tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4650522834324475522024-02-19T07:43:46.632-05:00The Blogging BakerNot overcooked. Not undercooked. Just all half-baked goodness in every write.Warren Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00200324814337601860noreply@blogger.comBlogger543125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465052283432447552.post-43733728466628026572016-01-11T22:48:00.000-05:002016-01-12T00:40:14.561-05:00I'm Quite Aware of What I'm Going Through<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XJRWJ5jquMM/VpR3Kd9vj7I/AAAAAAAACdg/w5cDYCQf-Oo/s1600/bowie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="406" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XJRWJ5jquMM/VpR3Kd9vj7I/AAAAAAAACdg/w5cDYCQf-Oo/s640/bowie.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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It all began with a small, blue transistor radio<br />
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I woke up to find Chloe, the world’s most loveable dog, pawing me, pleading with me to let her outside or else. I looked at the clock and found the alarm wasn’t set and that I would be late for work (insert Beatles’ reference). Naomi was visiting friends through Monday, and so Chloe knew I was the default human.</div>
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I grabbed my coat, stood out in the cold waiting for Chloe to do her thing, spoke to a neighbor, then went back inside and made coffee.</div>
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It was Monday. Nothing out of the ordinary except Naomi being out of town. Then I looked at Twitter and saw a post featuring a picture of David Bowie with the hashtag: <a href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/bowierip?source=note">#BowieRIP</a>. For a moment I thought the internet was messing with me. A few moments later, I learned the truth.</div>
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Then I started to cry. Wasn’t sure why. But I cried</div>
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<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
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<b><i>Can You Hear Me, Little Warren</i></b></div>
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<b><i><br /></i></b>When I was a kid, which was something like a trillion years ago, I had a little blue AM transistor radio. It was square with two little dials on the side, and there was a little strap that you could slip your hand into and, if needed, you could take the strap and twirl the radio around like a propeller. You could do this until you were reminded by mom that you were wielding a weapon of considerable destructive powers.</div>
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WLEE was the station of choice for the blue radio. It played nothing but pop hits, and Space Oddity was one of the many songs I remember hearing. It was a neat catchy song, and neat and catchy worked well for someone who was on the verge adulthood, or what most would call the lofty age of 10. It was an odd song, countering many of the popular songs I hummed and sang. But like most 8 or 9 year olds, I was running from one distraction to the next, and the moment got mixed in with an era.</div>
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I loved that little radio. One day I was going to be on the radio.</div>
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<b><i>There’s a Starman</i></b></div>
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<b><i><br /></i></b>My first reaction was- Why? It was odd feeling this way about the death of a celebrity. So why all the emotion?</div>
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<b><i>Changes</i></b></div>
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<b><i><br /></i></b>In 1979 I was poised for college. God, I hated high school, and I was looking forward to a place where I’d be rid of the bullies and the asses. By that time, WLEE was a distant memory, and WRXL was my new friend. My brother had a Pioneer receiver that doubled as a space heater. He had nice speakers, and when mom and dad were out, I had the speakers make the house cry for mercy. At that time, my brother’s album collection was one of my main sources for music. Albums included Elton John, the Eagles, Jimmy Buffet, and America. I also had a sizeable 45RPM collection, most of which was purchased for 20 dollars from a girl I knew in high school.</div>
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The thing about WRXL… it was different. For several years I was listening to WRVQ, a competing station in the Richmond market, but their playlist at this particular time was ‘less than’, and I remember switching to WRXL so I could listen to a more interesting selection of songs. WRXL introduced me to Pink Floyd, specifically Run Like Hell, and a couple of years later I heard what I think was a musical turning point for me- 1981s Lunatic Fringe by Red Rider. Lunatic Fringe was different, and it was the kind of song I knew I’d want to play when I became a deejay. <br />
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A year later, I was working at a campus radio station at East Carolina.</div>
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<b><i>Just For One Day</i></b></div>
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<b><i><br /></i></b>I logged on to Facebook and started seeing the posts. He was really dead. </div>
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I knew I wanted to post something, but I couldn’t find words. Everyone who knows me knows I enjoy words, but no words came. I cobbled a few sentences together, posted them, and continued reading all of the other posts.</div>
