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scars upon my back where she tore my wings away... taught me mortal bliss [True story.] • Donovan Baldwin

Remove not this ancient mark Totem of my clan, Sigil graved upon the lintels of Of our movable homes Before the land was owned Rules written By invaders bent upon ruling, We free people Who lived In harmony with the land And all the peoples on it. Bow instead and say your oath. • Donovan Baldwin

The nice thing about writing my poetry is that, as long as I know what I'm trying to say, it probably IS officially poetry, even if nobody else "gets it". I remember a story years ago about a poet who got a government grant to write a poem, and, as the time was running out for him to produce his work, he submitted a single sheet of paper with the word "Nothing", on it. That was his poem. Was he right? Was he a poet? I certainly don't know. To tell the truth, I CAN see where a poet, attempting to deliver a "message" could do exactly that. On the other hand, it's also obviously, quite possibly a cop out, by someone who was unable to deliver the goods. Who's to say? Only the "poet" knows just what was in the brain that produced the end product. Rambling thoughts. Under the heading of "thinking out loud", but this seems off the beaten path enough to be called errant thought. Not a deep subject, but one I've wondered about for years. When do we cease being a poet, and become a charlatan, using our wits to disguise our lack of inventiveness? And, just as an aside, does the ability to deceive in that manner show that we actually ARE what we claimed to be in the first place? • Donovan Baldwin

Not getting enough exercise? Just get an old style TV. You know, big wooden console with a bunch of knobs on the front and some tiny "what the hell are these for?" on the back. Get up, walk over to it. Stand there, bend over, turn it on, select the channel, tune in the picture and adjust the sound. Go back to your chair and sit down. Sound will not be right and/or picture will not be clear. Get up, walk back to TV, bend over to find the little knob that makes things better. Step away from the TV to see how the picture looks. If necessary, step back to the TV, bend over (or squat, depending on model), make more adjustments, and walk back to chair. In 30 minutes to an hour, your show will be over and you will have to get out of chair, walk to TV and repeat steps above. During prime time, you will be able to do several repetitions of this series of exercises... and run to the kitchen for a snack or to the bathroom for a break in between. For extra endurance training, go outside and turn the TV antenna to get the channel you want to see but can't because the antenna's pointing in the wrong direction. Come back in to check the picture. Go in and out, turning the antenna until picture is clear, and you are breathing heavily. For strength training, try to lift TV. Our next article will cover fitness in a 3-speed stickshift car. • Donovan Baldwin

please avert your eyes my words the reality... all else is the beast • Donovan Baldwin

words soft on your skin sensitive like satin sighs... seductive as sin • Donovan Baldwin

wears but her desires a splash of expectation... wisps of willingness • Donovan Baldwin

touch her secret spot gently caress and stroke her... with words she can't forget • Donovan Baldwin

perilous pleasure edging along ecstasy... falling to heaven • Donovan Baldwin

I miss the day which saunters by so casually upon its way To all the calm amusements which will fill its time. We eye each other warily if perhaps we pass as I Go about my missions, toils, and tasks. I used to know him well in younger days With far reduced responsibilities, but now He's gone the way of gods and I've grown up, Down to the level of each man's daily life. Each morning he rises, putting on The vestments he has chosen, and, calling to him The flying, feathered finery which will announce His measured entrance on the scene, and, Accompany him through the waking hours and discuss His actions with occasional loud altercations And whispered disputation When the world has returned to night. As he comes on some Spring mornings, he gradually Removes the blanket of rejuvenating mist and dew Which was laid upon the Earth that it Might sleep more soundly. Oh, the smells that softly ride the air, and Bring me back to days which happened Forty years or more ago, When each morning I could watch the coming of the day Learning lessons then on how to live With the wide-eyed wisdom of a child Which the man who's learned to live with life Has long forgotten. I miss the day. For every time we pass each other by, Stealing a stranger's glance, Each of us at the other, I am again surprised to discover We've forgotten almost all we knew about each other. But, sometimes, for just a moment A dim light of memory flickers in his eyes Quickly dying as he tries, but, fails, To recognize his one time friend. Yes, I miss the day I used to know so well, Who now hurries by with no time for me, Or me for him. • Donovan Baldwin

