authentic poems of informed inspiration, plus excerpts from forthcoming books
I did not know
Until you walked away
That what carries you
Goes behind, a traitor
I did not introduce myself
I did not propose
An illicit meeting
Nor that you and I marry
I sat in the soft
Southern breeze later
And mourned my loss
Your perfect ass
I could pinch myself
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Don’t look, she says
Look please, her clothes say
I’ll look, maybe stare anyway
Just to make sure it’s okay
If it’s a yes, or no today –
I am that considerate I say
https://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM/
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the splintering thrust and creak, broken
from the same streak of would or could
strains belief in this invisibility, where
to be legitimate is found wanting, an absence
of ability to succumb or achieve surcease
something beyond either thought or speech
almost anxiety stretched close
over the skeleton of hope and peace, but
there’s no mercy in mortal injury sustained
repeatedly minus the instrument
broken open against the grain, its own
ammunition the savior
from the Frankenstein labors of a foreign brain
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Retrieve my spirit
Cleanse my soul
Of what is lost
To my control
Take from me
What I don’t know
Show me gently
Here’s the road
Return to me
My shining mind
Wash from me
The stain of time
Lead me to that delight
Which holds no prisoners
Once again
At end of night
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Apparently, God sits outside, next
to the patio table; broad-stroking flies
with his demonic paddle, verbal
admonitions and goodwill aside: whack!
‘good night’ whack! ‘next’ as more flies
arrive, curious about
those who’ve been sacrificed, believing
themselves safe or deserving as the procession
arrives, soon to be annihilated
democratically
Whack! whack! whack! Howdy, Pilgrims –
as meanwhile through the senescent crush
bodies squashed
and maimed, thanks to Hollywood and Main
hope pervades
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It’s not us, it’s them. It’s not them, it’s us.
You speak inviting oblivion to enter in,
casually offering nothing worth defending.
You make the mess you pretend as if
living will be enough, or is. Was then.
You hear and feel the wind.
Birds, laughing dogs, calculating cats
as you cherish children to be no different.
I hear I know not what until I listen, and
we talk. Until I sit quiet in that spot
I have always inhabited when small,
before I did, and afterwards.
You ignore me only to perfect excuses,
to refuse your knowledge: to study
scholarship, pursue war and cash rewards.
When you come to it, remembering
nothing again, those of us present offer welcome
as though nothing in the between occurred.
2.99 US, 2.21 GBP, 2.69 EURO, $3.99 Canadian The Mythologies Of Love ebook©All Rights Reserved
deanbakerpoetryandsongs.com
If the person who owns my fingerprints
Told me last week what he had
In store for me the past few days, I would
Most certainly have done something about it
Threatened him with a comb, or failing to buy
Enough cigarettes; maybe even an ultimatum
Saying I have had enough, I repent:
I promise I’ll do whatever can be changed
Now they have me locked up in a corner
Where I scribble notes and poems; bent
Over the desk, drinking endless cups
Of coffee: not wondering what all before this meant
As I make my escape one sunny day, the
Earth frozen this way; the snow trackless
It’s so cold, my breath escapes, giving me
Away: I’m still here, I must confess again
2.99 US, 2.21 GBP, 2.69 EURO, $3.99 Canadian The Mythologies Of Love ebookhttps://deanbakerpoetryandsongs.com/2021/01/13/feature-book-of-the-week/
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“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.’”