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Soon after my post, my friend Stephanie replied:</div>
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<b>Here's something I found: "If you feel sad, remember the world is 4.54 billion years old </b></div>
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<b>& you managed to exist at the same time as <a href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/davidbowie?hc_location=ufi">#DavidBowie</a>"</b></div>
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Okay. So I cried a little more. I was becoming a freaking fire hydrant.</div>
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<b><i>Is There Life In Greenville</i></b></div>
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I hooked up with some neat and strange people in college. I met Naomi (my lovely wife!), Mary Lou, Todd Coats, Jim Ensor, Jeff Chester, Lynne Rupp, Kit Kimberly, and many other lovely folk. There was this one friend I really enjoyed being around. Thinking back, she resembled Bowie. Like most of us, she smoked Marlboro Lights, a brand we nicknamed ‘Bowie Lights.’ She loved intense conversations, and we had many of them. She lived in a little apartment down the street from the Alpha Omicron Pi house on Johnston St. (By the way, I was one of the Pi’s big brothers, and yes, I’m still surprised at that asterisk in my life.)</div>
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And she was a Bowie fanatic. Capital ‘Fa-Fa-Fa-Fa Fanatic.’ Along with many other friends, she helped spawn my interest in eclectic music, an interest I carry to this very day. So I owe you many thanks, Trina. And many thanks to the rest of you, and you know who you are...</div>
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I learned about Bowie. Hunky Dory. Ziggy Stardust. And by the time I started learning about Bowie’s early albums, Let’s Dance was released. </div>
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I remember Bowie was central to the circle of friends I knew. Though we still listened to Zeppelin and Floyd and all the other traditional staples of rock, we seemed to talk about and listen to Bowie a lot. And from Bowie I gravitated to Peter Gabriel, REM, King Crimson, and XTC. </div>
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Bowie was the gateway drug.</div>
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<b><i>I Never Did Anything Out of the Blue</i></b></div>
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I went back to Twitter to see what the Twittersphere was doing. Bowie was trending at the top. I read more posts. I saw more pictures. One picture stood out. It was Bowie sporting his Aladdin Sane </div>
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lightning bolt makeup with the caption: </div>
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<b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/imamisfitbecause?source=note">#ImAMisfitBecause</a> He made it OK to be so.</b></div>
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At this point I was worried I was going to run out of water.</div>
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<b><i>Beep Beep</i></b></div>
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<b><i><br /></i></b>After campus radio, I continued searching out new music, and Bowie was kind of a yardstick. The music needed to sound different from the mainstream.</div>
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One thing that fascinated me most about Bowie was how he could change his sound but you could always tell it was him. I think he had a characteristic which all musical greats have. I’ve found it in Sinatra, XTC, Radiohead, U2, and my beloved Robyn Hitchcock. It’s the ability to look for other things to play with, whether it’s a sound or a lyric or a rhythm. A restless spirit. A playful spirit. To me, the greats make music interesting, not just for me, but for themselves.</div>
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When Bowie came out with Heathen in 2002, I remember wondering what he’d been up to. I had the usual Bowie suspects in my CD collection, and I was up for adding a fresh one to the Bowie canon. If there was one thing I could count on when I purchased a Bowie album, I could count on it being fresh and different.</div>
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I wasn’t disappointed. Though the melodies and hooks reminded me of some of his older music, there was a new creative energy that underlined each song. It sounded like he was having fun, and I was happy to come along for the new ride. I was happy to hear an old friend again.</div>
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A couple of years later Reality was released, and I went crazy over Pablo Picasso. It’s still one of my favorite Bowie songs.</div>
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<b><i>Is There Something Wrong?</i></b></div>
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<b><i><br /></i></b>Chloe went with me to work, and when I got to the office, I prayed that my faucets were finally dry. I went to my desk and did some work, but all the while I couldn’t shake the morning news. My head was still fuzzy feeling like it was stuffed inside a giant cotton ball.</div>
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Naomi texted me telling me she’d heard the news and that she and Mary Lou were listening to Hunky Dory. I texted back saying I was feeling pretty sad.</div>
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Later in the morning I dropped Chloe off at home and packed my bag for Columbia, SC. Before I hit the road, I thought about grabbing a few Bowie CDs and listening to them during my three hour drive. I decided not to. I just wanted to think.</div>
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<b><i>Sound + Vision</i></b></div>
