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It's a haunting song, One high clear voice raised Backed by an orchestra Of wind and rain, Dynamic drumbeats of Thunder and lightning, As that ethereal voice Intones a melody of fantasy... Our dream's soundtrack. • Donovan Baldwin

love's like an ocean its tides so deeply flowing... floating wet and warm ----- ocean's quenching waves cooling my fires of desire... for all but my love ----- sounds of talking waves stories told in distant tongues... i sit and listen ----- warm waves on my toes, steals the sand beneath my feet... we hold each other ----- kiss in the shallows holding on in surging surf... dragging us deeper • Donovan Baldwin

dark streets of munich hookers at the rhumba bar... real old memories • Donovan Baldwin

so damn many scars a few happy memories how i became me • Donovan Baldwin

I knew he was crazy, But, he had no real friends. I took him with me To Munich, To The Rhumba Bar. Didn't like the booze, The service, The girls. Told me to get the car, He ran out, Jumped in, "Drive!!! I slashed their seats!" My favorite dive. Couldn't go back. The owner, Eddie the Jockey Was good with a knife... Too. • Donovan Baldwin

heavy lidded eyes many soft and sleepy sighs... carry you to bed ----- tuck you tightly in with many goodnight kisses... stand watch by your side

kneel at her altar touching all her sacred places holy rituals • Donovan Baldwin

On my morning paper route, Cobwebs spanned the path I rode on my bicycle, Through the woods from One house to another, Sparkling with the dew, It seemed a shame to Tear through them daily, Head down and arm up, Literally in headlong flight. • Often it would still be dark when I finished delivering my papers, and, on some warm mornings, I'd go down to the bay, take off my clothes, and skinny dip a little. • Donovan Baldwin

I miss filling my fountain pen, The smooth slide of inked nib Over paper, something more Satisfying than... Clicking, clacking keys, So impersonal, When I have known Writing as a hands on Experience in earlier years. Like the glide of pencil Lead, not really lead, but, It's what we said, upon The lined paper, Becoming poetry. • Donovan Baldwin

Burning hot engine block Busted knuckle Hand slippery on the wrench With sweat and blood. Who designed this anyway? No room to work without Scraping, scratching, or Burning something. Cold beer, sweat and pain... Fun Satuday afternoon! • Donovan Baldwin

i am a blank page write your poetry on me words i won't forget • Donovan Baldwin

Clusters of wisteria Brightly purple hung In the corner of Our backyard Accent to more subdued Yellow and white flowers Of wild honeysuckle, and, The short-lived white blooms Preceding lush blackberries. My faded photo taken sometime between 1960-1970. • Donovan Baldwin