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Best Poems Written by Dean Walker

Below are the all-time best Dean Walker poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Ode To a Woodpecker

The ladder backed pecker,
like a prison uniform.
Caught-up in exposing
the truth beneath the bark,

of the poet's apple tree.
We prefer ourself in spring;
with tiny little flowers,
and the fruit of possibility.

Yet, if not for the woodpecker,
tapping holes into poems,
we might not ever see
the flesh and blood of raw meat.

I will climb that ladder back,
escape pre-decreed standards.
Tap into that syrupy mixture
and suck-out truth from hard wood.

Yes, lessons from a jail bird.
A pest in the Avian Kingdom.
Wisdom from the little rebel,
beat-out of a tree.

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The Narrow Path

The narrow path
                           to treason
                            is only
                            a word
                             away.
                           To falter 
                            in your 
                            reason
                          or explore
                        unauthorized
                           dissent.
                        To question
                      fearless leaders
                        or a decision
                      from the bench.
                      The narrow path
                          to failure,
                           oppose
                       the status quo
                          and down
                             you 
                              go.

Details | Dean Walker Poem

A Declaration On Independence Day

On Independence Day
I declare  independence 
from American imperialism.
I declare U.S. out of Iraq.
And while I am at it
the C.I.A. out of the business
of supplying murderous thugs
with rifles and uniforms 
along with the strategies 
to extinguish
democracy in Haiti.
I also call for the pullout
of State Department funding
in the not so secret 
overthrowing
of the fair and duly elected
President of Venezuela.
On Independence Day
I have the right to say
we need a new policy.
Therefore, I call
for independence from oil.
I call for windmills 
and solar panels
and cool looking hybrid cars 
getting 100 miles to the gallon.
I am tired of chanting
No Blood For Oil.
On Independence Day
I look to a nation
involved in war for war's sake
war to simulate the economy
and make our leaders look great
and call for a different fate.
I declare our politicians
give up corporate sponsorship
and live up to this great nation's
highest aspirations.
Freedom from
illegal occupation.
Freedom from 
propaganda and torture.
Freedom from 
criminal actions
on sovereign nations.
I declare transcendence.
I declare we live up to
life, liberty and the pursuit
of happiness
for all humanity.
I declare world independence
from monarchies, theocracies
totalitarianism, oligarchies 
and otherwise puppet regimes.
And I declare we all share these 
inalienable rights. 
Including the right to assemble 
organize and form unions.
Protect the health 
of our elders
newborns and the environment.
And I refuse those who would
deny blacks
the same rights as whites
by suppressing their vote 
with twelve hour lines
in the blistering cold.
Let us all have our say!
And while I am at it
give the poor a megaphone
on mainstream talk shows
let their voices be heard
in the court of public opinion.
I declare freedom from
billionaire owned media
conglomerations.
Let independent democracy
infiltrating the television.
Thus let us all speak our truth
and be protected 
from the tyrannical majority
and those empowered by the muzzle.
I declare that our forefathers
envisioned this and much more
in the age of enlightenment.
So that one day
every one of us
on this magnificent planet
regardless of class or culture
national and religious origin
sexual persuasion or gender
would be endowed and empowered
by an independent
yet universal 
human rights agenda.


Dean Walker

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Wine, Women, and Song

Wine, women and song-
delirious impressions
both over- and understated.
Nonsense to the uninitiated.

This is how my daydream began:
gyrating  on stage with long hair
like and adolescent shaman-
visions of a young Jim Morrison.

Wine, women and song-
punk, funk, southern boogie drunk
battle ax guitars, pounding drums
blacken and brutal beer soaked bars.

This is the dream come true:
an insidious reality
that suddenly struck rude.
Nonsense to the uninitiated. 

Now, it is still the wine
women and song that I long for. 
Indelible impressions
both over-and understated.

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Confessions

If there comes a day
when the preacher's politicians
control the state
Phinehas will rise from his grave
round up the gays
and send them down 
to Guantanamo Bay
to entertain the Muslims.
The Kingdom's minions 
will hammer in the heads
of our tender young 
the creation in seven drub
social welfare is evil
and God's top ten rules.
Which I must say
rules are meant to be broken.
And if that day comes 
when our children must pray
and Jesus is the only way
I and my liberal 
secular humanist
co-conspirators
will be taken out back 
beaten naked and shot
for refusing to accept
that Christ died for us.
Or worse yet
sent to a re-eduction camp
to sing Cumbaya.
Unless, of course
we move to Canada.