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<b><i><br /></i></b>Here’s the deal.</div>
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I knew I was going to write something. I was going to burst if I didn’t. I wanted to write it all out so I could understand why I was so emotionally invested in Bowie. And I wanted to share my thoughts with each of you so you might understand what he meant to me, your friend. I’ve seen so many posts from so many different people on how he impacted lives. He had a big impact on mine as well.</div>
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While driving down to Columbia, I decided to look backward, and I started remembering an important part of my life, a place where I met and retained some great friendships. I developed an ear for artists. I really listened to the lyrics, and I listened for poetry. In some respects, I became a bit of music snob, but I’m okay with that. I know what I like, and I know how I got here.</div>
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That era, over 30 years ago, was significant for me. And Bowie was there. Whether he was in the foreground or in the background, he was there somewhere. There was a niche in my soul that he burrowed into, and I decided, happily, to keep him there.</div>
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And I realized today, he’s still there, and he’s not leaving anytime soon.</div>
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Warren Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00200324814337601860noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465052283432447552.post-28219793560149878232015-09-19T08:05:00.000-04:002015-09-19T08:05:51.470-04:00Dilemmica<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(to Everclear's "Santa Monica")</i></span><br />
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I hate this yoga and this <br />
Pose<br />
Bending and twisting<br />
I can’t reach toes<br />
I don’t think this move can <br />
Help spine<br />
I don’t think this move’s <br />
Completely sane<br />
<br />
Had some big bland fruit<br />
And some no-taste shakes<br />
I do believe they’re made with the silt from lakes<br />
I just want to be a <br />
Fit guy<br />
I don’t need to run a <br />
5K race, what a bore<br />
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I just want to eat some <br />
Ice cream<br />
When I try, I find<br />
My butt grows with ease<br />
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So I drink the rancid potions<br />
Exercise behind<br />
Life coach on retainer<br />
Wish I had pie<br />
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So I keep my legs in motion<br />
Simple life denied<br />
No more mashed potatoes<br />
Wish I had wine<br />
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So now I’m running here in<br />
Place<br />
More like a waddle, though gaining speed<br />
Can’t get away<br />
Who the hell said this is<br />
Good time?<br />
I just want to eat some <br />
Crunch and Munch and a Smore<br />
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I have no doubt <br />
That there’s another way<br />
Not liposuction or de Sade pain play<br />
I don’t want to be the<br />
Fat guy<br />
I just want to do a<br />
Jumping jack then the door<br />
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I don’t need to be Joe <br />
Sunshine<br />
I would rather surf some<br />
Cool sites on Google Chrome<br />
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I don’t have the drive, devotion<br />
Lack the fire inside<br />
Best with sleeve of crackers<br />
Bag of pork rinds<br />
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But I’ll put my bod in motion<br />
Leave the snacks behind<br />
When I talk to waiter<br />
Ask for less fries<br />
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Yeah ask for less fries<br />
Yeah ask for less fries<br />
Yeah ask for less fries<br />
Then ask for more pie</div>
Warren Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00200324814337601860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465052283432447552.post-52200841973544389312015-09-13T16:20:00.000-04:002015-09-13T16:20:37.017-04:00At Fifty-Three<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(to Janis Ian's "At Seventeen")</i></span><br /><br />I now arrive at fifty-three<br />An age I thought I’d never see<br />A life it whirls in light speed style<br />You blink and find the years have wiled<br /><br />The beard I have has roots of gray<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Like weeds in lawn, find more each day<br />Some dye perhaps might fix the look<br />But cash is best spent buying books<br /><br />And those exams at doctor’s places<br />Prodding in unholy places<br />Bills to pay, maintain the home<br />Annoying robots ring the phone<br />They call to say come buy from me<br />They sell such swell amenities<br />Not really what I need<br />At fifty-three<br /><br />My brown eyed wife, she loves me now<br />Though why she does, it still confounds<br />I’m not an easy man to know<br />My moody self, the highs and lows<br /><br />And the loud and rocking concert scene<br />Replaced it with a calmer thing<br />The avant-garde I love it still<br />Preferred at lower decibels<br /><br />Now were there times when I was sane<br />Just a Joe with scraggly mane?<br />I don’t recall the sanity<br />I have retained humanity<br />My mom and dad they taught me true<br />Now odd surprise I’ve made it to<br />Bifocalled days of me<br />At fifty-three<br /><br />The creaks and pops, the random pain<br />But all-in-all I can’t complain<br />Adult I am, mature not quite<br />My mind will wander off at night<br /><br />I will oft reflect and drift away<br />Synapses fire and cells will play<br />I know far less than I believe<br />The world is larger than it seems<br /><br />I now write some words in favorite chair<br />I’ll gripe and grin, let down my hair<br />Inventing stories, phrases flow<br />Revealing worries, worlds unknown<br />Some tales are bad, some tales are neat<br />I call them my amenities<br />The changing world I see<br />At fifty-three</div>
