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.
Poetry
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.
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
Sensual Kitchen
Squirming among the grains of paradise,
lost in the mystical feeling
of a soft blanch, just enough to
feel the pulpy softness of breast.
Sautéing the flesh in the rarest
of saffron, colored in red
and the gold of turmeric,
rich in thoughts and desires.
A spiritual sensation,
a sensual kitchen,
where heat of anise on fire,
flambeed with grains of alcohol,
burning within,
bursting out
of the depths of her soul.
The Heart of Home
Fire warms the stove,
warms the kitchen,
warms the home.
Elements of the past
forever necessary in our
present, your future.
The heart of home,
of sustenance,
of time.
Warrior’s Soul
Waking to a dog barking,
mother calling her name,
sounds of air whizzing by.
Lost in a world of conflict,
father gone to his grave,
younger brother hiding in the crawlspace.
A pang pulls at her stomach,
dry lips reach for the sky,
tears as her mother looks her way.
Safety is nothing to a girl
who is already starving,
already ill from the war filled waters.
One day she'll leave her home,
as she stands holding her father's rifle,
a warrior's soul forced upon her.
~ Written in memory of my Red Cross service in Kosovo, 1999-2000
Daughters of Time
Stones gathered on chiseled limestone
counting souls who have gone before me.
Coins on headstones, flags on tall poles,
but not so tall as the mighty sycamores.
The cool brisk air broken by a warm
cup of tea to sip from.
Pouch of lavender takes me back in time
to wood floors, dirt floors, glass bottle windows.
I look out on the valley, low water
as the land suffers from drought.
Crying to Mother Earth to bring the rains,
to color the leaves of autumn.
Sisters gathered in purpose of words,
infinite love with cosmic relations
as we, the daughters of time
bring forth the future of the stars.
Written while sitting on the Blacksmith Cabin's porch swing during an Indiana University, Center for Rural Engagement, session for girls and women of all ages with author and professor Catherine Bowman.
Dusty Lynn Baker 
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