Do you want to borrow my turkey baker?
I have my own I said to the pushy Quaker
You do? That’s news, are you sure? asked my guest
She kept on pushing until I finally agreed to a test.
Let’s exchange turkey basters, I said at last.
I am talking about a turkey baker, she said fast.
She sent him over and he baked our entire meal.
Not popping him in the oven was a part of the deal.
The moon decided to learn
how to bake,
And stirred up a giant and
starry- filled cake!
He used the soft clouds for a
bowl of white dough,
And baked it all night with a
warm, glowing glow.
He added a scoop of the
deep ocean blue,
And decorated with shiny,
bright comets and dew.
When the sun woke up
bright, the moon took a
peek,
And fed all his crumbs to the
birds in the creek!
My name is Captain Thomas Blake
William’s company commander
I am very sorry for the loss of your son
at the hands of a sniper
I did not get to know him as he was assigned
to my company only a week ago
I have enclosed his personal effects:
1. a sepia toned picture of a young woman holding a
baby boy with Mom and Me in black marker scrawled on the back
2. an envelope with the name Susie written in feminine hand on
the front containing a love letter from her
3. a well gnawed penicil and tattered notebook-
your son was an excellent poet
4. one dog eared Gideon New Testament
5. the Scot Terrier token from Monopoly
wrapped in a zip lock bag
It is with deepest regret we can only return these enclosed
items and not your living son.
With humble regards
Capt. Thomas Blake
Co. A
1st Battalion
504th Inf. Reg
82nd Airborne Div.
the turkey was exquisitely browned to perfection
we saw her take it out of an oven marked convection
what is your secret? we asked the baker of the year
I can’t pinpoint it, she said, this grandmother dear
another old lady was irritated with grandma’s win.
She urged me over so the gossiping could begin.
It’s not even cooked, it is raw inside, she reported.
She painted it with acrylics, she deserves to be deported.
There was a baker named Blake
he needed to bake a cake
within an hour
he had no flour
he knew he'd made a mistake!
I've never been much of a baker
But I know how dough rises
Slow beneath the cloth
Flirting with the heat
Warmth living in a quiet bowl
Starting out raw
I know you have to twist the life out of it
Before you let it sit
The weight of my palms
Meeting the resistance of the grain
Sometimes it ends up a masterpiece
Sometimes just a wrangled mess
I know how the kitchen air grows thick
With a slight sweetness
that shakes awake the senses
I know the crackling of the cool bread
and how it soothes a room
I know how it can make a house feel like home
and just sometimes
you have to trust the process
The echoes in cartoons,
The sermons in static,
How every chorus begs us
To wake, or vanish.
Maybe God is a director.
I don’t know.
But the script is too perfect,
And the extras too hollow,
Like the background forgot
How to breathe on its own.
There goes the Baker.
Popping pills in his blue buggy
with one red ball and another blue dangling from the rear view.
When Holmes ejaculated,
'It doesn't take a brilliant detective
to identify many of the people
on this planet are damaged or defective,'
Dr. Watson was heard to observe,
'Never a truer word spoken.
Most we meet, at 221B Baker street,
are utterly, if not completely, broken.
Psychologists reason, 'Conditioning's the cause
for them to follow such absurd routines,'
but it's my considered and confirmed belief,
insanity really and truly runs in the genes.'
'pon reflection, in the blink of an eye,
quoth Sherlock in reply,
'All the King's horses and all the King's men,
couldn't put Humpty together again,
and the same goes for those we know.
But if I'm wrong on that, I'll eat your bowler hat,
or my deerstalker chapeau.'
I baked a whole tray—
not for me.
I’ve never liked brownies,
too sweet on tongue,
too soft for teeth…
But you once said
you'd like to try mine.
They cracked as they left the oven.
I bit, too soon—
blistered my tongue
on sugar too young to settle.
If only you were here to taste it…
you’d know what I meant.
They’re best straight from the pan—
burning, messy,
sweet enough to sting.
But the moment passed,
and now they’ve gone rigid—
I sit with the tray
untouched but for one corner.
My eyes drift out to the setting sun—
The warmth dies...
The surface hardens...
for the baked and the baker.
He was born in Groesbeck, Texas and his name was Joe Don Baker.
Sadly, after living for nearly nine decades, he needed an undertaker.
He attended North Texas State College on a sports scholarship.
He starred in "The Living Daylights", "Cape Fear" and "Joysticks".
When I say that he was a very talented man, it's not a joke.
He died of lung cancer which proves that people shouldn't smoke.
After living for eighty-nine years, he perished and it's a shame.
Joe Don Baker was a skilled actor who was destined for fame.
[Dedicated to Joe Don Baker (1936-2025) who died on May 7, 2025]
The pi that’s of math has its day,
But that of the baker, no way.
Though both are quite round,
Less merit is found,
In pies that in stomachs do lay.
Where are the Bakers of Poetry Soup?
I miss their energy and the queen’s haikus
I hope all is well let me visit their page
For no response from soup mail I made
Bill and Sara are you ok?
My dear Souper Sara Etgen-Baker
tastes bittersweet moments.
Sweet, because she's riding
on a beautiful horse
to be a number one.
Bitter, because she doesn't
have the same time
to spend in the PoetrySoup
with her brothers and sisters.
We've already missed you
my Texan friend,
you must know.
Let me give you my advice
my dear friend:
Ride well on this race
that life offers you,
don't miss what you always can have.
Be brave, because your horse
is the best.
You can only expect
to reach the goal of your dreams,
the summit of that high mountain
you've been trying
to climb so hard for years.
I just want to wish you
the best of luck
to achieve what you deserve.
in my observance,
big Sara Etgen-Baker
nice keen poetess
The Bakers Boys had a bakery for as long as I knew.
We would get fudge, cookies, cakes, and pies from them too.
My grandma bought sourdough and rye.
My mom would buy cookies from no other guy.
Why do you call them boys? I asked my mother.
She had no answer, but I heard snickering from my brother.
You forget she is old too, said my sister, better watch yourself.
Every kind of dessert was laid up on this bakery shelf.
The Baker Boys were in their nineties now.
They added flavored milk which they made from a cow.
Why do they call them boys? Asked my tiny granddaughter.
Not sure I replied. But their bread is fresh if not hotter.
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