Philip Baker Poems

Midnight comes so quickly and quietly
Ah, the bewitching hour
The only sound in here is the oscillation of the pedestal fan
And the gentle rustle as a warm westerly wind blows through the pandanus palms out front
...

It’s an endless cycle of self-deprecation
That search for perfection
That leaves me living in a HELL of my own making.
[smiles] What does that mean when I see Hell as others?
...

She came to me under cold, frosted skies
There was warmth in her laughter there was love in her eyes
She walked with me then, through the white snowflake streets
We sang songs to each other in the gas-fired heat
...