Sister, my sister,
you left us today.
With eagle to guide you,
anchor to ground you,
and Gaia at your feet.
Sister, my sister,
you sailed off today,
as we bade you
fair winds
and following seas.
Sister, my sister,
we grieved you today.
Though we never met in this life,
We will forever be family.
Always faithful to you,
our Corps,
and our country.
*Written on the passing of a Woman Marine I had never met, but stopped to fare her well.
creative writing
Senora
Scarce is life in her parched breath,
dry in a desert left bare
of her own mother's love.
Clinging to drops of moisture,
until Mother Monsoon brings
tears of summer.
Matriarchy bestows fresh those
living day-to-day, hour-to-hour,
green and bright and anew.
Our lady of resounding diversity,
bosom to burrowed creatures
hibernating in colorful sands.
Sonora, her winds
life-giving,
life-taking,
of beauty and barren scape.
My homeland.
My mother.
Written July 9, 2025, while working the first page of a new sketch notebook.
Awaiting the Majestic
Mortals lined up as time climbs slowly,
reconciling lives past and future,
awaiting the majestic.
Science against the wills of gods
as the Moon traverses its
dangerous route to totality.
Unfettered by the Sun's anger,
Moon hiding its glory, Sun determined
to burn away the dark.
In a moment -- the sacred cycle arrives,
gnawed by squirrel, bitten by bear,
as the Sun clumsily drops its torch.
Flaming arrows attempt to restart its fire,
flung into the darkness of midday,
rekindling the Sun's power o'er Earth.
Our ancestors--they knew this time,
a moment feared, a moment awed,
souls mystified
at the glory of our Milky Way.
*Written immediately before and after the total eclipse as viewed from my home in Southern Indiana, April 8, 2024. (Totality at 1509 hours EST.)
What is a day?
What is a day?
When does tomorrow begin,
by clock, by hour,
by sunlight at rise,
by song of bird,
or crow of rooster?
And what of storms that cloud the skies,
does day not come without the sun?
What of a week, a year, a lifetime?
Scant second on earth we spend,
even for those at one-hundred.
Will the sun set on the day I die?
Will the ocean waves drive the sand,
a flower grow, a tree rise new,
or will it end with my reality?
What is a day,
but the passing of a life?
The Bench
The bench spoke to me as I passed it by. I turned, looked on its emptiness and joined it for a moment. The air swirled with the sounds of our world, birds chirping, breeze cool on skin and eyes, sun warm and inviting. Myself silent, my world on hold as I breathed in the great oak's gift of strength, solitude, and the delicate sigh of our mother earth. * Written in the front courtyard at the Robley Rex VA Medical Center on June 28th, 2022, after I'd just left an appointment.
Words With Artists
My long awaited podcast, Words With Artists, just published today with a double launch of artists Judy Quinlin and Rosanne Quatroke! You can even watch the interview with Judy on my YouTube channel @dustylynnbaker
Join me in entertaining the ghosts of our pasts, sipping tea, and sharing words with artists!
- Words With Artists Podcast
- Dusty’s YouTube channel @dustylynnbaker
- Dusty’s Artist Website
- Dusty on Facebook
- Dusty on Instagram @permieloveLink to Discussion Locations
- Rosanne’s Art Gives Back on Facebook
A Song Unfurled
Poetry is the song of the spoken word
gliding gleefully, playfully
sliding smooth as the devil's tongue.
The true sound is not of a novel told
in long form, in paragraph,
broken to imitate a mold.
It speaks, it cries, it screams
to be read, a melody as
interpretation unfolds.
The flowery tale it need not contain
but the rhyme must remain
if only as a song unfurled.
* My attempt at a quaint and simple ode to John Keats, Ode on a Grecian Urn. A favorite poem of mine since high school. I wrote a paper on it in undergrad and found it again in graduate school. It likes to visit my mind when changes come to my life.
Read it here: Poetry Foundation, Ode on a Grecian Urn by John Keats
Ode To the Beasts of Maxwell Hall
Hearth is the heart,
warmth,
fire,
raging and tranquil.
Gathering us together,
we warm ourselves by its flame.
Suckling bosom of knowledge,
a hall of words,
books and catalog cards.
Legal debates pulling reason in opposite directions,
but never too far from the center
of cold limestone turned warm
by wood of surrounding land.
The dragon leads the menagerie,
two heads with sight of towers
where grotesques and serpents
keep watchful eye
on all who enter.
Serpents taking flight at night,
playing in darkness
as they slither from transom to transom,
never touching the floors of men.
Grotesques howling and flapping their wings
as though in discussion,
as though in defense of the shield they bear
for love of building,
and craft,
and university.
Yet the dragon is the seer,
the knower,
the one with thought and knowledge
too powerful to expose.
Does he envy the others’ views of the hills?
Or does he find solace in hearing the whispers,
the secrets,
the plans of women who now grace
his throne with beauty?
Art now conquers the cold limestone,
while humanities compete with the science of masons.
But with transcendent words
our beloved beast changes,
studies,
creates.
Words devoured by the dragon,
it feeds on new dreams,
new hearts,
new love for its majestic survival.
As I leave this place,
these grounds,
this building.
I whisper to the protectors
my gratitude,
my respect.
I tell them of my jealous heart
that cannot grasp the treasures
only they consume.
11 September: A remembrance poem
I wrote this poem on the anniversary of 9/11 while working our local farmers market. A time to reflect the attacks that day, and a time to think about my fellow brothers & sisters in military service who lost their lives over the last twenty years while serving on foreign land.
11 September
twenty years have come and passed,
fades of existence,
ghosts reminisced.
souls lost and never forgotten
as our hearts and minds
break with the wind.
twenty years of conflict ended
with lines of flags
and tombstones
and medals.
more of our finest killed in war
than on that day,
thousands on our soil,
thousands on theirs.
that day,
those hours,
three fields,
death and destruction.
charred planes,
fallen buildings,
only memories to be found
in the dust of the attack.
as family,
we mourn.
as a nation,
we mourn.
as human,
we cry.
Indiana University Exhibit
The opening date is set! The exhibit will be at the Gayle Karch Cook Center for Public Arts and Humanities, Indiana University, Bloomington, Maxwell Hall, beginning September 22nd, and will feature a variety of artists and media formats. I'll be exhibiting one of my historical fiction poems written at Beck's Grist Mill, an Indiana landmark in Washington County, and listed on the National Register of Historic Places. Some of my photography will also be displayed. More info as it arrives, but add this stop to your calendar! The exhibit will only run for one month!
Dusty Lynn Baker 
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