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I read some old essays, last night, which led me to an even older poem. I read it; Cumnor Hall (1748), by William Julius Mickle. Never heard of him? That's okay, neither had I, and I read all kinds of poetry regularly. As poetry goes, it was okay. Old love story. Imprisoned lover pining for other times and days. I enjoyed it, at the moment, although I was not overly taken with it. However, the first four lines hit me.     The dews of summer night did fall;     The moon, sweet regent of the sky,     Silver'd the walls of Cumnor Hal     And many an oak that grew thereby. To my ears, and I DID read them aloud, they were beautiful and somewhat haunting. An image sprang up in my mind, and I read on... Unfortunately, they made me expect more from the poem than I found. I could, and probably will, memorize those four lines and never read the poem again, and feel I've got my money's worth, so to speak. Art, writing, poetry, painting, sculpture, CAN be like that sometimes. Not every stroke of the brush, not every gouge of the chisel or layer of clay, not every line upon the page, captures all that the artist has to offer, or wants to say. And, two people viewing the same piece may see different things, and take away different feelings and messages. This is why I avoid "critics". I like what I like. Their likes do not invalidate mine. On the other hand, nobody has to like what I like either, and many won't. Nobody has to turn their nose up at art, people, food, coffee, liquor, or life, just because someone else does. Be your own critic. Set your standards where you think they should be and live according to your "appreciation" of life. Respect others, but, be yourself. You don't have to see a movie, read a book, drink a drink, or eat in a restaurant just because someone else said it was, "good". You don't have to avoid life, either. Enjoy it on your terms. • Donovan Baldwin

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always a struggle life's not been a happy time seeking peace and rest ----- she is of nature spirit creature of the wild in a poet's dreams ----- do you see yourself within all the words i write do you feel their touch ----- two outside the fold dancing to a pagan drum joined by eager words ----- though read by many certain special poems of mine meant for only one ----- a crackling campfire tunes from gypsy violins love in the shadows ----- loving messages though i feed upon their words no one talks to me ----- behind his high walls wounded by love poet waits bleeding poetry ----- kisses hold our words embraces are sentences speaking about love ----- words from my fingertips a love story in progress on your trembling skin ----- take my poetry play with it throughout the day adding your own lines ----- wild my butterfly gaily dancing on the wind in colors of fire ----- in the words unsaid thoughts that make her smile with joy she knows what i mean ----- i chose long ago to find one who loved like me and give her my heart • Donovan Baldwin

do you spread your wings soaring sipping sweet nectar from your garden's bloom ----- angel or animal we may be either at times love and lust upon us ----- bursting rainbow arch shaking with the inner storm throughout her body ----- a playful embrace arms hands and wandering lips laughter in the dark ----- only we may hear these songs of ancient lovers lost yet still alive ----- heaven's alleyways promiscuous innocence even angels blessed ----- love dull and brittle once a bright and shining thing now old and rusted • Donovan Baldwin

her tender orchid coated with her love's dear dew by sparkling fingers ----- hewn from my heart's stone a warm and infinite love shape of a woman ----- sexy poetry hot is not how i write it but how you read it ----- using your body hold me as tight as you can your hands behind you • Donovan Baldwin

"Many miles away there's a shadow on the door of a cottage on the Shore of a dark Scottish lake."  - Walter Scott Not sure what Scott was going for, but, for the poet, a shadow rises. There is adventure, glory, sadness, madness, shame... a story, a poem, yet to be told... perhaps, only imagined. A similar line which I often read, and re-read, is from Robert Louis Stevenson's, "Gossip on Romance": "The man or the hour had not yet come; but some day, I think, a boat shall put off from the Queen’s Ferry, fraught with a dear cargo, and some frosty night a horseman, on a tragic errand, rattle with his whip upon the green shutters of the inn at Burford." These, and other thoughts trigger, or activate some neuron in the brain of a poet or writer. Something HAS to be written, HAS to be said about these semi-mysterious comments which leave the brain expecting a story or poem to evolve. Even the name of a street, a few words on a bulletin board, can cause the incurable poet to fall victim to his strange disease, breaking out in imagination impossible to cure without setting something down on paper... or these days, the screen. Used to happen every time on California Highway 99, I would pass Seventh Standard Road. It begged to become a tale in rhyme or prose. A strange disease indeed. • Donovan Baldwin

she will break my heart it cracked when first i met her knowing the future ----- not a jealous man asks but love for me be real the part that is mine ----- dawn's gossamer veils transparent before the sun the goddess exposed ----- from some future dawn you'll remain when the dream ends stay throughout my days ----- i can dream can't i that perhaps I've found the one at least in those dreams ----- she thought her flames too weak and yet he sought out her heat the only fire that warmed him • Donovan Baldwin

I guess value is relative, and relevant to the world of each of us. Depends on what you consider important, I guess. These days, I see videos of people flipping through the air, performing all kinds of, to me at least, impossible stunts... especially by young people. Us older folk would break if we tried it. I never could have done that, even in my younger days. However, I remember some mornings, arising at 3 AM before the sun came up, to deliver dry newspapers for the Pensacola News-Journal, in freezing rain... before plastic bags. I folded them, with aching fingers, in the corner of a tiny filling station office heated only by a small electric heater, put them in a canvas bag hung on the handle bars of my bike, and covered them with my body to help keep them dry, as I rode through the cold wet morning. Rather than throwing them as I usually did, I carried papers one by one to the porch, putting them between the screen door, and the house door, so that they would be dry for the customer when they woke up a couple of hours later. Not that I was the only one. Other teenage boys, too young to get a "real" job, were doing the same thing at the same time as me. We did this every morning and every afternoon because we were supposed to give quality service to our customers. Nothing fancy. No exciting flips, just service and doing what we were supposed to do. You know something? These days, half the time, my fast food order is wrong. That's when I "flip" out. • Donovan Baldwin

lovely word snuggle i see your face draw you near our bodies kissing ----- wide-eyed innocence hiding your lusty desires visible to me ----- touching all over in their erotic tumbling our intimate words ----- what words could i write where would poetry be found if there were no you ----- binding her with words lashing her with poetry until we both bleed ----- lifetime spent alone lost in a crowd of strangers who think they know me ----- my chaotic mind a world I've sought to escape within poetry • Donovan

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woman's voice rising bohemian aria operatic dream ----- i often wonder how did pleasure become sin paradise defiled ----- I've long dreamed of her lusting for her openness desiring to share her love ----- love's rules are simple what lovers agree is right is how they should love ----- know i'm not the one never been nor will i be at least you know me ----- past sins don't matter unless reincarnated as present pleasures ----- she's afraid i'll look but I've already seen her soul of secret fires ----- watching her pleasure treasuring climactic glee stronger for sharing ----- committing moonlit sins watched by guardians of night on our lovers' bed • Donovan Baldwin

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