poetry Hotel

     

    A Tourist Observing Ruins


    This house is so broken,
    with the images
    of what might have been;
    the last experiment
    a scientist’s shattered facilities,
    a chemical residue

    There is no cure for what
    you think of tomorrow:
    the hero in northern absences,
    abandoned on an R.C.M.P post; perhaps
    dying of tuberculosis in Rome,
    longing to say ‘I did return’

    While you and I are two guests
    in the burned-out town,
    survivors open to investigation;
    departing into no sudden sunsets,
    amid this most ordinary life:
    of quarrels, and lovers gone

    ©Dean Baker

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    NEW BOOKS: Shadow Boxing The Infinite, Phantoms Of The Northern Forests, The New Poetry Hotel