Ravensong Poetry And Writing Blog by Donovan Baldwin

By: Donovan Baldwin

If I could use my words
I would use them to:


Tease you, tantalize you, tempt you,
Cajole, caress, and comfort you.
Take you, wrapped in love's embrace
To the heights of ecstasy,
And further still...

Until...

Gasping with the pleasure of the ride,
You collapsed with me once more,
Upon the breast of Earth.

I would use my words to:
Bring you to your knees,
Pledging undying love,
And a willingness to
Do my bidding in all ways
So that I could have the joy
Of freeing you from that pledge.

If I could use my words so well,
I would use them
To make you speak the truth
About the deepest secrets and desires
Within your heart.

And, with my words, I would assure
That you never doubted
Your secrets would be kept.
But, never could I use my words
To hurt, harm, or disrespect
The pure, sweet soul
Within your breast.

Labels: donovan baldwin, love poem, original poem, original poetry, poem, poem about words, poetry, romantic poem, romantic poetry, words

By: Donovan Baldwin

Outside the window,
From the room where I sit,
A bit unwell, I watch
White herds of clouds,
Move casually across
The bright blue sky
As nearly gale-force winds,
Whip the limbs of mature trees,
As if they were saplings.

Tho' stuck inside today,
I am reminded that the Earth,
Is alive, always alive,
As I remember from my childhood,
When I roamed beach and woods,
Climbing trees to ride the winds,
Diving into the bay to explore,
Following the tracks of animals,
Listening to the calls or birds.

Yes, the Earth was alive,
And, still so much alive today,
But, it's reminding me that
My life is winding down.
I didn't used to be so still,
So sedentary, settled in my ways,
Existence controlled by pain,
As outside the window, the Earth
Reminds me that it is still alive.

Still, I remember the Earth as it was,
On other days when clouds galloped
Across leaden skies, ahead of storms,
As winds tore pieces of things apart,
And scattered them about,
Much more violently than today's winds.
The Earth doesn't remember me,
But, someday I will be part of the Earth,
And, perhaps if no one remembers me,
They will remember the Earth
I am a part of.

Who knows who I am watching
Play around outside the window?
I don't know who from the past
I am watching today, but,
I tip my hat as they blow past,
Remembering that the Earth is us,
And we are the Earth.
It is good to remember one another,
As I sit and watch out the window.

Labels: donovan baldwin, looking out the window, original poem, original poetry, poem, poem about the earth, poem about wind, poem about window, poet, poetry

Recently I wrote a poem, "Her Face" and published it on LinkedIn,using the same picture you see to the right here.

The original backstory is that this is a photograph I took at Disneyland in 1967. It is of a girl standing in a doorway. She just seemed to pretty and so far away in thought at the "Magic Kingdom" that her quiet loveliness made an almost visceral impact on me. I never saw her again and have no idea who she is. I thought about her for days afterwards.

I have looked at the picture from time to time over the years and wondered who she was, what happened to her, and...well, things that young poets wonder.

When I wrote the poem, "Your Face", I got some comments, which I appreciated. One LinkedIn connection in particular, Dashi Haziraj made some observations which I found so poetic and insightful, that they influenced me to write another poem using some of the images and thoughts she presented.

So, while I wrote this poem, I must say that it never would have happened except for the comment and discussion provided by Dashi Haziraj.

One Girl's Face
By Donovan Baldwin

Fifty years ago I passed, and,
Tried to read in one girl's face,
Two stories; hers and mine.

Mine was fantasy with her as heroine.
Was I in hers? I doubt she ever saw me.

I have no knowledge of her story,
But, I could sense shadows of dreams
Behind her eyes, which stared out
Towards a place, where surely,
Something wonderful was happening.

Did she long to go there,
In that fantastic world?

Did someone ride to save her,
From the boredom of daily drudgery?

In her story, was her simple dress
Transformed Into a gown most beautiful?

Was her soft dark hair topped,
With a bejeweled tiara?

There are, as I was told, a million
Faces I might see, and each a story,
I will never be allowed to read.

So, what I read in one girl's face,
Was, and must remain romantic mystery.

Perhaps some day, that girl herself,
Now as old as I, may tell in her own words,
The story that her eyes beheld that day
That only they could see, and she could read,
The story told beyond, or perhaps behind,
That one girl's face, fifty years ago.

Labels: Disneyland, donovan baldwin, girl, original poem, original poetry, poem, poetry

By Donovan Baldwin



A beautiful vision sings to me
With the voice of a fallen angel,

Her voice piercing my soul,
Daring me, tempting me,
With dreams and images of
Pleasures and delights,
Seldom sung about
In Heaven.

If I should fall
Within the power of her voice,
I cannot be redeemed,
For her song is far too strong,
And stirs my soul,
To dream of evil,
And of good,
As if were one.

Call her "Temptress", or "She Devil",
If you will,
But, it is the truth,
The angel that she is,
Is witnessed by the sound,
Of her sweet voice,
And sight of her angelic face,
Full of mystery and beauty,
Whose sight creates desire,
In a mortal man.

Sailors of another time,
Spoke of the Sirens
In their legends,
And, as those fabled singers,
She can lure me into any danger
With her siren-song,
And her beautiful face,
As a beacon before me.

Oh! Fallen angel never cease to sing.
Punish me, reward me, and redeem me
With your song,
For I would hear thy sweet voice,
Throughout eternity,
And never be banished,
From thy presence.

Copyright March 14, 2017 by Donovan Baldwin

Labels: fallen angel, original poem, original poetry, poem, poetry, siren, siren song, sirens

By: Donovan Baldwin


Ears lift in greeting to the voice of his companion, the wind,
The lean and silver beast turns now to black as day's fire dies.

He stands his watch alone, testing the air for the elusive scents,
Which tell as much to him, as a written page can tell a man.

So silent and so still, and completely part of the land on which he stands.

A king he is.
More a king than any king of man might be.

He guards the wisdom passed in his blood from countless ancestors,
Living as he must always live...wild and free.

Labels: donovan baldwin, original poetry, poem, wolf