Waiting For An Open Door...

This photo was taken today by Tess Kincaid and posted on her Facebook page.  I couldn't help but write a quick poem, and with her permission I'm posting it here.  Poor little bird flew into her French doors, she said.  I've had that happen here, but my doors weren't French, and the sparrow who gonged himself managed to "flutter" it off and fly away.  Many thanks, Tess!

Photo ©2011 Tess Kincaid

portal 

before my 

eyes glaze, 

warmth cools, 

colors pale; 

before we 

finish dinner

swallow wine, 

spin fables; 

dust the crumbs 

from my chin, 

tidy my tie, 

hold the mirror 

of dignity 

close to 

my face 

for 

one 

last 

glance. 

Poem © 2011 R. Burnett Baker

In Search Of Bodhisattva

Photo ©2011 R. Burnett Baker

in search of bodhisattva:
(in)significance of one




for it is the nature 
of this species 
to shed singular parts,
protect the mass of living,
sustain continuity 
beyond the faded,
fading one;


in this peeling away 
of individual beings
we shed personal beliefs,
lies we tell ourselves 
to ensure survival; 


we narrate gods 
of expectations, 
guilt being the 
measure of commitment
to a greater good, 
while praying for 
a glorified redemption 
of each 
soul; 


there's irony 
in being alone 
and crying for the moon
of solitary strength 
to which we cling: 


clinging is futile.
but necessary. 


damningly so.




Poem ©2011 R. Burnett Baker

Magpie Tales 97: Catch A Falling Star...

Photo by Bert Stern, shared by Tess Kincaid

player

it's all 

laughter and fun,

an upward twist of 

tinseltown mouths,

smiling words,

lines drawn for 

anyone coy enough

to pretend to 

be someone else...

is pretense an excuse 

for love? 

can WE pretend? 

can we pretend

before you vanish

into a night of 

early morn? 

Poem © 2011 R. Burnett Baker 

Merry Christmas To All My Blogger Friends!

Merry Christmas To You All!
And Happy Hanukkah!

Wishing everyone peace and 

kindness this day and all the 

days ahead!  

Rick 

My Christmas Post for Junk Shop Quickies

Last week I was shopping in one of my local junk shops and guess who I saw in person!!  Marsha Brady from the Brady Bunch!  Yessir, right here in Rochester.  So I took her photo and posted it on Junk Shop Quickies ™.  She was radiant in her Christmas dress.  She had that psycho Marsha look on her face, just like in the movie, and there was something else that wasn't quite right.....  Oh yeah, baby, have a holly jolly Christmas.  And you, too, Marsha! 
                                  Junk Shop Quickies™.

RB 

December 22, 2011 

Pingpong Diplomacy And Playboy™

Untitled by Chen Yu

Pingpong Diplomacy And Playboy™

Chairman Mao had only been dead four years.

And there I was:  In what was touted at the time as the largest city in the world , with a population between 12 and 14 million souls.  Communist souls.     

The city was brown. Buildings, streets, the air:   All brown.  Especially the air.  Remembering that year, it seems that everything was brown except for the clothes everyone, I mean everyone wore:  Drab, baggy, dull blue, green or gray Chairman Mao suits.  That's what we called them.  Oh, and those Mao caps with the red star on them.  I have one.  It was given to me by the young man who's the subject of this story. 

There were no gleaming skyscrapers, no Gucci billboards, no futuristic buildings like the ones we Americans saw in Jetson cartoons.  Cars?  Forget it.  Millions of bicycles with maddening bells ching-chinging constantly.  It made one almost long for the sounds of traffic and horns honking in European or North American cities.  

And there I was.  Working for that evil evil oil service company Halliburton, subcontracted to the equally evil British Petroleum ( pre-Gulf spill years ).  BP was drilling an exploration well in the Yellow Sea, about two hours helicopter flight from Shanghai.  Aboard the semi-submersible oil rig, the Bo-Hai 8, we did our jobs. 

During the down times on the rig, there was a recreation room with, what else, a pingpong table.  Who would have guessed?  (Nixon, of course). 

One afternoon I was playing pingpong with the radio operator.  He was about 22 years old, and the only one of the some 92 Chinese workers I encountered on the rig who was learning English at the time.  

So there we were knocking that little white diplomatic ball back and forth when suddenly he grabbed my return volley and stopped the game.  

With a mischievous grin on his face he asked me unflinchingly, " You have Prayboy  magazine??"   ( Yes, "PRayboy")  I was stunned.   I replied, "No, I don't.  But Chairman Mao would not approve of that!!" 

