from a forthcoming book… ‘Easter Islands’


 

 

 

 

 

 

Look, these places are disappearing. What exists
remains despite everything else. We’ve invited
everyone who observe no rules they recognize.
In backwards familiarity government and their corporate
buddies decide everything then demand we exercise
our vanished rights as citizens. And the worst
amongst us take advantage enacting racist ploys
in how they annoy like tattletale children. You
did it so now we are doing so without any care
or caution about how this destroys the present. Old
ideologies and gods rule over greed and stupidity.
This, our civilization, stays immature in its denials.

Only in the small places have the best ever thrived.
False ideas of democracy, fairness and corrupt concepts
threaten an identity already awaiting renewal. Wherever
we went and go we march in as conquerors under a flag
that challenges: we enforce the selves on which no
attention survives at home. Absent real truths put into practice,
the world and disenfranchised shout hypocrites, lies.
There has been no good direct towards the true prize,
the treasure tarnished, the costumes a disguise for the
camouflage of deceit: still we persist in passive defeat,
drifting into a war being born in the realization
the enshrinement of old ideals holds us hostage to bankrupt pleas.

©Dean Baker

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from a forthcoming book… ‘Killer Addicts’


 

 

 

 

 

 

I witness your concern over opioids, those
synthetic gods of bliss and the absence
of suicidal pain; where you announce you’re
at war again, and of course it’s winnable,
saying not a word against idiot doctors,
prescribing too little or too much, and the lords
of the rapacious drug companies

In the same way you misdirect, thus confuse
reality for your construct, empathy
towards nicotine levels in tobacco which
you’re not against since you want to allow
the businesses to put in lower levels
so they can boost the price on those products
with more saint nicotine, increasing taxes

Your revenue as usual favoring the few,
eluding the many with confabulistic bullshit
disguising truth with the fog of studies, debate
and statistics manipulated; yet hell, an ordinary
dog is smarter and more honest in its life,
not to mention wise since it won’t lie to itself
about the foreign turd in the home-made stew

You regenerates brew who have every modern
miracle at hand that you’ll never originate,
or can begin to plan; what you do is create piles
of detritus to maintain the industry of managers,
as long as others might be fed:
in the unidentified sacrifice by which I recognize
the real and true killer addicts of unmentioned economies

©Dean Baker

  • from a forthcoming book

• my books – http://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM- enjoy

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from a forthcoming book… ‘Academician Lomonsov’


for Litvinenko, Politkovskaya, Nemtsov

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

did not foresee a floating, disembodied
choke of technology
supplying 200,000, only refueling every
3 years while serviced every 12
and replaced in a mere two generations

and all for lease as population explodes
murdering the earth and sea, as climate change
becomes the new mythology letting loose
the Frankenstein Mallivirus siberium; witnessed
under microscopes in its gigantium brave

where all still rant and rave, rave and rant
disappointed none will cave to bless
them with superiority as vacation, or small
change from their vaunted inferiority

it’s the Arctic, our new warzone, floating
top of the world, Ma
there nuclear power plants like planets ghost
the civilization done drifting apart
foul ice breaks assuming a control that is not

waiting for a spill, in this
Third World War platform bringing all
together in Asiatic Russian and North American
chill, searching out the longevity of
Bacillus F*
that fountain rumored and hinted at
by those explorers and the liars knowing better

looking elsewhere again, Cortez
that Keats* knew and Beatles sang, with
neither eliciting
amid the fumes and flames and fright

there Academician Lomonsov does not
bother with Baryshnikov, nor the unexpected majesty of
Nureyev a-lift above the stage in

Sleeping Beauty to meet Karen Kain across ages
not meant merely for feet nor an unripe Tchaikovsky
while we anticipate ourselves in everything now
drifting into the business of war we have not left:
one more infection suspending the planet again

 

©Dean Baker

-excerpt from a forthcoming book – click the links below for more information

* Academician Lomonsov – floating for-rent nuclear power station

* Litvinenko

*Politkovskaya

*Nemtsov

*Anatoli Bruchkov

*Keats’ On First Looking Into Chapman’s Homer

• my books – http://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM-

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from The Lost Canadian, Vol.1, Early Poems Selected… ‘Song For Jenny’


 

 

 

 

 

 

Mad-
ness hums in my ear,
like a fly
that’s caught there.

