Reid Baer grew up in Terre Haute, Indiana, where he first began writing poetry. He has worked for a number of years as a newspaper reporter (covering the crime beat) in Rockingham County, North Carolina. An accomplished award-winning playwright with productions in New York, Utah, Illinois and California, he is also a classically-trained pianist.
"WHY DO I WRITE?
I don't know. To tell the truth, I think I'm gonna quit. It's not worth it. Why would anyone willingly subject themselves to the terrible toll of that damnable process!?
It's like I'm sailing out to sea on a beautifully promising day only to find myself in the middle of a nasty storm. And then I happen to notice my dinghy ain't seaworthy. It feels real personal when the hard truth sinks in: some boats float and some don't.
Me? I'm sitting alone shivering in my skiff - stuck in the middle of nowhere. And I'm drowning! Timbers creak. Cold waters rush in as the uneven construction of my craft no longer holds up to the fierce ebb and flow of nature's force. I am swamped. I am inexorably plunged into the drink. I am in over my head - sucking more saltwater than air. I flail about, exhausted, exasperated, and experiencing panic deep from the shadow's undertow. Amidst mental jetsam and emotional flotsam, I reach out for whatever's near to save myself. A book.
Thankfully, writers - great and small - are there to support this wayward mariner. Shakespeare reaches out with his masterful hand and guides me like none other. D.H. Lawrence comes to my aid with Sons and Lovers. Wordsworth throws me a life preserver trailing in clouds of glory, while expressions of bliss and initiation arrive from Jung, Campbell and Bly. Welwood points to a piece of driftwood that perfectly repairs a hole in the hull. Lord Byron nods toward the tangled rigging. I follow his inspired lead and pick up the pen.
I return to that great vision of the worthy sea captain steering his strong sleek vessel toward the sweet face of nature. My redesigned frame holds firm as I sail into her presence. She is beautiful and I am in awe. Up close I manage to flash a toothy grin. She smiles back and adds a little whistle that fills my mainsail with a wisp of wind, gracefully moving me along.
Poetry is in motion and I remember again: I know for at least another moment it's all worth it."
Like Love
Less like a tiny bright bauble
from a seedy five and dime
And more like a large rough-hewn
stone cut from a hill without hands
Then washed rinsed and polished
in the turbulent stream of time
Private Conversion
I remember my first
Secret meeting with God
I hid from my parents
Crawling out on the roof
On a star-lit summer night
Looking into the firmament
Knowing my quiet thoughts
Were heard and smiled upon
But I never told them
Top of the Page.
Hands
On the back
blue veins jut out slightly from
under a thin tanned layer stretching over
fingers too wide to fit between
black and white keys
On the front
blanched marble palms appear
to have survived any and all hard labor
unscathed to smooth skin
and fading scars
Fidgeting mitts
steady themselves wrapped underneath
the butt as Chickasaw County's custody tribunal
meets to determine how I've handled
my days as a father
Trimmed nails
can not stay still for long but
must be freed and examined thoroughly
for imperfections and explanations
to tough questions
Intertwining
friends knit together like
a prayer only briefly then bend
divided into clenched fists
ready to fight
Where will the boys be
without a man's guiding hand
now raised to the square and vowing to tell
the truth in a battle of face slapping
accusations
Perspiring palms press
against one another working to
wring out the worry and past failings
hoping all is forgiven or
forgotten
Life lines from a
firm disciplining hand live on
along with memories of gentle gestures
from dad at his best of times playing
and wrestling in fun
"You'll share
them," the judge
decides, "and somehow
you will have to work
it out together."
The left does not know
the right strong grip of my father's
rough and tumble way that held me around
the neck and would not let me go
even today
His hands have moved
from the back to the front at
my throat like a threat or a taunt that
I can do no better with my kids than
he did with his
So here I shall let loose
these children to their own mistakes instead of
holding them to mine as I fold my arms
lift my head and offer them into
God's hands
Top of the Page.
This World Was Organized Differently
'Twas not the pleasing Word
that moved my creation forward
but a mortal father's verbal thrashing that stretched
out strong
and grabbed young nature by the ear and yanked it
along
Top of the Page.
Good Farmer
Folks say
I'm a little man of
No great big deeds
I say
I'm growing great big love
With little seeds
The Rarest Poems
are kept within
myself without
putting them down
Top of the Page.
Blue Heron With Golden Grizzly
She unveils her bright blue wings deep inside the cave
For him - a heavy force rolled in dark clay
She stands here forever gentle without demands
Holding forth a glittering golden band
She submits the token to him in spirit light
Opening up another way in sight
She leaves her blessed endowment and flies above
To an eternal view with grounded love
Top of the Page.
(Copyright 2002 - All Rights Reserved by Reid Baer - No reproduction without express permission from the author)Letter to the Author: Reid Baer at bigbadgrizzlybaer@yahoo.com