This little scenario rolled through my mind, in living color and touch-a-vision as I thought of us. It was not produced, directed, or acted. It just played in my mind, and was about as real as we can get right now. You and I enter a bookstore, hand in hand. We've never been here before, but, it's a light and airy place. For some reason, it seems to have many objects besides books. It's almost like an art store/flea market that includes books. We wander about together, stopping to look at things, and pointing out interesting objects to one another, until we reach a section that seems to have books on poetry and art. Once there, we begin browsing... separately, yet together... never far apart, as if we don't want to be too far away from each other. After looking at a few books, you find an interesting one, and call me over to look. I come to your side, put my arm across your back, my hand on your shoulder. I lean forward to see better, not quite sure of how you feel about my nearness. Without hesitation, and very naturally, you lean back towards me, holding the book so that I can see better. I feel the pressure and the warmth of your body. I am happily aware of the contact you are allowing to happen, and, my hand slides from your shoulder to your waist. Without really changing anything, you somehow manage to press yourself a bit more tightly against me, as if claiming me as your man. I listen to your voice as you read a passage from the book. I am listening and paying attention, but, my body is telling me that I am holding you, and I can feel your arm against the side of my chest as you hold the book for me to see. I can feel the presence of your hip, natural, but, not accidental, against mine, and the almost imperceptible brushing touch of our thighs, as we sway slightly as we read together. It's a heady experience for me. I've done more physically intimate things in my life, but, this is emotionally intimate. You are telling me that we are together, that we are on our way to becoming one. I almost hate to let go of you as you finish reading, and move away towards more books. My hand lingers on your shoulder until you have moved away from it, then, I drop it to my side. With a grateful sigh for that short contact, I too start looking at books. After few moments, I find one with a poem I think you'll like, and I quietly call your name. You come to me, interest lighting your face in a way that lightens my heart. I open the book to the page and begin reading as you come to me. At my side, you begin reading silently along with me. As the words roll sweetly out, you slip your hand around my arm. Again, I feel the warmth and the pressure of your body, your presence, your attention. It's been so long, I am almost overwhelmed with the simple pleasure that comes from feeling that, holding me and pressing so close, you are claiming me as yours, and the poem as ours. I feel each breath, the rise and fall of your chest, the pressure of your breast against my arm. From the corner of my eye I can see the radiance of your face, and I know that it is not just the words affecting you, but, the poem and this moment we are sharing as well. As I manage another glance at you, you look up and our eyes meet at the end of a very sweet passage. You smile with naked pleasure and happiness, sigh, and tighten your grip on my arm. You rest your cheek against my shoulder, and our bodies are almost one as we share the flowing words of the poem. You sigh again as I finish reading. I look at you, and think how beautiful you are, but with a special aura at that moment, andi take special note of how complete I feel. I cannot resist your sweet smile, and bend to lightly kiss you on the lips. You place your hand on my head and return the pressure of your mouth to mine, and then, taking your arm in mine, I walk with you... with several small stops for kisses and hugs on the way to the car. As I start the car, you ask, with a smile, "Will you read me more poetry when we get home?" "Of course..." • Donovan Baldwin

There once was a boy on the edge of a bay, With the Sun burning hot on his skin. For hours he'd walk the sugar white sand, Whipped by the offshore wind. The wind which brought strange, unusual smells, Mixed with dreams of lands far way, To the shore by the woods, and the boy on the shore, Who walked by the edge of the bay. From that shore he would long for lands still unknown, Where adventure was part of each day. Not knowing how much of his soul would be lost, On the day he at last went away. Now round the world in a land of boy's dreams, That boy has now grown to a man, Longing to feel that hot offshore wind, And to walk on the sugar white sand. • Donovan Baldwin Published in "Alure" magazine, Vol XVI No. 1, Summer 1991