I can’t touch you.
This is
the new ballet.
I can’t touch you.

Stay away,
I am deaf with silences.
Splintered and shining,
I go down like a stone.

©Dean Baker

-excerpt from The Lost Canadian, Vol.1, Early Poems Selected 112 pages, $13.99….first published in Northern Light.. photo is of Guelph, Ontario railway station

• my books – http://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM- buy one, do yourself a service 🙂

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from The Mythologies Of Love… ‘Unearthly View’


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

  • excerpt from  The Mythologies Of Love,  90 pages, $12.99 “This author’s mastery in posing challenging questions by default is a rare skill. A superb set of poems I would recommend to any potential reader of modern poetry seeking out the works of a poet, who has no fear; who never pulls a punch or flinches from one circumstance has thrown his way. He simply commits the event to words. Those in or out of ‘love’ will find much to identify with here.” 
  • my books http://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM
  • https://www.facebook.com/DeanJBaker

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from Dark Earth… ‘Sharbot Lake, Ontario’


 

 

 

 


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 Baker

• my books – http://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM-

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from The Mythologies Of Love… ‘Banditry’


 

 

 

 

 

 

I offer you my hand: you swing
the axe faster than the eye can see

I tell you my love: you wish
me well with these labors in hell

I proffer gifts wise men do not bring:
you refuse permission of such bribes

I kneel down beside you: without enmity,
or attack, you pat me on the back

I accede to your lack of humanity:
you feel my politics are not Third World

I wonder where you find yourself: we
sing and stare, the bare moon our ornament

I know you are there as well: hiding
behind the True, the Good, the Beautiful

©Dean Baker

-excerpt from The Mythologies Of Love, 90 pages, $12.99, on sale tday at $10.99

• my books – http://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM-

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from Silence Louder Than A Train… ‘Too Pure And Free’


 

 

 

 

 

 

You are too pure and free,
I can tell by the debris
of relationships
that lock you into such a storybook
fantasy
where everything else is a
final shade of pale grey:
nothing
decided as you endlessly change

Partners, and retreat into the vagaries
of impossible superiority
and fame; life,
your decree, shows no sign
of meaning
Nor a season in this hell of fear,
from which
you do not know: that here,
the angels’ work is treason

©Dean Baker

-excerpt from Silence Louder Than A Train, 102 pages, $13.99

• my books – http://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM- buy one, do yourself a service .. ”  for poignant and thought provoking insight and new ideas, one would be hard pressed to do better than Dean J. Baker’s ‘Silence Louder Than A Train.’ Highly recommended..”

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from In Riparian Fields… ‘Continuum’


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In this life of outlaw behavior, the worst of rules
designed to endlessly provoke ancient debate
over them or him, or you

the true criminals have declared magic broken,
and only one resolve
of intimate concern to be applied, which will
prolong the question

of what’s happening now so that our attention
escapes us even as it is proudly
announcing everything is under control as things
break apart and fold like cards or laundry

In those events we don’t choose to examine
as though what happens is only
the measure of the steps it takes before being known

since everywhere there are what appear to be accidents
crumbling hills, the sudden earthen holes
amid backyards and homes
where we admit oh well I knew that was wrong
to ourselves believing it gets better then

with the undue influence of deceit
we always fail in our grace towards the world
even while it invades every inch of unused space

©Dean Baker

-excerpt from In Riparian Fields, 162 pages, $16.99 [poem revised from previously published version]

• my books – http://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM- buy one, do yourself a service 🙂

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from a forthcoming book… ‘Green Fields’


 

 

 

 

 

 

The outside world pours in regardless
of what my thoughts might be; for the beginning
day, or brought by stages
from the dreamscapes of the night before

while the little girls
sleep, nap time a reach beyond high noon

It’s no accident I think that the dandelions
rise through the lawn, to thrust
their white mandalas
against the horizon between earth and sky:
plucked by unreasoning squeals of delight

And childish glee, pinched by tiny fingers more used
to exploring nasal caves; or the sweet
mud of dirt and green, as they investigate each

Second without hint of time and decay, every moment
a new discovery: while I watch the trees bleed
sap, the leaves a canopy of shelter
against what the world always plans mistakenly

©Dean Baker

• my books – http://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM- buy one, do yourself a service 🙂

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