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?
late night
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
Tattered Thought
Sinking lower in disguise,
Lost to simple navigation of life,
unhurried absence
from des soirées, grandes fêtes.
Excuses bound on escaping canary
Flying from clouds of doubt,
torn wing, tattered thought
away from billowing fantasies.
Mind's eye driven to ledge
As butterflies flitter inside,
I call them back,
away, come back,
The future I must decide.
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.
Late Night Poetry
Writing sometimes hits me at odd times. I’m a night owl, so that doesn’t help my getting to sleep, or help with slowing my mind once I’ve decided it’s time to sleep. A couple of nights ago, that happened just after I turned out the lights. A thought, an itch, and I had to turn the lights back on and write this poem that is now a song of deliverance for my soul.
Flower Rising
She fought the tears, drowned the pain under fires as the bridges crumbled. Freedom, she whispered. Outgrown a lost soul, held back, knocked down, dark truths of flesh hidden. Freedom, she cried. Chains of passion broken, mourning cruel love, infinity does have an end. Freedom, she implored. A first flower rising through snow as January marks the journey, loving her own creation. Freedom, she shouted. Sound rises above, as spirit is set free to fly, her voice without quiver. Freedom, she whispers.
Dusty Lynn Baker 