Not missing a beat, he screwed up his face in mock anger like the one character in this Chen Yu painting and said, "Chairman Mao is DEAD!!  Chairman Mao NOT SEE!!  I want PRayboy magazine!!"  

I laughed and was utterly amazed.  Amazed at how, despite waving Mao's Little Red Book every evening at propaganda meetings aboard the rig, despite the red stars on their caps, despite the decades of ideological brainwashing, despite our diplomatic tiptoeing around certain subject matters at that time, the Communist Party's proletariat workers really wanted Prayboy magazine. 

I always brought the latest issue of Architectural Digest with me, and the Chinese workers would look at it and dismiss it as "buhaio", or, loosely transliterated, "no good".  Too bourgeois, I suppose.  But "Prayboy?"   

Well, after all, Chairman Mao was dead.  

And he still is! 

Rick Baker 

Rochester, NY 

December 19, 2011 

© 2011 R. Burnett Baker 

Magpie Tales 96: Your Sleeping Heart

Image: Lee Friedlander, 1966 

Courtesy of Tess Kincaid 

shadows of you; of me

do you hear 

your name 

ride the wind, 

or see rain pelt 

each letter; 

have you 

sung the song 

of waking moments,

morning startled 

by opened eyes; 

do you know 

the blessing of pain

when it's gone, 

and heard the 

blue-glow serenity

of shallow breathing; 

have you 

felt the wind

become a breeze

before feathered

clouds on 

autumn's end; 

listen 

as I whisper 

memories of you

across your 

sleeping heart's 

ear...

Poem ©2011 R. Burnett Baker

I Know: This Is SUPPOSE To Be A Poetry Blog

I just can't help myself this week.  My visit to a couple of junk shops last weekend was productive.  Well, I suppose that's a matter of opinion.  But anyway, here's another.  You know what they say about big hands, and big feet and such.  Well, what about a big trunk?  What about the junk in the trunk?  Maybe we should just ask JLo.  Or is it Mariah?  I hear that one of them has a big trunk.  Maybe it's Oprah?  


Whatever.  Another silly one for Junk Shop Quickies™.  


Rick 

I, LIKE, LOVE THE LIKE, STUFF IN THE, LIKE, JUNK SHOPS!

Here's another cheap plug for my other 

blog,  Junk Shop Quickies™.  Two 

posts this week are from my latest trip

to my local second hand store.  There 

will be a couple more in the days to come! 

Like, Cheers! 

Rick

Lover's Lament

Photo by R. Baker

strings

can you hear

strings across water

along rivers of hearts 

and not wonder 

how we wandered 

so far from 

beauty?

Poem © 2011 R. Burnett Baker 

Magpie Tales 95: I Can Quit Any Time I Want...

Photo provided by Tess Kincaid

free will

though I can 

always leave 

when I want,  

I'm resigned

to the taste 

and habit 

of you -  

bound to our 

construct love,

yet ready 

to walk

on a moment's 

notice - 

think I'll  

indulge the 

tide of

your needs 

before I 

go. 

Poem ©2011 R. Burnett Baker 

Note:  After a few edits,  I realized this now sounds like a no smoking ad.  That wasn't my intent, but I suppose sometimes love and smoking can be equally satisfying.  I don't know, though:  I've never smoked!!  :) 


Here's an older poem from 2007 that I'll offer as an alternative: 


ride the crest 

waves never stop 

rolling onto beach sands 

even when we 

journey miles inland 

even when we

sleep 

even after death 

calls oceans of souls 

to 

ride the crest 

to shore.      

Poem © 2007 by R. Burnett Baker

Hope For The Rest Of Us?

"Pot Shot" by Ashley Brilliant

Here's a link to an online article I read this morning about digital publishing.  I suppose it isn't for everyone, but then neither is the old fashion way.  Interesting approach, nevertheless.

http://finance.yahoo.com/news/how-i-became-a-best-selling-author-.html

RB

12-10-11

Nonsense

"You good lookin' thang, 

don't you ever die!!!"

Another Thought Before Sleeping: Next Night

from all that came before 




I've felt your vision rise into my throat 
and doused the flame of memory tenfold.


in forests brown and green I've fragranced rotting leaves 
touched velvet moss and known creature-stirrings
that startle silence. 


I've walked alone, I've walked with others,
but never have I stood beneath the shadow 
of the tallest tree or softest fern


without songs of nature's movements 
serenading me with canopy leaves 
and solitude's whisper.  


