Tag Archives: poetry

Two Thousand Year Old Dream

Trekking on the ambient music,

We tuned into space mood.

We needed something outside,

Of chillwave for the road.

We got beat-focused on the down-

Tempo, nu-Jazz,

And rad samples interlaced with

Dance-y beats… and low fill.

Tripping and grinning,

In our new identities,

We rolled the Magnum,

Down the Avenue of the Giants,

To sleep like puppies under trees,

Older than Jesus Christ.

Yeah, that’s how we roll.

Feeling like prana?

Take a deep breath.

We gathered stones along the river,

Snapped photos of each other’s butts,

And watched the rippling water.

We climbed the switchbacks and slopes.

And didn’t let anyone tell us no.

I said, “This world is getting too complicated,

But nature is still the best dope.”

She knew exactly,

What I was talking about.

I still hate double rainbows.

I’m not a psychic.

I also hate tie-dyes and crystals.

I can’t predict shit.

I don’t read horoscopes.

I can’t tell you what’s happening,

Let alone what going to happen..

All of this gives me a bad name,

With the hippies.

Don’t worry,

I’m not a Christian, either.

I don’t even believe in Christ.

I can’t tell you if Jesus,

Was an actual man or just a myth.

I certainly don’t have faith,

He could walk on water,

Or raise the dead…including himself.

But I would love to walk on water.

Think of all those rivers I could cross,

Without getting my feet wet.

I would also like to be a superhero,

Just not with weird, hippie psychic powers.

I’m not a Muslim, either.

Heck, I’m not a Jew or Hindu.

I couldn’t give a foo,

About following your Voodoo.

Nor do I give a shinto,

Over you following your Dr. Who.

Do you dig it?

I’d rather listen to electronica,

Under 2,000 year old redwoods,

And gaze up between the branches,

Laughing and laughing,

About the Flying Spaghetti Monster.

I’d rather push aside all the misery,

Conflict, bigotry, and the litany

Of other man-made calamities and ask,

The woman I love standing next to me,

“Is it time to make a fire,

Prepare a meal, and lay our bed?”

So that we can finally,

Throw arms and legs around each other,

Listen to some breakbeat and space mood,

And then sleep..side by side.

As in a 2,000 year old dream.


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Another Dead Bush


I knew it was over when the rose bush died.

Symbolic of the parched times we shared.

Ironically, we dried up during in the rainy season.


It was sad to see what was once moist,

And untiring evaporate into an impoverished shrub,

Pleading to be dug up and composted.


I have died a thousand times with a thousand,

Different mitts around my neck. Yet, I refuse,

To pull the skin over my eyes and hide from love.


Tomorrow another radiant woman will unfold,

And place her tiny fingers over my lips,

Whispering a new song to my bed and garden.


And we will plant azaleas and golden apples,

While breathing-in the cool Pacific breeze.


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Night Strolls


It was nearly midnight and I was feeling restless.

The moon was full when I wandered onto the trails.

The smell of Bay leaves brimmed the air.


Your silence was heard loud and clear. You whispered,

Into my ear nothing but the breath of a woman,

Walking out the door and into her own personal forest.


I wanted to save you but I didn’t have the force.

I was fighting off my own whirlwind, and losing the contest.

I too needed to walk off into the woods alone.


After the earthquake the boards in the old house creaked.

As if she was telling me a home is not a home,

Unless there is a woman unequivocally in love.


I knew I was unable to deliver the goods. I needed,

To walk the trails at night and find my own strange way.


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Hurricane: A Collection of Poems

Hurricane A Collection of Poems

I am pleased to announce Expats Publishing’s first ebook, “Hurricane: A Collection of Poems” by Dean Walker (me). Edited by Expats Founding Member Melody Haislip.

Proceeds from this book goes to fund the websites ExpatsPost.com, ExpatsPoetry.com, and ExpatsArt.com.

Here is what another Expats Founding Member and successful published author has already said about the book:

“Dean, congratulations on the book. I have just read it and won’t be asking for money back. That was amazing, brought up so many emotions. You totally hit the nail on the head with these poems about the feelings, the low points as a relationship breaks down and the aftermath. Tomorrow I will Sing, Suicide Watch, Wild Geese and Lost were just a few of the ones where I was like ‘woh, these are really good’ and ending it with Voluptuous Cool Breath’d Earth was just a lift after plummeting those previous depths. I’m going to read this again this weekend as it definitely deserves more than one read (I was only going to read a few before bed but ended up reading the entire book). Superb Dean truly. As honest as it gets in writing, and I don’t even read that much poetry, was like one song after another or a set of stories. An accomplishment, and an inspiration towards honest writing from the heart, not to mention beautifully written and I’m looking forward to reading it again.” – Garry Crystal

Help Expats Media continue to pursue its mission to “promote writers and artists working outside the mainstream media” by purchasing this book. Money back guarantee!

Pick-up the book for only $4.99 at Amazon.com. That’s just $1 per chapter. A great deal that helps out a valuable media project.

Buy your copy today: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00EP6TCUE


Dean Walker

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Sonoma County’s Finest

blackberry bush

The fruit on the blackberry bush are shriveled and black.

The gravel driveway has washed-away and then there is you.

The gutters are clogged and falling-off the roof,

Due to the weight of neglect, and then there is you.

There are a few broken panes that we covered with cardboard,

To keep out the draft. And then there is me,

Going over the bills at midnight while you are asleep.

