Best Baxter Poems
Baxter was born in a meadow
under a rotting plank
with hundreds of brothers and sisters
in a home both darkly and dank.
His momma was a June Bug
and he was a June Bug too,
schooled in all the sorts of things
that June Bugs love to do.
He grew up fast, it was time to fly
and leave his happy home,
his momma went to the book case
and pulled out a well worn tome.
She read from a chapter called "Hazards"
to each of her children dear,
“Stay clear of birds when you’re flying
or you won't last out the year."
"And one more thing that you should know,
and this you must absorb,
beware of the light in the evening sky
that's called the purple orb."
So he left his home behind him,
went flying all around,
he saw some birds in the tree tops
and headed right for the ground.
After landing in the tall grass
he met a stink bug named Dwight
who told him wonderful stories
of an light so purple and bright.
"Forget now what your mother said,
I'm here to set you straight,
the orb is just a doorway,
you know, it's like a gate."
"When you enter into its brightness
you're magically swept away
to a lovely world of happiness
where forever you can stay."
So Baxter started searching,
he looked both high and low
and if he found the purple orb
straight to it he would go.
But the light was very clever,
it kept its secret well,
but Baxter kept on looking
as if he was under a spell.
Finally on an August eve
just as darkness was appearing
he spotted a distant purple glow
across a meadow's clearing.
"It must be the orb,” he said to himself,
so he flew with all his might
across the meadow with all due speed
toward that beautiful purple light.
Soon he hovered before it
and bathed in its eerie glow,
what wonders lay in store for him
his mind could scarcely know.
Gathering up his courage
into the purple light he sped,
crackle and zap was all he heard
as he fell to the ground near dead.
He lay in a growing pile
of other bugs who'd seen
a purple orb up in the sky,
but it wasn't what it seemed.
So if you meet a stink bug
who goes by the name is Dwight
don't believe the tales he tells
of a beautiful purple light.
Remember what Baxter's momma said,
"and this you must absorb,
beware of the light in the evening sky
that's called the purple orb."
This is a Limerick about Baxter the Bunny,
an animal comic that Spike thinks is funny
I've seen him before
at the Comedy store,
I wonder if he makes good money
Words of Warner is the title of my second book, coming soon
Author, songwriter, musician, producer, philosopher, poet
Recognized as a poet of merit International Society of Poets
Nominated as poet of the year 2007 by The Society of Poets
Editors choice award, Howard Ely managing editor poetry.com
Romance rhyme rant ribaldry rhythmic lyrics patriotic and more
Collection of titles
Bazooka Joe is Gum, Belated, Be Kind, Big Brown Eyes
American Time, Arizona spring, ABC's of Pie, Amazing
X rated: Hedgehog, Miss Honey Lynn, **** star Prayer
Tumultuous Traveler, Tom’s a Peeper, Time, Tomorrow
Easter Acrostic, Every day is Father's day, Easter Cross
Rock ‘n Roll Dream, Renegade Man, Rising from the East
and so much more
dewdrops are sparkling over cactus thorn
like icy diamonds this misty morn
cold desert wind through the Mesquite trees
the sweet smell of sage lingers in the breeze
as the sun climbs past invisible clouds
the burning sky melts the misty wet shroud
mercury is high but the air is dry
somewhere under the tangerine sky
Anti-Poem — “Baxter Street Monday”
me trudging walking
gripping onward forward
traipsing baxter street monday
and its steep inclines
going up like a dizzy sparrow
passing vertical merry go rounds
the sly moulin rouge turnabouts
that sip spit with maraschino endives
scanning thighs ripe with hard-ons
the stoner pink boys
lost in rainbow cul-de-sacs
lost amidst the traffic tirades
the propelling grind of accelerators
up up and onward everlasting
floating hovering over shy ascensions
in ravenous echo park
me scratching grinding like steel death
holding tight the skin wheel
trudging baxter street monday
the morning reality suspensions
the daily cyclotron of kidney exertions
of ascending footsteps moving skinward
now racing down baxter street monday
descending and plummeting
passing vertical merry go rounds
the sly moulin rouge turnabouts
i see my sista rosa gonzalez
she be screaming down with wet wings
sending love bouquets to my los angeles
When I left he was in his lounging chair
TV way too loud
The glow of discontent on his face
Made me want to cry
The only peace now in his life
Never left his side
He sat there scratching Baxter
Life just passed him by
In his day he was the man every man wanted to be
He had the looks, he had the job
The wife, the kids, all three
Then came the day he lost it all
His family went away
Left behind his loyal cat
Baxter was his name
Through all times, most were bad
His cat stayed by his side
A comfort to his troubled soul
In life it was all he had
It has been said
Man’s best friend
Has always been a dog
But in this case it was a cat
Whose love surpassed them all
I went to visit my friend today
To see how he was doing
Knocked on the door several times
The TV was still blaring
Turned the knob and opened the door
I thought that he was sleep
But somewhere between the days he died
In peace now he is sleeping
In his lap still sat the cat
Who had been his one companion
He knew his master had left this earth
His eyes revealed his sadness
I could not help but start to cry
When I thought of how it ended
Sitting at home with the TV on
All alone while scratching Baxter
That dog bares his teeth
but don’t you know, he’s nose to nose
with a very long kid
who grew up with him
I try to rub his fur
as he runs along, never looking back
meanwhile he
plays kissy-kiss with the linebacker
I grab him bold
a paw stumbles over each hand
his teeth in a fitful state
scores my forearm and hand
Still if I have a chip,
he hears the crunch, knows I might toss
it on the floor
because he goes all in if I finger-feed
I picked up the Sports page,
not to hit, I’d never…
but to put between me and him
does the trick
The kid’s not the alpha…
neither am I, but someone better be.
My sis snatches him up,
“Good Dog, Baxter.”
Who are you kidding…bad dog…bad dog
but he’s a nice bit of fur,
looks like an ewok —
he’s working it for a chip…
1/10/2022
*Name of the dog’s changed to protect the innocent
or is it the guilty…lol
If Long-Practicing Baxter
Were truly a Kung–Fu Master,
Wouldn’t his kicks be faster,
His praises sung by some raster,
His rivals split like a castor,
Restoration Prayers of a pastor?
If Baxter is Shaolin Master,
Why wear the hugest, ugliest plaster,
Around walk with an unsightly wound,
More troubles face from foes ruined;
A headache like plants not pruned
And to clearly longer rests attuned?
Let me, some day, through a newscaster
Learn that China judges Baxter, Shaolin master.