Patricia S. Baker

First printed in Highlights for Children, April 2013.

First printed in Highlights for Children, July 2009.

i handed out ten copies,
then broke out in coldest sweat;
how could i let them read these words—
i was no poet yet.

i can’t remember what was said
as they critiqued my poem;
but i could’ve kissed that guy who asked
if he could take it home.

©2006 by Patricia S. Baker
First printed in Writer’s Journal, (Nov/Dec 2006)

THE CHALICE

Those who would follow their Shepherd of love

must learn to drink of the cup from above.

Whether bitter or sweet, to sip of His wine

is to drink with a King from

a chalice divine.

The purest

of potion

from

choicest

of vine

is poured for me daily

from hands pierced for mine.

(Psalm 46)

BE still my child, come dwell with Me—
I STILL both heart and stormy sea.
Tho’ earth AND mountain fall away
My children KNOW and on Me stay.
I am the One THAT gives them peace;
Tho’ kingdoms fall, I cannot cease.
To Jacob’s house I AM a rod;
Be still and know that I am GOD.

©2006 by Patricia S. Baker
First printed in The Lutheran Journal, (September 2006)

(Psalm 62)

FIND rest, my soul, in God alone,
The REST that comes to those who wait;
For You, O Lord, are a fortress strong—
Mere breath MY humble, low estate.
My heart and SOUL pour out to God
While on my knees IN prayer I groan;
My refuge is this GOD of love—
For hope is from my God ALONE.

©2007 by Patricia S. Baker
First published by The Deronda Review, (Winter 2009)

Exaggerated is this news we hear
Of villanelle’s untimely, sad demise;
So, poet, now you wipe away that tear.

Though villanelle remains a form quite queer,
Reports of death are only bold-faced lies;
Exaggerated is this news we hear.

Instead we have report to bring you cheer;
One can write a villanelle if wise,
So, poet, now you wipe away that tear.

You still can write the verse you so revere,
Even if it takes a hundred tries;
Exaggerated is this news we hear.

The villanelle in poetry has no peer,
Though one may need to edit and revise;
So, poet, now you wipe away that tear—

Another chance to write this form is here!
And now the truth I guess you can surmise:
Exaggerated is this news we hear,
So, poet, now you wipe away that tear.

©2010 by Patricia S. Baker
First printed in Writers’ Journal, (May/June 2011, Vol. 32, No. 3, p. 50).

One poem, two poem
Read poem, blue poem
Black poem, blue poem
Old poem, new poem
This one has a little star.
Say! What a lot of
Poems there are.
Some are read
And some are blue.
Some are old
And some are new.
Some are sad.
And some are glad.
And some are very, very bad.
But I like Seuss
And this is why:
He makes me laugh
Instead of cry.

With Seuss I eat green eggs and ham
With someone nicknamed ‘Sam I Am,’
And while my mom goes out to shop
I’ll play a game of Hop on Pop.
And then I might just go out back
And play a game called Ring the Gak.
Then maybe it will start to rain,
And Cat in the Hat will come again.
And though it’s wet and it’s not sunny,
We’ll have lots of fun that’s funny.
He’ll show me some tricks ’til that fish starts to shout,
“He should not be here when your mother is out!”
Then he’ll balance that fish, and a cake, and some balls
‘Til everything wibbles and wobbles and falls.
Thing One and Thing Two will fly kites in the hall,
Making messes my mom wouldn’t care for at all!
Then after we clean up the last little spill
We’ll all call on Horton who lives in Who-ville,
Where a person’s a person no matter how small–
Their town was once saved by the smallest of all!
And after he hatches his egg we’ll head back
To our home riding high on the back of that Gak.
My mom will come home from her shopping and say,
“It’s time for bed, dear; now how was your day?”
And then in the shower, all soapy I’ll sing
With a musical character someone named ‘Ying.’
All clean and sung out, I’ll hop in a bed
Too short for that long-legged, big-footed Ned.

Yes, Seuss is a poet who’s never a bore,
And reading his poetry’s never a chore,
(Except when you’ve read it ten times in one night,
By the beam of a flickering, faulty flashlight).
So Seuss, I salute you, you’re a master of rhyme,
And a lover of children and fun for all time!

©2007 by Patricia S. Baker
First printed in Kwil Kids, (Autumn 2007)

(Psalm 91)

In the mountain of His majesty
My God has carved a cleft–
A secret place where I might hide
When soul is lost, bereft.

Dwelling in this Most High place
I find a refuge sure;
Abiding in His shade becomes
My resting place secure.

Though cares descend with dark’ning cloud
That Providence may bring,
There is no safer place to dwell
Than the shadow of His wing.

In the shadow of His presence
All dark is filled with light
When saturated by the One
Whose glory shines so bright.

©2007 by Patricia S. Baker
First printed by Live, (Winter 2007-2008)

Pride comes knocking at my door,
“Let me in,” smooth voice implores.
Relentlessly he knocks and pounds;
His noise throughout my house resounds.
I stand at peephole and debate,
Should I let him in my gate?
He’s dressed so fine, he’s known quite well,
And with such persistence rings my bell…
Yet I know that once invited in,
This guest is loath to leave again.
He’ll want to stay and sip some tea,
And fill my ear with pleasantry.
He won’t inquire how I have been,
Observing I look fine to him.
And leaning close he will confide
That he belongs here by my side.
He likes to say that we’re the best,
Comparing us to all the rest;
He whispers that we’ve done quite well,
And, oh, the stories he can tell!
His words like sugar in my tea,
At first seem rather sweet to me;
But as he shares these morsels free,
A quiet Voice breaks reverie:
“Whatever goodness you might find
Is dealt by hand of God so kind.
I find our teatime quite a bore–
It’s time to show this guest the door!”

No, I’ll not let Pride in today;
I think we’ll send him on his way…

©2006 by Patricia S. Baker
First printed by The Deronda Review, (Fall/Winter 2007)

Pride Comes Knocking (Again)

Again I heard persistent knock;
I peered through peephole, then turned lock–
for on my porch was wounded Pride,
pierced through with arrow in his side!
I quickly opened wide the door;
he staggered in, collapsed on floor.
I gasped, and knelt down, horrified,
“Oh, tell me, who has hurt you, Pride?”
And as I tended bleeding wound,
I listened, thoroughly attuned
to tale of woe so sad I cried;
how could they do that to poor Pride?

I asked him if he thought that he
might like to sip some healing tea.
He, smiling, got up off the floor–
already he was not so sore.
And as we sat and sipped our tea,
he shared more tales of pain with me.
I wept some more; he sighed, and said,
“You know, I guess I’m better dead.”
“Oh, no!” I answered, “You’ve been wronged!”
And so he bled, with sighs prolonged,
on tablecloth and napkins white
while we both pondered his sad plight.

Then suddenly a whisper stirred
the silence and these words I heard:
“Though wounded, he is still no friend
who bids your favor without end.
The heart that entertains this guest
finds neither service nor My rest.”
(Now whisper edged with gentle roar—)
“It’s time to show this guest the door!”
Pride groaned anew as we got up,
holding out his empty cup—
but once again that Voice and I
showed Pride the door, and bid goodbye.

©2009 Patricia S. Baker