Where No Kings Reign

I cannot sleep or eat, like
One of Shakespeare’s fools;

Who wants to, when
Your one and only’s gone

I don’t question time, or decay
While sitting out the night;

In your room or mine: two lovers
Traveling towards the light

©Dean Baker

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from… Fat Albert’s Outpatient Folk Clinic – Babette’s Dance

High water, the sweet grass smoking on the bridge across the traffic, above the Don Mills’ canyon; the thin,
ascetic face pinched beyond the distances that exist no longer.

‘That spinny chick,’ one whispers, angry that Babette took an escape route open only to the solitary few, history now.
Never any escape but a stop-gap, a hole in the ice, broken window on a frozen universe.

Babette rises up to catch the current swept in hidden geographies, the perspective shattered from every boundary; nostrils held
closed against the onset of germ warfare breaking out: no more captive than the breeze upon which she trembles momentarily.

The messages sent and dispensed, in the precious envelope of flesh.

Another success and the glory of triumph, amidst all the silent on-lookers.

What I miss most is not the quiet stillness, nor the crowd of lonely moments,
but the sweetest smile that kept a secret aching to be born.

©Dean Baker

A coffeehouse, café as society…“Acid wit, deep insight, humor, powerful metaphor, intelligence…. A smooth ride on a bumpy road, with side trips into unseen hollows of the human experience…. What else do you need to know?” Get it.

An excellent read, worth sharing far and wide… More, please….”

Prose poems that are a paean to Musicians, Writers, Artists, & Wingnuts: to folksingers, the troubled and disturbed, open mic nights everywhere.

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You can be murdered anywhere, but
you’ll always die in Congress or in Parliament.

From a lack of care or indifference
to what’s said and done by everyone expecting
salvation be a ladder to Paradise, until
the stairs to another life declining repair
prove they lead nowhere but upside down.

Change will come eventually you think,
forgetting the war ongoing in everything
where slaughter is observed religiously,
statistics carved in counterfeit
register complaint surreptitiously proud.

To serve the perverted ego’s lazy appetite
for the curve of constancy, no matter what
it takes to frame familiar certainty:
mistaken for the truth still boasting loudly
for release from the cage of incessant proof.

In our recalcitrant lives something despairs,
training us for extinction as the prize.

©Dean Baker

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paperback: – Petty Gods Of Apparent Decline 122 pages

*all the books have been re-done – *****posts are meant for inspiration to own***** books: Dean Baker’s books on Amazon