I've watched your vision 
rise into my throat, rain-stung eyes 
searching, 


searching the forest 
tenfold.




Poem © 2011 R. Burnett Baker 

A Thought Before Sleeping

no time for youth 




it was time, I suppose, to shed endearments 
and favored names,


the renderings of which are lost 
to engagements of living; 


it was time, but I can't remember why, 
and doubtful you recall at all.


aging requires shedding not just childhood, 
but child-nature, hence the berm ridges 
in forehead texture. 


those valleys represent growth, it's said, 
presaging death, 


a serious matter we must ordain, but
it is time, I suppose for growing serious and old, 


while my child-nature searches its womb, 
waiting to be born again before 


that one, final engagement 
in life. 




Poem © 2011 R. Burnett Baker 

Greek Drama, Modern Mythology

Monoprint "3 Figures" by Ina Jean Garner, 1994

11 3/4" x 4", one of a series of four. 

Collection of R. Baker

Brisēís and you 

there was talk 

of two and how 

they met;

how between piercing 

each other's eyes 

they pilfered glances 

at peripheral others.

how exciting and

perfectly adulterous 

the notion that others 

could command 

attention. 

but lust is how it begins: 

fevered breathing 

and sweat, well, sometimes.

but always with rhythm 

of the notion that 

future possibilities 

lie just beyond the 

mythical, battled 

bed. 

Poem © 2011 R. Burnett Baker

Magpie Tales 94: Lunchroom Marxism

Lunch, George Tooker, 1964, Columbus Museum of Art 

Photo provided by Tess Kincaid

commodities

there are tightropes we 

all walk, every soul 

balancing identical needs - 

a proletariat kind of 

common bond. 

Poem © 2011 R. Burnett Baker

Post Script:  No, I'm not a Marxist.  Neither, really,  was he.  

A New Junk Shop Quickie!

On one of my other blogs:  Junk Shop Quickies™

Back Yard, December 1, 2011

When I sprinkled the seeds of wildflowers from a bag in spring, I expected flowers all summer.  It took all summer and into fall for them to sprout and finally bloom.   I'm pleased to enjoy this color in December!  Such a green thumb I (don't) have!   

Photos ©2011 R. Burnett Baker

Suicide Is (not) Painless.

"The game of life is hard to play
I'm gonna lose it anyway
The losing card I'll someday lay
so this is all I have to say.
suicide is painless
It brings on many changes
and I can take or leave it if I please."

-Theme from M*A*S*H, lyrics by Mike Altman, 1970.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Voice, mannerisms, face, speech peculiarities, personality traits perfected, at least to be a benchmark of recognition;  to some simply as reference for association - to others, points of affection and love. 

These cannot be restored on that one indeterminable choice.  Those of us remaining restore the sounds or images in memory only, yet memory, sometimes of our final view of a face, too, becomes indeterminable:  That one tragic choice becomes the bane of us all.  

How can we not question what we second guess? 

RB.

11-30-11

©2011 R. Burnett Baker

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

We learned today that a co-worker, who had had numerous personal troubles, has taken his own life.  It was a jarring revelation, but not totally unexpected.  That we sensed the possibility of such a choice by him is most troubling.  Among other personal problems he was facing, his employment with the company was terminated about two months ago.  

I happened to be at work when it happened.  He rode his bike to work each day, and that afternoon I stood near the window at the front of the store and watched him outside as he prepared to ride home on his bike.  The expression on his face was one of absolute nothingness.  I felt such sadness for him, especially knowing the other trials and tribulations he was facing in his personal life. 

It fleetingly crossed my mind then that perhaps it was the last time I would see him alive.  I wondered if I should maybe call him in a day or two and at least offer moral support. 

I never did that. 

That, too, troubles me. 

Tonight, on the way home, I wanted to offer a prayer for him,  but I didn't know how to do that.  I can only pray that God will grant his spirit reprieve and healing in light of this terrible choice he felt he had to make.  It's all I can think to say.  

Suicide is not painless.  It cannot be taken, or left, as the song suggests, as anyone pleases.   

Getting Skunk-Ready For Winter

deténte

had there 

been reasons 

to look through

night windows,

back yard 

lit judiciously, I 

would have 

anticipated the 

polecat edging 

the grass into 

darkened, shaded 

recesses of 

midnight.

what strikes fear 

brought a smile 

to my cornered 

mouth; a sense 

of contentment 

that I 

and fear 

can live in

unusually 

normal 

harmony. 