Warren Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00200324814337601860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465052283432447552.post-54597979698774329702015-08-29T20:11:00.000-04:002015-08-29T20:35:12.459-04:00The Last Trick<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Tiny little fingers, sweet with the scent or rosemary lotion, grabbed his long white beard. Lindy’s pudgy legs danced in the air.<br />
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Mercator hovered over the floor. He tilted his head closer to Lindy so his great great granddaughter could explore more of his ancient hair, and she gratefully accepted as she moved her little hands deeper into his silken beard.<br />
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“That boy needs a vowel in his name,” Mercator grumbled. “Even that gray fellow with the pointy hat had vowels. Two of them if I recall correctly. That fellow from…”<br />
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He looked at Lindy as she lay on her back, and he half expected her to answer, She offered no response except a smile as she continued her fascination with his beard.<br />
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“That middle place,” Mercator continued. “Mirth? Girth? It’s on the tip of my tongue. What was that place?”<br />
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Lindy laughed.<br />
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“Laughing at your senile great grandfather, I see.” Mercator laughed and softly clapped his hands together. A small cloud in the shape of a horse sprang from his fingertips. Lindy’s green eyes and puffy hands disconnected from her great great grandfather’s beard and followed the horse as it crossed her bed and then disappeared under her blanket.<br />
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“MckWffth,” he said. “That’s the boy’s actual name. He’s the one who wants my job. Bad name. Good magic. Very good.”<br />
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Lindy stared up her great grandfather and cooed.<br />
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Mercator nodded his head. “Yes, he’s that good. It’s like every spell I learned when I was ten, he knew it at age five. And he does them better than anyone I’ve ever seen. An amazing boy.”<br />
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Mercator slowly lowered his feet to the floor. He summoned his favorite chair and placed it beside Lindy’s bed. The chair, maybe hundreds of years old, accepted Mercator’s old frame with a sigh while its cushions happily molded themselves to his shape.<br />
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“When he challenged me, I confess I didn’t know what to do. No one’s challenged me for a century.” He produced a pipe from his cloak, and with a snap of his finger, he produced tobacco and a flame. The smell reminded him of winter and the crackle of wood burning in the fireplace. The smoke reminded him of something, but he couldn’t think of what it was.<br />
<br />
“Mercator the Spellinator. That’s what they once called me. I made the crops grow. I kept the evil away. I once…” he said, beginning to laugh, “I once did something that was so amazing. I was maybe, maybe, twenty or thirty, and there I was… there was this darkness that did…it did something. I remember everyone looking at me and wondering,” his voice deepened, “’Has that kid got the tools? Are we doomed? Will we ever…’ Something like that, and I remember raising my arms like this and…”<br />
<br />
Lindy’s eyes were wide.<br />
<br />
“And I don’t remember.” He lowered his arms and took a draw from his pipe.<br />
<br />
It was important to remember, he thought as he exhaled the smoke.<br />
<br />
“And now I can’t remember what it was,” he said as he reached out to caress her cheek. “And sometimes I can’t even remember your…”<br />
<br />
Name.<br />
<br />
He felt the emotion again, the frustration welling up behind his eyes. He began to rock back and forth in his chair. The chair happily sighed.<br />
<br />
“I was a boy once, just like this boy with a vowel deficiency. I challenged a wizard when I was ten, I think. I lost, of course. But I knew even at that young age, his time was through. Done. He was an old wizard, his name escapes me now, but I do remember he was old. Maybe ancient.”<br />
<br />
Lindy cooed again.<br />
<br />
“I know, ancient like me. But you see…”<br />
<br />
I don’t want to go, he thought. His two centuries had flown by, and he sensed the times ahead held more fascinating things for him. More quests. More magic. More memories…<br />
<br />
“But you see,” he sighed “I still don’t want to leave, but I know…I know I need to.”<br />
<br />
He lifted himself out of the chair and then he lifted Lindy to his chest. She smelled sweet like flowers. Sweet, sweet flowers.<br />
<br />
“I need to go, my sweet girl,” he said. His frustration returned, but he knew how to respond to it. The tears came quickly and vanished beneath his beard.<br />
<br />
“I need to go,” he said again and placed Lindy back on her bed. He waved his palm over her curious eyes, and her eyes yielded to sleep.<br />
<br />
Then he straightened himself, crossed his arms, and gently faded away.<br />
