Albeit the Lies We Live

by Bruce Baker



Bruce Baker

Give me something to paint and I'll paint it

Just like it is. Anything else and you'll taint it

The image on the canvass is complete but you cannot see it

Don't worry, I can't either.

With every brush stroke, I envision its presence.

It's shy.

It's venomous.

It lurks in night's slumber

like a wayward voyeur

Right below the surface,

like sweat droplets treading in their

Own misery, taking up parcels of space,

nowhere for perfume to

Rest or take form.


pompous? It is what it is.


Absurd, unpredictable,

still hiding, still crying,


One chance

Take notice of

The passion that drifts, rocking in the wind

Blankets of nothingness below its descent,

its final resting place

Thalo Blue?

Harvest Green?

Burnt Sienna?

A dash of what? Everything is there. Trust

Me; I've been doing this for years

Palette empty now. Painting complete, but every artist can tell

That something in the menagerie of colors is not there. On

This canvass, the lies we live are missing

But no one, not even Picasso can paint that

Katrina, Katrina


Bruce Baker

You rose out of the sea

Like a drowning bubble of air

Gasping, longing for a breath

War-like dark clouds in tow

fingerlings of light

And tom-toms doubling as angry drums

You came in silence

A sky's reflection of blue,

A pack of wolves racing to feed




You've announced false comings before

What drove you to do it?

To rain down on pigtails,

Skin as soft as baby's breath,

Five fingers and toes we long for

Smiles worthy of a mothers tears,

A father's touch? Why Them?

They played with you, gave you

Pebbles, grains of sand to eat

Tickled your rotund belly

Why them?

The salt of the earth, uprooted, wretched

Souls, not knowing, not feeling despair,

Not given bread and water to bathe their palate

They appeared as ants fleeing from angry waters

To the rooftops of their mounds.

Nowhere to go. Only the heavens and the sound

Of forced air rips the air, like rouge clouds,

Winged iron beasts plucking them from their only

Acre, their only picking fields. Why them?

Tear down the wretched spirit of greed

Rain down on dead trees taken from their

Soil and made to shelter greed, lies, and excess

Devour the dark spirits of terror and oppression

Dance among your white caps and retreat

When you have claimed back a kindred spirt

But why so many children, orators, faces of innonence?

Katrina, Katrina, where are you now? Resting among

Thieves, giblet clinkers, and teeter totters. Rise you


in search of more light to bring.

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