Rachel B. Baxter

free verse

Photo by Oscar Nord on Unsplash

I’m doing the thing I didn’t want to do

again.

I’m caught up in the web of flashing lies

again.

Pocket-sized slot machine resting by my bedside,
I think it’s time to cut the power cord.

A stiff neck and a broken spirit,
this game is rigged —…

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haiku

Photo by Rachel B. Baxter

I never knew how
to take care of rose bushes,
but now I’m learning.

And, by the way, a
rose can just be a rose with
no greater meaning,

it can just exist.
All of its complexities
are visually

apparent. Isn’t it
comforting to know that, to
share a world…

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The poem this poem is based on. Collage by Rachel B. Baxter.

One morning, I left the house
in my cable-knit cap and
boots, and by the time
I came home, summer
was seeping in through the floorboards
and through the attic window.
Nothing had been maintained —
not the yard, not my legs or toenails,
not the screen doors or storm windows,
though the heat’s arrival shouldn’t…

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Sun through clouds, photo by Rachel B. Baxter

I had a dream that a great brown bird,
like an eagle or an overgrown mourning dove,
flew above our neighborhood in long sweeping ovals
as a homing pigeon does.
“How does it feel,” I asked him, “to fly?”
He said nothing, only landed softly upon the grass
and covered my…

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Stones and footprints, photo by Rachel B. Baxter

It’s trite, sometimes,
what I write about,
and my fear is that my words
can’t stand on their own two legs
without an Instagram filter,
a middle school thesaurus makeover,
or cheap theatrics.
I am still the Valkyrie
of the words spoken in my home and in my mind,
but the outside world…

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poem

Photo by Rachel B. Baxter

The sorrow of Spring,
and the death it brings —

the calculating crush of uncertainty,
the chill in the wind
no golden ray can heat,
the tenuous mirage of brighter days,
the barometric pressure change.

The sorrow of Spring,
and the death it brings —
overzealous hellebore,
lonely in the quiet…

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Photo by Meg Jerrard on Unsplash

I like the calming click of the clock,
even if it’s never right,
save for two times a day.

Sometimes, home is where
the dogs are always barking and
the walls are closing in.

Sometimes, my tremolo heart
is an owl
full of bad omens and wisdoms
and an elusive lifestyle —…

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Rachel B. Baxter

Rachel B. Baxter

A few good stories, a thousand different versions. My dreams are written in form. Author of Mother Scorpion. http://rbbaxter.com