Sharbot Lake


 

 

 

 

 

Cancer and its casual curse
Remains unspoken, for better
Or worse the winter morning we sweep
Around the curve of Highway 37

Out of the woods and covered trees
The cracking ice, the brittle breeze
Parked deep from the White Lake
Hatchery, the fish frozen cameos

Up the hill to the native restaurant
We’ll take bacon and eggs and toast
To satisfy our search for tomorrow
Our Ulyssean voyage for more

Across the drive to The Rising Bun
Bread baked, muffins tossed, all awake
On tombstone highways
Into the town of the Lake, at the top

Of the dawning Cortez hill, the dream
Of trees and blue, the quilt of scenes
From another life we borrow now
As it fills the cup of steam arising from the cold

©Dean J. Baker

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Blood Upon The Moon


 

 

 

 

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.

©Dean J. Baker

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Hail, Hail, The Queen Of Poetry


in our Empire burlesque

Where you celebrate the magnificence of poetry, meaning
the false Queen’s lyrics relating a Red Rooster
to having been fucked silly, I witness a corporate
Frankenstein perverting Prometheus to ignoranuses
forgetful of Howling Wolf, and Muddy Waters,
crazed with conceit and giggly with a resentful pride
reflecting stolen glory. No Empress of Ice Cream, no
Sylvia calling out ‘Ich, Ich, Ich,’ not even Eliot bowing
to Ezra Pound for the beneficent editing job;
the smudged face nursling plopped in a wilderness
of greed and the uninformed commercial sheep, willfully
suicidal with their studied yet hollow necessity
eliciting a moronic need to be approved by goons

Those who don’t know science, but relate to stories,
ghosts of truth relegated to empty rooms; unoccupied
by anything except the fantasies of the doomed,
abandoned by what they have left for the destroyers
as if those would come from anywhere else
except leaders who, once little Hitlers, now cry their tales
ticking time off, while fools smile and others
unfamiliar with either history or truth prepare another lie,
told so often it has become one more version
of a new and hollow, fund filled glorious truth:
served up as entertainment for idle minds abused,
driven to flail about by those who won’t accept the inaudible

 

©Dean J. Baker

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Chronologically


 

 

 

 

 

 

Of course there’s no such thing, speaking
chronologically. There’s interruption, the stopped
clock phenomenon where you see differently
than what is actually going on: saccading to
history, for instance.
This would explain all those
instances sweet and good where in a rage they
call for annihilation in order to self-sustain the mechanism
of what only you are allowed to know as true.

The idiocy of fascism, the great crowd determining the realistic.
The martyrs and the saints. But then religion itself
does not claim to envision anything like time foregone.

The event is happening now. Much the same way my cat sits
on my desk studying forever by lamplight, for the
enlightenment: so much for fun and entertainment.

Thus determineth the sacred and the vows. Meow, says
Buddha. Ow, says Christ. Hello, I say to you in celebration
of speech therapy also known as poetry in these ancient days.

©Dean J. Baker

  • from a forthcoming book, THE POETRY HOTEL
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Seasoning


 

 

 

 

 

You have a right to your opinion like
a fat woman has a right to another piece of pie.
Same caloric output, same intake of the
indigestible sweets, chemicals and lies. Different
results unaccountably yet received the same.

You wonder why nations fail, and falter as
the search goes on for who’s to blame. You
express yourself with moods and chatter:
my cat tick-tacks at a prey disappearing.
Four and twenty blackbirds and none of them can rhyme.

©Dean J. Baker

  • from a forthcoming book, THE POETRY HOTEL
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<–latest poetry

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