Dean Walker

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Sebastopol - Apple Blossom Weekend

The First Methodist Church,
with its bold wooden steeple,
burnt to the ground in 1914,
for preaching prohibition.
The good folks of Sebastopol
weren’t having any of that.
Today the Apple Blossom
Parade marches past
the rebuilt church, past
the Masonic Temple, past
Martha’s Mexican restaurant,
with its soup bowl Margaritas, 
past Old Main Street Tavern,
overflowing with biker patrons,
and Jasper O’ Farrell’s,
past The Powerhouse Brewery,
The Greenhouse, and G.T.O’s,
with its bottomless Bloody Marys.
As the entire town, marching bands 
and all, spill into Ivy’s Park 
for a two day party, pixilated music,
and four dollar beers to support
Analy Union High School.
No wonder Luther Burbank
and Charles Schulz
called Sebastopol their home.
And The First Methodist Church,
now made of stone, 
the only quiet place in town.

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God Save the Minute Men

The squelching heat has of no effect
on the air-conditioned Minute Men
as they survey the desert land.
Keeping ever vigilant 
against the alien brown skins
that endlessly cross their borders. 
These pressed khaki pant militias
devoutly scour the arid passageways
equipped with bottled water,
binoculars, and cell phones.
Guarding the roads
to the ancient canyons of the Navajo 
and the Peabody Mining Company.
Or through the Mexican Missions 
that predate California.
Territory good Anglo American's 
recently inherited
from the parents of rape and murder.
God bless America
and God save the Minute Men.



Dean Walker

Details | Dean Walker Poem

In Need of Therapy

Ulysses Rudolph Roberts
a Federalist by default
laid on the couch
and spilled out his guts
to a women he
envisions to be
the ultimate 
siren of shrinks.
With her hair in a bun
books, glasses
and that half buttoned
blouse thing.
He cried and he shook
over the battles he fought
and how everything
that ever happened
was never his fault.
After all
he would reason
he had built
the best fortress
in all God's Kingdoms
with ultra thick walls
turrets and draws.
The tallest
strongest and soundest
in all worlds.
So what if he had to kill
capture and rape
in order to feed 
the armies he made
he had God's blessings
His sacred grace.
Yet, Ulysses was
still cowering in the arm
of an old red couch
and crying out loud
It's Not My Fault!
as the Doctor scribed
delusional 
pathological 
denial...


Dean Walker

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Death and Dying

The night Hunter S. Thompson,
blew his head off,
Toy Box Tomato Girl,
went Gonzo Geisha on me.
Abandoning the old man’s love,
for pure unadulterated orgy,
intoxicating arms and legs,
intertwining lyrical sighs,
with bi young black,
and blond hard bodies,
tango tongues sharing saliva.
I assume the blue black hue, 
of late night television,
as segregate candles,
was less exciting.					

The night Hunter S. Thompson,
shot a hole in his skull,		
Hemingway’s history, 
lay on his boney lap.
The running of the bulls,				
the crash in Castro’s Cuba,
the locking-up of papers,
the string of worldly wives,
aimless running away.
Toy Box Tomato Girl,
knew little of the artist  face.
Being just twenty two,
she had yet to embrace,
life’s joys and tragedies. 
Not quite able to end it all,
and not quite schooled, 
in T.V. light literature,
spontaneously she fled.

Details | Dean Walker Poem

Kharithana (Kri-Sta-La)

Mitochondrial Eve spinning the moon 
without interruption or supervision.
Stars sail across the sky without time
as she is both mother and midwife.

Primordial Eve in infinite density.
Infinitesimally small, a ball of power
a witness to it all, as all
abilities to predict the future break down.

She was there with the molten soup;
the black iron core glowing blood red.
The syrupy mixture of elements
spirit, earth, fire, wind, and water.

Kharithana exhaled into existence
into Lucy our African humanity.
Silently witnessing the dawn of spring
the azalea blossoms, the buzzing insects.

Everything comes alive when Kharithana
opens her eyes at sunrise to capture
that moment when the first golden ray
caps the mountain range and forms a lining.

Thus when Kharithana yawns, stretches out her arms,
like the big bang my heart becomes a beating drum,
synapses snap and my quantum capillaries
rediscover the meaning of life.