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We get confused sometimes with what is said. I saw this morning where a "poet" said that writing something in a certain manner did not mean someone was a poet. True, but, some might interpret that to mean that a "poet" cannot write that way, but THAT is not what the statement said. A poet CAN write anyway he or she damn well pleases, if it suits the words, the thought, the image, even the internal flow. A poet CAN write like Captain Kirk (William Shatner) delivering his lines and still be "poetic". Read poetry wide and long and you will find almost every kind of presentation... from poet to poet, from era to era, even within the lifetime, or, a single day, of a poet. It is the story told, the image or emotion shared, the song that is sung, that rises from the heart of the author that matters... NOT the manner of presentation or language used. Fact: I often read poems in English, written by people for whom English is NOT a native language. The ideas flow, the feelings show, through, even the most broken presentation. I run non-English poems through Google translate. Sometimes it comes up gibberish, but, usually, I can understand what the poet was trying to say in their language, with their structures, and their mindset. Often what I see is beautiful and/or stimulating. I don't know how many of MY poems have had their origin in one of these. Poet? Write how you please, but write from your heart. • Donovan Baldwin

I'm always wary of absolutes... okay, usually, almost, probably. Still, my radar comes on when I see statements like, "Do this to get rich, happy, taller..." whatever. Usually involves chocolate, wine, or cabbage soup. While we humans do share many common traits and feelings... desires, even lusts, we humans are also just too unique for a "one size fits all" approach to most life situations and relationships. Another one that makes me start looking for the exit, is, "________(fill in the blank with a group) like, want, expect, deserve...." etc. In my 78 years, I've met too many people that simply do not fit into a mold prepared for them by pundits and politicians (and become my own odd little self in the process). From soup to nuts, health to wealth, sexual preferences, religious teachings, personal trials and tribulations, internal and external scars, glorious glowing of transcendent souls, and just plain sticks in the mud, we ARE different. Until we accept THAT as the ultimate commonality among us, and learn to live WITH it, rather than trying to figure out how to get around it, fight it, or just plain argue about it, life's not going to be nearly the rewarding and enriching experience it could be... because people who CAN accept US the way each messy little, "spilling out of the box" individual of us is, ARE to be treasured. • Donovan Baldwin

throw away the words ones that don't say i love you... cherish all the rest ----- kissing up and down beginning at her forehead... to her feet and back ----- Slowly her fingers begin, Writing poems without pencil or pen, Words that spill from her lips, Wild as honey that drips, As her folded petals unbend ----- rain falling through trees beautiful bounty beyond words... drops of poetry ----- my words eager hands tracing shapes of our desires... under your covers ----- imagine my words gently toying with your hair... tracing your neck's curve ----- pen upon parchment candlelit hallway of dreams... writing you poems ----- a force of nature passions of a summer storm... released within her ----- i think i can hear verses you might have whispered... which never left your lips ----- never a singer i softly whisper verses... monotone lyrics ----- as poor cyrano whisper of love in darkness... to my roxanne ----- dew upon your rose verses upon your petals... pass between our lips ----- outside i'm boring inside i'm too free and wild... between a poet ----- • Donovan Baldwin

In 1966 I applied for a job with Delchamps grocery in Pensacola. When I was hired, I was sent to this store in downtown Pensacola for training on the cash register, including counting back change, before being assigned to their store at Town & Country Mall (outdoor mall). I also spent a day working at their store on 10th Avenue being instructed on-the-job in proper bagging of groceries AND customer service. Put heavy stuff in the bottom of the bag, light stuff on top. Be careful not to crush items such as eggs and tomatos. Paper bags, of course. Square up the bag. Don't put too much in each bag, especially if the customer was older and might have difficulty carrying a heavy bag. If the items in the bag were heavy or might punch a hole in the bag, double-bag it. Etc. Also, put the bags carefully in the car so they wouldn't tip over. We worked for a small hourly income and tips. A courteous, industrious bagboy could make some pretty good tips. Incentive. They spent a couple of days training me to work a register and bag groceries before I actually had to work with customers. Can you believe that? Quite a difference between those days and today. I have to bite my tongue every time I go through a grocery checkout... where, these days, I have to do self-checkout, bag it, and carry it out myself. No chatting with baggers... another loss. Don't get me started on fast food joints. • Donovan Baldwin

Down this rustic road An old well trodden trail Lushly overgrown with Vines and brush, Many tangled memories, Patchwork surface Neath my mind's steps, Recalling uneven times, Realities remembered With each passing step Along this unpaved pathway Into my past. • Donovan Baldwin

The flowers are there, Tiny bursts of color Amid the fields of green, Under the trees, Hiding in the shade, Blazing in the sun... Or, perhaps, Posing in pastel, Trying to catch the eyes Of busy passersby who, Don't look up from Cell phone graphics, To see the origin Of art and beauty. • Donovan Baldwin

The evening breeze passes Over quivering leaf and bough, As the bow of violin or cello, Drawing forth for poets' ears, Tales and mysteries unsolved, Messages in ancient tongues, To be set down as if our own. • Donovan Baldwin

The moving stream of time, A silent weighty flood can Carry off all things in passing, Leaving behind only memories For those who can remember, Until they too are swept away. • Donovan Baldwin

So many lost poems A cocktail napkin here, Back of a paper bag there, Lost scraps of paper Stray thoughts in The middle of a walk, Or conversation... Driving, Hands on the wheel, Mind busy with my words, Waking... Wait!!! Was that another in my dream? A poem, complete and finished, Floating, drifting off away, Consigned, Condemned(?) To that place Where dreams and, Lost poetry abide, A voice to be raised in Distant song, Echo of an echo lifting Its orphaned head above The busy crowd of living words, Perhaps to be Reincarnated in a line which Seems to come to me From some unknown place? • Donovan Baldwin

No place to wash my hands Cold lunch beneath an overpass, Drinking from my thermos, White bread turned black From my dirty fingers, Eaten anyway Without hesitation. Early lesson in The inevitable. You get used to such things Little inconveniences. Note: Teen experience on a construction crew in Pensacola, Florida, 1963. • Donovan Baldwin

The sound water makes Rhythmically irregular Slaps against The poles of a pier, Lazy summer sound I think goes well with Hot days and cool beer, Speculation and fantasy, Pirates heard it, and Asian fishermen, and Admiral Nelson, and Neanderthals Walking along A tree lined shore. • Donovan Baldwin