Original pastel on watercolor painting, “Water’s Edge,” 9″x12″ on cold press acid-free watercolor paper. Email for availability.
Water’s Edge
art
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.
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.
Magnet Poetry
Quicksand
My feet are planted on quicksand, Never to stay too long I’m told, The changing tides, the roaming winds Blast me to my knees. I’ve never reached solid ground, Not known of a homestead my own, The grasping of my arms Jerks me back to a ledge. Pulling up, seeking dry land, I dream of a garden of light, My children there, their babies too, As my roots cling to the soil I’ve found. My dear mother, let me grow, Let me plant my tree right here, I need the nourishment found, I need my own spot on your earth.
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.
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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