Poetry

Senora

/ Dusty Lynn Baker / Leave a comment 
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

/ Dusty Lynn Baker / Leave a comment 
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?

/ Dusty Lynn Baker / Leave a comment 
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?

A Song Unfurled

/ Dusty Lynn Baker / Leave a comment 
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

/ Dusty Lynn Baker / Leave a comment 
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.

Warrior’s Soul

/ Dusty Lynn Baker / Leave a comment 
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

/ Dusty Lynn Baker / Leave a comment 
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.

Tattered Thought

/ Dusty Lynn Baker / Leave a comment 
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.