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
Poetry
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.
Magnet Poetry
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.
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.
Dusty Lynn Baker 
You must be logged in to post a comment.