A small collection of poems
Moving forward
I wonder what the rain will sound like once we’re no longer under this familiar tin roof
How will the floors creek and the walls pop?
Will I know it’s just the sounds of our new home?
What will the streets look like, illuminated under lamps?
Who will wander down
the sidewalk by our front door?
Are the squirrels going to chatter while small creatures find solace under
the plans I brought with me?
But most of all I wonder, is it going to feel like home?
Bones
Deep in the forest, there’s a house made of bones.
It’s not what you’d expect, it’s not sticks or stones.
Two tiny people call this place a home.
With a basement full of secrets and stories to be told.
And one day, when you die,
find a nice place to lie.
And don’t you fear.
When we come for your bones, we’ll use them gently in our home.
We mean you no harm.
It’s just the way things are.
We only like to take all those silly things you left behind.
And one day, where you lie,
it’ll all just be earth and sky.
And when
it’s time to die,
well, we’re all just bones left behind.
Deep in the forest, there’s a house made of bones.
It’s not what you’d expect, it’s not sticks or stones.
Two tiny people call this place a home.
With a basement full of secrets and stories to be told.
What We Were
Yesterday, I drove down your childhood street.
Being there reminds me of the days long before we were bold.
When our futures were bright.
Memories blend with fiction.
I’m lost, deep in thought.
Around me, it is dark.
The lamps do little to illuminate the pavement.
Nostalgia is mixed with dread
of what the future holds now that we are older.
Ezra Baker Poetry & Prose 