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Warren Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00200324814337601860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465052283432447552.post-43355158021956305482015-08-09T16:18:00.001-04:002015-08-09T16:18:24.725-04:00Shakespeare<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Warren Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00200324814337601860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465052283432447552.post-37583115720617811512015-08-09T08:59:00.000-04:002015-08-09T08:59:10.473-04:00Steps- A Self Portrait<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
and I confess<br />
I’m quite amused<br />
when mind is sharp<br />
or times confused<br />
<br />
I marvel at<br />
the cells of gray<br />
on truest paths<br />
they often stray<br />
<br />
to weeds as tall<br />
as oaks or pines<br />
its feet don’t walk<br />
in perfect lines<br />
<br />
do cells have feet?<br />
I do not know<br />
you’d think that they<br />
have tiny toes<br />
<br />
it does make sense<br />
their stepping shakes<br />
my head will throb<br />
with soleful aches<br />
<br />
at times they dance<br />
in tennis shoes<br />
I bet those feet<br />
have neat tattoos<br />
<br />
and bracelets gold<br />
‘round ankles small<br />
that jingle round<br />
synapses halls<br />
<br />
where pictures hang<br />
of mem’ries clear<br />
of mem’ries dark<br />
of mem’ries dear<br />
<br />
I bet sometimes<br />
the feet will linger<br />
or speed on past<br />
to hear a singer<br />
<br />
sing songs I knew<br />
but can’t recall<br />
like ones I hear<br />
in shopping malls<br />
<br />
where I get lost<br />
from time to time<br />
but that’s okay<br />
when I’ve had wine<br />
<br />
or maybe beer<br />
or something sweet<br />
when I get lost<br />
it’s always treat<br />
<br />
so I confess<br />
I’m quite amused<br />
when path is clear<br />
or tad confused<br />
<br />
I marvel at<br />
the cells of gray<br />
the beauty of<br />
a thought astray</div>
Warren Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00200324814337601860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465052283432447552.post-67524286531685534542015-08-08T08:28:00.002-04:002015-08-08T08:28:28.950-04:00Elephant Talk<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2eaiUO7er59cbAmHJ8YlhtUJivuQBSLcHyJuE7et1-xye-GuCgkI1h5S6WMLCM_GD05r3XnjGL07jNUcBzVnESX4CG5Xc8f4zBbqgCWVhzh1oFI7LMqnEsHBGQf9-_1qUVPGqmMcR9cg/s1600/Elephant+Talk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2eaiUO7er59cbAmHJ8YlhtUJivuQBSLcHyJuE7et1-xye-GuCgkI1h5S6WMLCM_GD05r3XnjGL07jNUcBzVnESX4CG5Xc8f4zBbqgCWVhzh1oFI7LMqnEsHBGQf9-_1qUVPGqmMcR9cg/s640/Elephant+Talk.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Warren Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00200324814337601860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465052283432447552.post-82603812720067877372015-08-01T10:06:00.001-04:002015-08-01T10:06:08.451-04:00Shame<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(to David Bowie's "Fame")</i></span><br /><br />Shame (shame)<br />Whips the wind, takes things over<br />Shame (shame)<br />Words let loose, full on throttle<br />Shame (shame)<br />Shout it out, “They’re not model”<br />Shame<br /><br />Shame<br />Expose the vain<br />And light the flame<br />And hope for change to make someone<br />Tame<br /><br />Shame (shame)<br />Is it right to be ungentle?<br />Shame (shame)<br />Is this raging transcendental?<br />Shame (shame)<br />Is there need to be parental?<br />Shame<br /><br />Shame<br />Nine to five<br />A choice to chide<br />So get in line to rage at the<br />Slime<br /><br />(Who can pass the test<br />who can pass?<br />To a ‘t’, to a ‘t’?<br />To agree with flame<br />Holy aim<br />Simple game<br />Easy maim)<br /><br />See a silly blunder<br />Let’s assess the mess<br />Shame, shame, shame, shame<br />Who believes in thunder<br />To try and cool the fool?<br />Shame<br /><br />Shame<br />Bully is who?<br />Bully are we?<br />Got to punch, inflict lots of<br />Pain<br />Shame<br /><br />Shame</div>
Warren Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00200324814337601860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465052283432447552.post-87832558982251905382015-06-28T13:28:00.000-04:002015-06-28T13:28:09.198-04:00Scalpel<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I had a chance to make it all right<br /><br />I see my blood on the paper <br /><br />And the small drops, still moist to the touch<br /><br />They were writ internally, tearing at my skin<br /><br />Eviscerating me<br /><br />Till my heart fell on the page<br /><br />A life beating, pulsing through the words<br /><br />All the cutting words, the ones sharp and loud<br /><br />They don’t whimper or murmur<br /><br />They howl with light and grit and red meat<br /><br />A scream giving birth to a child that was there<br /><br />All along<br /><br />But spoke quietly all along<br /><br />Blood, so much blood and bleeding and pouring<br /><br />On the page, the child wanders<br /><br />Circulating through the black and white<br /><br />The red stains mark the way<br /><br />Not travelled, not seen, not anything<br /><br />The signs of regret<br /><br />A moment or two uncaptured<br /><br />But a moment that was willing<br /><br />To be touched<br /><br /> <br /><br />Yet I walked away</div>
Warren Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00200324814337601860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465052283432447552.post-31014317208055734282015-06-11T23:22:00.001-04:002015-06-11T23:22:09.708-04:00Faith is This<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div>
<i>(to More Than This by Roxy Music)</i></div>
<i>A personal favorite from Roxy Music. The original is a lament that there's no afterlife ("More than this, you know there's nothing..."). My faith gives me a different answer. So here's my answer to the original lyric.</i><div>
