Sunday, November 25, 2018



By Donovan Baldwin

If I were an artist,
I would pose you,
Sketch you,
Draw you,
Paint you,
Again and again,
Every way you could pose,
I would show you to the world.
A poet, all I have is words,
Limited in color and depth,
So, I write
Your face,
Your body,
Your heart,
My love for you.
In as many words as possible.

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Saturday, November 24, 2018



By Donovan Baldwin

The woman stood in the dying light

Her heart wildly beating inside,

Faint hope failing with the coming of night,

As the bitter wind moaned and sighed.

In tune with the wind, she sighed and moaned,

Tears cold as ice on her face.

The trees bent down, and the mountain groaned,

While she stared at that terrible place.

On the edge of a cliff, so far up above,

Lay a body which seemed but a rag,

Far below, a climber, sent to her love,

Creeping upward as time seemed to drag.

This side of the mountain killed more than a few

Perhaps her lover the latest.

Yet the climber below, moving steady and true,

Was known by his peers as the greatest.

Then froze the hope in her fainting heart.

She whispered a prayer to the wind.

A silent plea to the climber at rest,

'Til he rose, and moved upward again.

At last there he stood and bent over the man,

She longed to stand there at his side.

He raised the still figure, began the climb down,

And the icy wind howled and cried.

Inch by inch downward, over the face

Moved the best, who climbed now for two.

The wind whipped her words out into space,

"If he's dead, my life is done too."

Only one in the world could have made the climb,

Returning over that cold, lonely stone.

He fled as if he had committed a crime,

When her lover was safely at home.

He loves to climb mountains which soar to the sky,

He climbs, knowing someday he'll fall.

Like the lover who fell before his dear lady's eyes,

Saved by one who loved most of all.

Somewhere on a mountain the wind sighs and moans,

As it did when he saved her love.

In fitful sleep he whispers and groans,

"If he had been the best below, and I the dear one above."

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Monday, November 19, 2018



By: Donovan Baldwin

Every day is Hallowe'en,
As I mask myself with words,
Hoping to escape discovery.

My treat is being near you,
But, if you saw me as I am,
You would run away.

With my face confounded
By metaphors and rhymes,
I deceive you.

Appearing innocent
And naive to you.
Behind my woven words,

I hide the real face,
Of the old poet man,
Who can but recall past love.

Hidden by my words,
I approach, hoping you
Will gift true smile to me.

Believing you see only a poet,
Who, under false pretenses,
Sees you as a man does.

Every day is Hallowe'en,
So, I will knock, and knock, and knock,
Upon your heart's door,
Always leaving empty handed.

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Friday, November 09, 2018



By: Donovan Baldwin

BACK STORY: In the 1950's, a great deal of sand was dredged up from the mouth of the Bayou Chico, near Pensacola, Florida. Some of this sand was used to make a "peninsula" of sorts, upon which a chemical company installed the gas tanks shown in the picture I took somewhere around 1970.

The dredged up sand, and resulting "gas island" as it was sometimes referred to, made a great habitat for seagulls, who would lay their eggs in the sand. It also made a hunting ground for at least two destructive boys, who were just on the edge of learning the difference between life and death.

The following poem was written many years ago as I thought about those days, and those birds and their eggs.


"Be gone! Now leave the seagull's land,
You are not welcome, child of man.
You've taken lives ere they began,
You've smashed our eggs hid in the sand."

He raises up his BB gun,
Blinks as his eyes brush past the Sun.
Holds and squeezes...down falls one.
He runs to see what he has done.

"Now gone a year, and gone a friend.
The tale unfolds without an end.
As man-child joins the ranks of men,
But, others come to hunt again."

Feathers gray and white, now red,
The eyes are closed, the bird is dead.
One instant in the man-child's head,
There comes, then goes, some unnamed dread.

"They learn from us, from how we die,
As from us they learned to sail the sky.
There are a few, as years pass by,
Who sometimes learn to heed our cries"


Read more poetry and writing by Donovan Baldwin at

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Thursday, November 08, 2018


The Storm - a poem by Donovan Baldwin

The Storm - a poem by Donovan Baldwin

The storm blew up as the Sun went down,
Tossing the ship like a toy,
Aloft, a sailor, in fear looked round,
Face ashen, he was only a boy.

"Captain! Captain! How can I survive,
While this gale is blowing so strong?
Will the Sun at dawn still find me alive,
Or beneath this sea and gone?"

"We depend on you, lad, to do the task,
The sails must not rip away.
I know it is much that we must ask",
He heard his Captain say.

The Captain and mates strove all the night,
To save the ship and its crew.
When the Sun began its daily flight,
In a moment, the Captain knew...

The lad had lost his chance to live,
But had done his task to the end.
There's not more the brave can give,
Than their life for their fellow men.

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Tuesday, November 06, 2018



By: Donovan Baldwin

I would gladly heap praises round your head,
As well you know, and I have already done.
I would add new words, extolling your intelligence,
Your compassion, your beauty, your wit,
And so much more.

I could sing your praises, over and over,
Neither tiring of the telling, or
The memory of what you mean to me.

What would it profit me to praise you?
No gold would come of it,
No warm and willing partner in my bed,
No crown, no jewels, no exaltation,
From yourself or others.\


What would it profit me to praise you?
It would be the glad and joyful swelling in my heart
As the words left my pen and placed themselves,
Forever on the page.

The profit would lie within the praise itself,
Requiring no other recompense but knowledge,
That I have said that which ought be said,

What would it profit me to praise you?
Why, my very life, and soul, and joy,
And all good things which may come.

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Sunday, November 04, 2018



By: Donovan Baldwin

Author's Note: I am a poet. I do not normally write stories, and, this is not a serious attempt to move into that area. I leave that to those much better at it than I. However, I was thinking some special thoughts today, and this came to me. It's unedited and pretty much as it came out of my fingers. Despite being a "story", it came out in some sort of vague poetic form. Apologies for any confusion.

There was once a madman,
Whose anger knew no bounds.
He raged against life
For the pain, fear, and trouble,
It had brought him.

One day, he woke to find a mist,
Wafting in the air outside his door.
Angered, he stepped into the mist,
Intent on driving it away.
Instead, he felt himself enveloped
In a warm and welcome way.

Two soft and gentle arms
Enfolded him,
Comforting and cradling him.

Within the mist he saw a smiling face,
Bright eyes, soft lips,
That offered him a kiss,
And spoke kind words,
Which slowly stilled his anger.

Quietly, his head dropped to rest,
On the soft, warm breast,
Of the vision which held him,
Safe and calm within
The mist.

Those who watched saw only,
The madman drop his arms,
As the rage left his eyes,
While he stood within what seemed,
Just a white and formless mist.

Slowly, the vapor disappeared,
But, the madman remained calm.
Oh, from time to time,
He would again begin to rage,
But, the comforting apparition
Would return,
Leaving him calm and at peace,
Within his heart.

Eventually, even when there was
No apparition to soothe his ire,
Just the thought of the smiling face,
The gentle voice,
The comforting touch,
As she held him close,

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