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.
Poetry
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.
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!
The Flames of Our Future
We went to the river nearly every full moon,
kids out and lost together,
hot summer nights in West Texas.
Bonfires glowed along the river's edge in Socorro
as we looked to Isleta and Fabens,
our views through pecans and bends
grinding our thoughts along the border.
I rode Calamity Jane there,
wind or rain,
sand or tumbleweeds,
or heavy monsoons,
(which I secretly loved while frightening my mother
as I arrived home, soaked amid lightening strikes
so strong the hawks I loved
hid under the corral's metal roof.)
Friendship was priceless,
it was all we could afford.
Free dips in the water's edge,
gathered sage to scent mesquite from the hillsides,
stones petrified from the dry desert air
circling the flames of our future.
This partially autobiographical poem was written during a writing workshop at the Lazy Black Bear Farm (Paoli, Indiana), led by Catherine Bowman from Indiana University's Center for Rural Engagement. Guiding us through images from our childhoods and the elements, we used our personal words to create. My images were my horse, Calamity Jane, and my walking down the dirt road I lived on off Montana Ave. in El Paso through dust storms. (The first home I lived in while attending Socorro High School.) My elements were the Rio Grande River (water), a hawk (air), petrified wood (earth), and memories of bonfires in the dry washes (fire.)
Grandma’s Hickory Chair
The breeze takes my breath
as I rock myself in grandma’s hickory chair.
Sweet smell of black-eyed Susans,
birds flit along powerlines on the county road.
Corn and sunflowers fill farmers fields,
surprise lilies blooming in a ditch.
Children fuss taking off school clothes,
barefoot in puddles after a steady rain.
Soon harvest will end as the first winter frost halts the growing season.
Soon the fields will be bedding down under a warm coat of leaves,
as I pull out the tattered quilt I made
back when my hands were still able.
The snow will come to prepare for spring’s growth,
when my grandchildren will rock
in their grandma’s hickory chair.
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 