<br /></div>
If eyes see, we are fine<br />It’s our own way of growing<br />Touching brings more to light<br />There’s no strain in our knowing<br /><br />What’s seen is a friend<br />Tangibly learning<br />But unseen turns the tide<br />There’s hope, I’m affirming<br /><br />Faith is this<br />I know there is something<br />Faith is this<br />More than one scene<br />Faith is this<br />There is something<br /><br />Life is short, just a while<br />Less is known where we’re going<br />Deep in soil, dark as night<br />We all pray for some knowing<br /><br />We cling to the world<br />We seek the certain<br />There’s a sweet by and by<br />Much more past the curtain<br /><br />Faith is this<br />My hope, there is something<br />Faith is this<br />Dark has lost sting<br />Faith is this<br />Yes, there is something.</div>
Warren Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00200324814337601860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465052283432447552.post-69356057756160792742015-05-31T11:12:00.002-04:002015-05-31T11:12:47.310-04:00Ripples, I Think<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I skipped a stone<br />Across the lake<br />I did not see<br />The path it take<br />Or maybe it's the<br />Path it took<br />Well, either way<br />I didn't look.<br /></div>
Warren Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00200324814337601860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465052283432447552.post-15931573799723988232015-05-21T01:01:00.000-04:002015-05-21T01:01:33.285-04:00Till Three<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
We talked for a while<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It spoke sweet, complicated truths<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I nodded and sipped, tempted to toss the garnish in a bin<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It asked politely<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Where do you want to be?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Free?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe you should just…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, you know me<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I listened to it talk and talk<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I nodded and sipped, tempted by its fruit<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the evening crawled into bed I looked at my
stretched out form<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Under the bedroom fan and a single lamplight<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Free?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I heard it talk but the words were all faded<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I faded<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The wine talking<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Till three<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Warren Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00200324814337601860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465052283432447552.post-39477966811053310532015-05-18T07:42:00.000-04:002015-05-18T07:42:51.891-04:00The Folly Llama- Heart<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6Uifu7iVm2o/VVnQGG6xmGI/AAAAAAAACZ0/AF48naDSiTg/s1600/FollyLlama-%2BHeart%2Bcopy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="412" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6Uifu7iVm2o/VVnQGG6xmGI/AAAAAAAACZ0/AF48naDSiTg/s640/FollyLlama-%2BHeart%2Bcopy.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Warren Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00200324814337601860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465052283432447552.post-41213275001771017902015-05-16T10:53:00.000-04:002015-05-16T10:53:11.604-04:00Demons<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Why do we<br />Demonize the poor<br />Sad little satans<br />Threatening us<br />Their hands always taking<br />Taking my money<br />My money!<br />How dare you be hungry<br />You're disturbing my omelette<br />And how dare you show yourself<br />In public with those children in tow<br />My prescription glasses make this crystal clear<br />I see those open mouths!<br />Noisy and dirty faces<br />You should stay behind that door more<br />Till you get a j-o-b<br />Like m-e<br />So get<br />Outta my wallet<br />My purse<br />Sight<br />and Mind<br />and heart<br />I don't know you<br />But I'll loathe you<br />Because I assume you do<br />Things that I'd do<br />If I wore<br />Your shoes</div>
Warren Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00200324814337601860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465052283432447552.post-88089898669533388432015-04-19T00:00:00.000-04:002015-04-19T00:00:06.495-04:00The Chair Man<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
“I’m wary of it all,” he says<br />His bones crack, or is it his chair…<br />I’m not sure<br />He carries luggage below his eyes<br />Filled with stuff he’s known before<br />Each story grows like the hair on his giant head<br />Gray strands that leap to the back, or sweep off to the left or right<br />Chaotic at first glance<br />Then you realize it all works together<br /><br />He looks tired like most people who live in well-worn chairs<br />The stories aren't thick like the ones I remembered<br />I was the grandchild, curious with just a little imagination<br />And a Dr. Pepper in a green tinted bottle<br />He called it sweet water<br />I called it champagne because the name sounded right<br />He’d saw off a chaw and put it deep in his cheek<br />(I never told him he looked like a gopher)<div>
