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As gray mist rolls down From high hills, To the rippling waters Of a silvery sea, A figure slips seductively Through the haze, Threads of earthbound cloud Caressing, Swirling about her body, The passage of apparition Through the dew of dawn, Brings pleasure, To eyes that follow. • Donovan Baldwin

In 1967, while in the U.S. Army, I was stationed at an American air force base, outside a small town, in the middle of Texas. Being a normal American lad, I indulged in the common actitivities of the day, including regular consumption of large amounts of beer at a local bar. My friends and I also played pool (pocket billiards) with another, older denizen of the J&J Tavern, in San Angelo, Texas. His name was Lacey. He was OLD, to our young eyes, although younger then, than I am now. Worn out cowboy hat and boots; dirty, dingy shirt. Big beer belly hanging over a huge western belt buckle, and pants that looked worse than the shirt. Lacey loved to drink beer and shoot pool. He was not a very good pool player, although he loved to bet a dollar a game. He was so bad, so beat-up looking, and so carefree, that we often let him win his dollar back after beating him badly in a game. We didn't know whether to feel sorry for Lacey or not. Despite the pleasure he found in drinking beer with his buddies, and shooting pool, all day, he appeared poor. We assumed he was on Social Security or some form of welfare..."the dole" as they say in the U.K., I believe. One bright Summer day a huge new Cadillac pulled up in front of the J&J Tavern. A big woman, wearing a fur coat in spite of the heat, and wearing many expensive looking pieces of jewelry, got out, stomped into the comfortable darkness of the tavern and yelled, "Lacey, get your butt out in that car. You know we're having dinner with the governor and you've got to change out of those rags!" Lacey slunk out to the car. If he had been a dog, not only would his head have been down, but his tail would have been between his legs. As they drove off, my drinking buddy, Bill, who, unfortunately, passed away a couple of years ago still swearing he had introduced me to Clint Eastwood one night at the Mission Ranch in Carmel in 1967.... well,anyway, Bill and I looked at each other in bewilderment. The bartender, straightened us out. She explained that, after scratching out a living for decades on a tiny patch of land with a few head of scrawny cattle, oil had been found directly under Lacey's wee little patch of Earth. Lacey was NOT on the dole. He was one of the richest men in the county! First lesson I took away was to never judge anybody by their appearance. That one's obvious. Over the years, another lesson has become more obvious to me: You can have everything that most people dream of, and still not find happiness. For Lacey, happiness was beer, buddies, and billiards at a dollar a game. The rest just ruined his day. His wife didn't seem that happy either. I told this story for years, and, as I grew older I began to wonder if maybe I had made Lacey up. With the aid of the internet, I actually was able to find out more about him. He died years ago, still a rich man. Don't know if he died a happy man, but, he was rich...for what it's worth. • Donovan Baldwin

I, with my cheap red wine, Toast the moon, the stars, The darkness of the night, Which turns the world into A place fit for drinking poets, For, the sun, the king of daylight, Does not activate the bardic soul As does the silver lady and her cohort, In their black velvet dress, Scattering silver over everything. • Donovan Baldwin

Each day the perfectness Graces every Living thing With such glory It’s called the Golden Hour Vibrancy abounds Each color magnified The spender of nature In the Golden Hour This solis blaze To sip it’s sweetest flavor Honey dew filters all Awake the Golden Hour

Dancing quietly in my chair, To the quiet strains of a cheap Pinot Noir, Rhythm of the staccato drumbeats Of my fingers on your keys, As, in words of fantasy, I take you in my arms, Beneath an imaginary moon, Where I spend the evening Embracing your mind, Miming a close slow waltz. • Donovan Baldwin

Most beautiful flowers grow in earth, Becoming seductively delicious fruit, For nature is a sexy thing, Only enjoyed by those attuned To the sensual stimuli she offers Those who understand and gladly seize Her most unsubtle messages which So many, in mistaken virtue, ignore. • Donovan Baldwin

Perhaps within my dreams As I wander bodiless, yet, With all the desires of Flesh and spirit, I find Another, a kindred soul, Whose words and being Match those of my aura Which floats about me, Our beings ethereal will Unite so solidly that Upon awakening we find That all has become real. • Donovan Baldwin

You take me places With your touch Exiling all that’s wrong The way your hands  Move over me  In tender loving ways You make me moan Knowing just where I need it most And when it's done I beg for more Expiring what I own I’ll miss your ways And scented oil Until next time

How can this staid old poet, Scottish Pict and not Romany, Manifest so much gypsy blood, Wine red blood which boils in moonlight, Roiled by the sound of mad guitars, Or sad sad violins, Stirred by old stories, Tantalized by tales, Of times which might have been, Maybe never were, But, damn well should have? • Donovan Baldwin

I, self-proclaimed writer of poetry, Read a bit of doggerel, Listen to a country song, Watch a stream skipping over rocks, A bird flying by on a way to somewhere, Assist the sun in rising, later, Putting him to bed, and, Welcoming my lady moon, Lay down my pen in darkness, Close my eyes, and, Let my poem write itself. • Donovan Baldwin