Poem ©2011 R. Burnett Baker 

Painting by Melissa Barton 

(Image of original painting has been digitally altered)

Magpie Tales 93: Occupy Perspective

Photo provided by Tess Kincaid

Occupy Ruby Slippers: 

There's No Place Like Home 

Maybe now I can get some peace and quiet. 

Cops finally ran those assholes outta my home. 

Idiots had no dignity, pissin and crappin all over,

smellin up the neighborhood and I couldn't get no 

fuckin sleep.  Don't know and frankly don't give 

a shit what their bitchin was all about.  I just want 

some goddamn respect.  And quiet.  Jesus freakin 

Christ, at least the rich bastards they're pissed at 

will toss me a buck or two once in a while, but 

these little shits - nooo -  they just sat on my sofa 

for weeks and fingered those blackberry 

somethingorothers and wouldn't leave me the hell alone. 

Mad cause they gotta pay for school or some such 

crap.  Yep, everybody's got somethin to bitch about. 

Some assholes have an axe to grind and some have 

their crosses to bear.  I just wanna have a drink and 

lay down for a while.  Finally.  Shit, finally I can 

stretch out on the sofa and have some peace and 

quiet. 

               ©Dumitru Burlacu, Child of the streets, Bucharest, Romania, 2003

                                © Barry Lewis/In Pictures/Corbis

©2011 R. Burnett Baker 

To Occupiers Of Wall Street: Black Friday, Poetic Justice?

Poetic Justice?

Occupy Wall Street, How Do You 

Like Your 99%er's Now?  

Some of you have read my previous rants about Black Friday.  And to any of you readers who may actually participate in this travesty of consumer greed and selfishness, shame again on you!  

After Thanksgiving lunch today, the sun was out and the weather quite nice.  While on a short errand to pick up dessert for work tomorrow, I passed a nearby shopping center.  Sure enough, there were a number of the recently designated 99%er's lined up, waiting for the stores to open at midnight.  This was at 2:45 in the afternoon, mind you.  

These folks had tents set up, a pick-up truck with a generator with heavy duty extension cords that powered industrial heaters aimed at the tents and others in the line.  This must mean that these mindless s**theads had been there at least since Wednesday night after the store closed.  

It occurred to me that these people were Occupiers of a different sort.  They must represent that mythical 99% of the population that has been oppressed, according to the OWS crowd, by these evil, bloodsucking corporations.  Yet, there they are, sleeping in tents, cold and inconvenienced BY CHOICE, in front of one of Wall Street's darlings, waiting to trample each other for Samsung flatscreen TV's, Dyson Animal vacuum cleaners, Kodak cameras,  and Sony DVD's.  

The stores that these Black Friday insainiacs are occupying- Walmart, Target, Kohls, Macy's, and Sears, just to name a few, collectively employ some 2.86 million 99%er's.  And I didn't even bother to research the number of employees on the payrolls of the companies that manufacture all the gidgets, gadgets, and iWads that these idiots are waiting to snag.  

Point is, there are corrupt corporations, to be sure, but the livelihoods of all of us who are gainfully employed depend on corporations.  While I heatedly disagree with the concept of Black Friday, it is a free country. Of sorts.  But these ragtag hippymuffin wannabe's who are creating numerous stinks (literally) in parks that are privately owned, or tax payer funded need to put up or shut up.  State your case cogently and pointedly.  Then clean up your messes, go home, take a shower, and get jobs to pay off your damned student loans, or upgrade to a faster smartphone ( made by these scum-sucking companies you're protesting) that will keep you all connected for your next gathering.  

Better still, just go away.  The tax paying 99% (I would love to know how that number was calculated) are tired of paying for your slovenly camping trips that really only inconvenience everyone, and NOT BY CHOICE. 

When I become king, Thanksgiving will be a four day holiday.  No stores.  No idiotic shopping.  No trampling people to death for stuff.  No door busters.  No madness.  Just a time for, well, Thanks Giving. 

For that, I would be thankful. 

Rick Baker 

November 24, 2011 

Rochester, NY  

Suggested previous essays on Black Friday: 

http://bakerstake.blogspot.com/2008/11/black-friday-blood-red.html

http://bakerstake.blogspot.com/2009/11/single-file-please-or-you-will-be-shot.html

Magpie Tales 92: The Match

on the mat




there's 
a flipside 
perspective to
how hands 
caress the mind,


how fingers 
control the 
other: 


we are but 
fetal brevity
as lover 
and 
loved.


Poem ©2011 R. Burnett Baker 
Photo courtesy of Tess Kincaid