Back then, his face was starting to show markers, and his eyes<br />His eyes always looked hungry<br />“It happened like this,” he'd say, and I knew not to question his truth<br />Gospel came from that man’s mouth<br />And I believed<br /><br />He hears and tells stories now and he doesn't know if they're his<br />Details aren’t what they used to be<br />He forgets a little, and he sighs a lot<br />But I still listen</div>
</div>
Warren Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00200324814337601860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465052283432447552.post-87229499381764798102015-04-16T22:17:00.000-04:002015-04-16T22:17:05.135-04:00The Thing<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
There was this<br />Thing<br />In the drawer<br />A big metal scoopy <br />Thing<br />A black handled odd<br />Thing<br />The drawer wouldn't close because that<br />Thing<br />Sits there smugly<br />Reveling in its ugly<br />I hate that<br />Thing<br />It's big and odd and mean<br />Bet it doesn't like me<br />That long and shiny and satanic<br />Thing<br />I bet that<br />Thing<br />Hates America and puppies<br />Yeah<br />Maybe if I move that<br />Thing<br />On its side, maybe the drawer...<br /><br />...well I'll be<br /><br />Silly thing</div>
Warren Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00200324814337601860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465052283432447552.post-61270554085331953112015-04-16T20:12:00.001-04:002015-04-16T20:12:22.109-04:00Jedi Pete<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lOCTdrYrMDQ/VTBP1z4WPUI/AAAAAAAACZQ/f_HlRuUb_Rg/s1600/May%2Bthe%2BTork.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lOCTdrYrMDQ/VTBP1z4WPUI/AAAAAAAACZQ/f_HlRuUb_Rg/s1600/May%2Bthe%2BTork.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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Warren Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00200324814337601860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465052283432447552.post-62120151680840272152015-03-31T19:08:00.000-04:002015-03-31T19:08:46.295-04:00Popeyé Descartes<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AGM8j6RGkws/VRsotXoKQvI/AAAAAAAACYA/izYfLzWeKJQ/s1600/PopeyeDescarte.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AGM8j6RGkws/VRsotXoKQvI/AAAAAAAACYA/izYfLzWeKJQ/s1600/PopeyeDescarte.jpg" height="640" width="522" /></a></div>
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Warren Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00200324814337601860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465052283432447552.post-71482727530301858512015-03-28T10:59:00.003-04:002015-04-01T08:23:53.898-04:00Meet the Weasels! (Cruz edition)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span id="goog_952973219"></span><span id="goog_952973220"></span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XotwKjRDh-M/VRvjTN7UbwI/AAAAAAAACY0/Dv39G_97Mpk/s1600/Meet%2Bthe%2BWeasels_Cruz%2BEdition800x.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XotwKjRDh-M/VRvjTN7UbwI/AAAAAAAACY0/Dv39G_97Mpk/s1600/Meet%2Bthe%2BWeasels_Cruz%2BEdition800x.jpg" height="640" width="640" /></a></div>
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Warren Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00200324814337601860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465052283432447552.post-12191811807551676002015-03-27T19:49:00.000-04:002015-03-27T19:49:21.190-04:00Delayed Again, Naturally<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-J1wyRtrieQ4/VRXsRyzuOKI/AAAAAAAACWw/-7XvDQZVXWg/s1600/laguardia%2Bcopy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-J1wyRtrieQ4/VRXsRyzuOKI/AAAAAAAACWw/-7XvDQZVXWg/s1600/laguardia%2Bcopy.jpg" height="326" width="640" /></a></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(to Gilbert O'Sullivan's 'Alone Again, Naturally')</i></span><br /><br />It’s a little late this hour<br />And I sit feeling just a tad dour<br />I’m telling myself<br />It’s fine, dear self<br />At least I got laptop power<br /><br />My trav’lin’s come to stop<br />I hear the gate talk<br />“We are sorry to<br />Now report to you<br />That your scheduled plane<br />Has not landed”<br /><br />For ‘nother flight I search<br />For a berth<br />But they’re all saying<br />“Oh well, that’s tough<br />You’re out of luck.<br />No seats on board remaining.”<br />I’ll wait to fly on home<br />Guess I’ll charge up my phone <br /><br />Delayed again, naturally<br /><br />I think that I’ll be on my way<br />Maybe April, could me May<br />Saw fam’ly who<br />Look somber too<br />The kids are all too tired to play<br /><br />Though the trip may knock me down<br />A lager beer brings me round<br />So I’ve parked my butt<br />Near the bar nuts<br />And there ain’t no cashew pieces<br /><br />Maybe I should pout<br />But I doubt<br />Look brings me mercy<br />So I’ll just slowly take a sip<br />Order ham and turkey<br />Take an hour to feed<br />I’ll buy a book to read<br /><br />Delayed again, naturally<br /><br />It seems to me <br />I’m spending more time<br />Waiting at a gate<br />That’s unattended<br />A trip upended<br />Not leaving soon<br />Not leaving soon<br /><br />Delayed again, naturally<br /><br />I’m thinking <br />While watching the time<br />It’s a nuisance <br />But I’ll survive<br />I remember my life<br />And my lovely wife<br />And I’m dreaming when I’ll arrive<br /><br />Now it’s fifty-eight past nine<br />I should’ve been gone by five<br />But I understand<br />Flight is gonna land<br />I’ll be boarding soon<br />No need hatin’<br /><br />Sit here by the gate<br />And it’s late<br />I could be mopin’<br />But no, a song appears to me<br />Some words for this here postin’<br />My hands now type away<br />The rhymes you read today<br /><br />Delayed again, naturally<br />Delayed again, naturally</div>
