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Kenneth Baker Poem
Whatever may come of whatever may,
The breeze comes blowing in it own way,
Swirling round the sandy cove,
Gulls swirling twirling above shallow shoals.
My breezy breath is pulled from me
To feed the wind, to lift the leaves,
To pass once more my shell like ears,
Assault the eyes, bring forth my tears.
Bright sun, brash birds, the forever roar
Of weathering wind on surf worn shore,
Words here are swirled away
So there’s naught left at end of day
But visions that my eyes have seen,
A low slung flower kissed by a bee,
Orb of gold held in constant blue,
Sandy shore washed, forever renewed.
When I trudge with weary legs
Across the dunes and toward my bed
With every step I take away
I gain a word that I can say
To paint a picture with vowels and verbs
To tell a tale in the local pub
Of when I stood in sandy surf
And lost my self then found my worth.
Copyright © Kenneth Baker | Year Posted 2022
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Details |
Kenneth Baker Poem
The nods pass from one balding head
to another, round the polished
oak table until it stops
with the head fringed with hair of white.
The collective pauses
while the somber man,
with heavy head,
rearranges the piles of paper.
Eyes catch on the grain
of the glowing wood.
His tired neck pulls his head
to meet the gaze of those others.
He clears his throat
to speak…
Copyright © Kenneth Baker | Year Posted 2022
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Details |
Kenneth Baker Poem
The smoke stains on the windows
Attempt to obscure the crystal morning light
Of a chill autumn morning, a last leaf
Of fall glory, dangling,
Waiting for the next strong breeze
To carry it into snow covered oblivion.
The cabin creaks and pops
As the wood burning stove joins forces with the sun,
Chasing the breath revealing chill from the room
As my mug warms my hands and I
Blink the morning brightness tears from my eyes.
Hunched against the cold in the small, bare room
That’s located about halfway between
Nowhere and someplace nobody’s ever been to,
I, an anti-woodsman, find myself here again
As surely as the red-wing blackbird
Shouts his early morning lauds to the sun.
I returned to sleep deeply in the lonely darkness,
Surrounded by great-grandmother oaks,
Then woke to start the fire, brew my coffee,
And stare through the window,
The piano wire muscles of my back, shoulders, and neck
Melting with every crack-crackle and pop of the fire.
Copyright © Kenneth Baker | Year Posted 2022
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Details |
Kenneth Baker Poem
The realtor ushered us up the cracked sidewalk,
Paint peeling from the clapboards
Revealed a rainbow of colors in the cracks.
Like a geologist who looks at canyon walls
And sees the ebb and flow of oceans writ large,
We could chart the house’s history
In the dusty rose and drab olive paint layers.
We entered through the loose-handled
Squeaky-hinged door.
Age had faded the carpet and worn
The tread of the stair,
Desolation rattled the glass in the window
Then worked its cold autumn bite into the rooms.
We were invited into the kitchen, where
Surrounded by hot pads
Put together by young fingers,
Were freshly baked chocolate chip cookies
Carefully arranged on a simple white plate.
The well-polished white oven clicked
As it cooled.
A framed needlepoint announced,
“This is Mom’s kitchen, where hugs are free.”
This is the place we adopted,
This is home.
Copyright © Kenneth Baker | Year Posted 2022
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