There is the two of us clinging to each other to conserve heat.

The beer bottles are piled-up around the kitchen sink.

The screen doors are torn to shreds and wasting away.

The crystal meth is apparent on our face,

And there is no escaping the obvious truth of you and me.

All the apples have fallen and the deer are having a feast,

While Sonoma County Sheriff knock and grind their teeth.


Filed under Poems

Open Window

Approach me in my sleep, come to me in dreams.
Blow in as a breeze through my open window.
Stir-up the curtains and rattle the glass panes.
My body lies on death’s bed clinching to a pillow.

Waiting for love to float in like an apparition,
to rescue me from this desperate affliction,
to dose me out of this drear hallucination,
to whisper into my ear, to speak of the years

long ago when love was real. When warm tears
were streams of joy. Sing softly as I am fragile
and yearn for the tenderness of the past.
Breathe into my lips so that I might last

one more day in your deep song of affection.
One more play in your ghostly presence.
Approach me in my sleep, come to me in dreams.
Blow in as a breeze through my open window.


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Expats Radio interviews Bill Friday


Hi Everyone, if you missed my interview with Bill Friday…check out our podcast. Host, yours truly, talks about our Expats Media project and has a conversation with Bill regarding blogging, writing, poetry, and his son.  In spite of the fact that I had a sore thoart, we had a sucessful first show. Check it out at the link below. Thanks!




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The Apple Blossom Parade

Apple Blossom Parade 2012 by Bilde

For the last 66 years, as the apple trees bloom,  my little town of Sebastopol, California hosts a ruckus festival and parade downtown and at Ives Park. Until recently, people were allowed to walk around with open containers of alcohol. While that is no longer permitted, heavy partying in the bars and at the park continues throughout the weekend.  Sebastopol is a quarkly town that likes to do things their own way. Much of the proceeds to this annual event goes to our local schools. The Press Democrat photo above is from yesterday’s parade. Below is a poem I updated for the occasion.

The Apple Blossom Parade

In 1914,

The First Methodist Church,

with its bold wooden steeple,

was burnt to the ground,

for preaching prohibition.

The good folks,

of Sebastopol,

weren’t buying the sermons.


the Apple Blossom Parade,

marches past the rebuilt church,

past the Masonic Temple,

past Martha’s ol’ Mexico,

selling soup bowl Margaritas,

past the Old Main Street Saloon,

overflowing with bikers,

past Jasper O’ Farrell’s,

The Hopmonk Tavern,

The Greenhouse, and G.T.O’s,

with their bottomless Bloody Marys.

Yes, as the apple trees bloom,

once again the entire town,

including marching bands,

and dachshunds in costumes,

spill past the restaurants and bars,

into Ives Park,

for a two day party,

featuring Wonder Bread 5,

and six dollar beers.

All to support,

Analy Union High School.

No wonder,

Luther Burbank and Charles Schulz,

called Sebastopol their home.

And The First,

Methodist Church,

now made of stone,

is the only quiet place in town.

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The Pipe Burst

The pipe burst, showering
the bathroom with scalding water.
Forcing me to flee naked into the cold.
I quickly grabbed a bathrobe,
and an old dim flashlight,
to scurry under the house,
and turn off the main valve.
Covered in mud in the dark,
I found myself looking at stars,
the blueness of the sky,
and the violet hue of sunrise,
silhouetting the mountain range.
The smell of coffee wafted outside,
as a pan faced barn owl swept by.


April 15, 2012 · 10:31 am

Adrienne Rich: RIP 1929 – 2012

(This article is a work in progress. Over the next couple days I will add to this posting.)


A poem by Adrienne Rich, from her collection “The School Among the Ruins”.

To Have Written the Truth

To have spent hours stalking the whine of an insect

have smashed its body in blood on a door

then lain sleepless with rage

To have played in the ship’s orchestra crossing

the triangle route

dissonant arpeggios under cocktail clatter

to have written the truth in a lightning flash

then crushed those words in your hand

balled-up and smoking

with self-absolution

easygoing pal of youth

leans in the doorframe

Kid, you always

took yourself so hard!


by Adrienne Rich

Adrienne Rich often wrote about death and the human condition. Shortly after her divorce, her husband committed suicide. During this time in her life, Rich became an outspoken feminist and anti-war activist. Yet, when I read her poems, I also feel like Rich is in someway acting like a psychologist trying to work out human pathologies.

In 2005 I was among one hundred fans crammed into a tiny bookstore in Marin, California, to listen to the 76-year-old poet rail against the “War on Terrorism” and the U.S. Government in general. In between her sharp criticism, she would read a poem or two, and then go back into her outrage with U.S. policies, covering a wide rage of issues. Yet, throughout the lecture and reading, Rich maintained a stillness and confidence which made her passionate performance not one of anger, but one of a combination of stirring intellect, honestly, and raw emotion. It was amazing how a 76-year-old woman can awaken an audience of all ages, simply with her words.

According to Poets.com:

“In 1997, she refused the National Medal of Arts, stating that “I could not accept such an award from President Clinton or this White House because the very meaning of art, as I understand it, is incompatible with the cynical politics of this administration.” She went on to say: “[Art] means nothing if it simply decorates the dinner table of the power which holds it hostage.””

Adrienne was the best example of a poet that lived her life believing, and proving, she could say and do anything and no one was going to hold her back.  Rich was an activist, poet, and inspiration to many. RIP, Master Poet Adrienne Rich.

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