Warren Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00200324814337601860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465052283432447552.post-60883307325533632252015-03-22T12:19:00.000-04:002015-03-22T12:19:09.298-04:00The Test<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
He said<br />Take a test<br />Lest<br />On laurels<br />You will rest<br />And no quest<br />Will shine<br />Or leave imprint<br />On your mind<br />But I resisted<br />And found<br />My path<br />Is quite sound</div>
Warren Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00200324814337601860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465052283432447552.post-5698913917393458312015-03-22T09:53:00.000-04:002015-03-22T10:16:16.726-04:00Linger<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUezCkoaWV-TpBTjxkq7IVyZtDSTQHbqCwIV-2qPlW0vehTTbILac8J6lHV8eQCdt2ww8uF6CsgPFNfEDUTb7ZvxAz_wxy2y_ItG09thfmoAYjWoBOV05G-M-XvzAHb8nnMpedVgjP-o4/s1600/strawberries.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUezCkoaWV-TpBTjxkq7IVyZtDSTQHbqCwIV-2qPlW0vehTTbILac8J6lHV8eQCdt2ww8uF6CsgPFNfEDUTb7ZvxAz_wxy2y_ItG09thfmoAYjWoBOV05G-M-XvzAHb8nnMpedVgjP-o4/s1600/strawberries.jpg" height="236" width="400" /></a></div>
She smelled like strawberries.<br />
<br />
Every room in the house carried a hint of her. It wasn’t sickly sweet or overwhelming.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It was…nice.<br />
<br />
He walked into the living room and sat down on the couch. A quick inhale caught the scent. He exhaled. On his next intake of air, he held it not wanting to let it out. He wanted it to stay. He wanted it to circulate inside and touch every cell, every receptor. He wanted the smell to find and fill his heart. After a minute, his lungs ached for release. He felt his heart pound in his ears. He needed to breathe.<br />
<br />
Two minutes. <br />
<br />
His head was light, and he saw spots dancing in front of his eyes. I need to breathe, he thought, but I don’t want to. I just want to…<br />
<br />
<i>You need to breathe.</i><br />
<br />
And he exhaled quickly, followed by a rapid succession of ‘in with the good’ and ‘out with the bad.’ More strawberries. More her. He sat upright on the couch and stared out one of the living room windows. He saw one of the hydrangeas blooming. The flowers looked like small pom-pom’s that the little girl cheerleaders use. The blooms were pale blue, and he remembered her saying the acid content of the soil determined the color of the blooms. Sometimes the flowers were pink. He liked the blue ones. She liked the pink ones.<br />
<br />
He moved into the next room and inhaled.<br />
<br />
Strawberries.<br />
<br />
She was there.</div>
</div>
Warren Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00200324814337601860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465052283432447552.post-33804482496299175072015-03-16T22:20:00.001-04:002015-03-19T20:45:53.210-04:00Another One<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
an original country lyric<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qs-PEp6dPes/VQttqB5foLI/AAAAAAAACWE/XdUin6jdY4g/s1600/Another%2BOne.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qs-PEp6dPes/VQttqB5foLI/AAAAAAAACWE/XdUin6jdY4g/s1600/Another%2BOne.jpg" height="640" width="360" /></a><br />
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Warren Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00200324814337601860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465052283432447552.post-64496808953494409822015-03-08T10:39:00.001-04:002015-03-08T10:39:16.469-04:00The Folly Llama- Awareness<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMkftp-Hq-DiRzxOTAUi6rXUGBiGMWitQUifTDyemPwH7CkuTq3R9ifIpbRqKUEWnQBTYrgzDUed683b_t85BZ39ZlOtL3y8d0uUPrb96MAwAvN1zX3-mIdXTbK5yZQ_AqKka58ZZr3pg/s1600/FollyLlama-+Awareness.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMkftp-Hq-DiRzxOTAUi6rXUGBiGMWitQUifTDyemPwH7CkuTq3R9ifIpbRqKUEWnQBTYrgzDUed683b_t85BZ39ZlOtL3y8d0uUPrb96MAwAvN1zX3-mIdXTbK5yZQ_AqKka58ZZr3pg/s1600/FollyLlama-+Awareness.jpg" height="414" width="640" /></a></div>
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Warren Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00200324814337601860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465052283432447552.post-78367467600079984312015-03-07T20:28:00.000-05:002015-03-07T20:28:46.649-05:00(I Sold a Song) And Made Some Loot<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Catchy lyrics bring me all my wealth<br />Writing songs for cash is comfy, I confess<br />I take the words bouncing deep inside my brain<br />Then I send them flowing, it’s an earworm you disdain<br /><br />I sold a song and made some loot<br />Some say I’m menace<br />There’s no better living, paid to rhyme<br />There’s many say that I’m a loon<br />To sell a song and make some loot<br /><br />There are worser crimes, the crimes that never pay<br />I’ve better way, my imagination craves<br />I aim to instigate some way for wealth to procreate<br />Then I write offending, a phrase that won’t leave mind.<br /><br />I’ll sell a song and make some loot<br />Don’t feign indifference<br />You’re just jealous of my moneyed rhymes<br />It’s something you should try and do<br />Just write a song and make some loot.<br /><br />The lyrics, gold refined<br />Ya ya yaaa<br />Ya ya yay a<br />Ya ya yaaa<br />Ya ya ya ya<br /><br />I sold and song and made some loot<br />I sell you burgers<br />Or some tepid tacos, if inclined<br />There’s nothing I can’t sell to you<br />You’ll hear my song and spend some loot…<br /><br />Want…to…buy…more?<br /><br />I sold a song and made some loot<br />This song is finished<br />And I’m writing newer, better rhymes<br />With commerce, you know I’m in tune<br />I’ll write a song and make some loot.</div>
Warren Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00200324814337601860noreply@blogger.com0