Curls

curls of smoke on the page,

art if your definitions liberal,

happy the world non-judgmental,

at least in the imagination.

Douglas Polk

If

If Pigs Could Fly

when pigs fly,

my grandfather would say,

then the world a better place,

never understood why pigs flying made the world better,

maybe it was about things dreamed,

or believed,

or maybe about illusions seen through,

but pigs remain grounded,

just like grandpa,

when the routine expected,

and accepted,

without complaint.

Douglas Polk

Birds

Birds of Spring

cranes heard in the morning light,

a choir,

a thousand voices strong,

the essence of Spring,

celebrating the return of the sun,

flying north or south endlessly,

winter, spring, summer,

and fall,

marking the seasons like the calendar upon the wall,

cranes seen,

a harbinger of Spring.

Douglas Polk

Regrets

Regrets

she saw flowers,

where I saw weeds,

she built bridges,

when I dug moats,

goodness in the flesh,

looking in her eyes,

was kindness defined,

love personified,

an unrepentant sinner,

I was never fully able to reach across the divide,

my punishment,

to be separated,

and yet near enough to seen the pain in her eyes.

Douglas Polk

winds

Angry Winds

fall winds,

angry,

continue to blow,

the seasonal cycle delayed,

girls walk by,

in shorts and sandals,

mid-October,

when, we would walk in overboots and parkas,

years before,

the winds continue their protest of the changes,

people nervous and sick,

viruses flourish without the freeze,

the world turning upside down,

and inside out,

while are days pass away,

waiting,

afraid to act,

until life settles down,

we age and die,

in limbo,

as angry as the winds.

Douglas Polk

Lost Souls

Lost Souls

poets,

modern day prophets,

created not made,

whispers heard in the heart,

that stir the soul,

voices existing through the eons,

asking questions,

and awaiting answers,

the same questions,

but different the answers,

the soul serene,

if the answer found,

just and righteous,

but most times,

the answers,

incomplete,

raising more questions,

which cause the spirit to search,

further and further within,

until pathways lost,

no bread crumbs marking the way,

left lost,

in a void,

empty of everything,

but consciousness and thought,

words written,

to find our way out,

back to Pooh corner,

and childhood dreams.

Douglas Polk

blue

blue ice,

covering everything,

plants frozen,

leaves dead and brown,

necessary for life to once again,

begin anew.

Douglas Polk

River

in the hills,

my serenity saved,

watching the river flow,

in the valley below,

high on the hill,

in the wind and the sky,

my happiness complete,

when my feet in the sand,

of the high hills.

Douglas Polk

cavern ceilings

cavern ceilings,

where my nightmares dwell,

residing in the clay of my thoughts and dreams,

avoided,

until forced within,

the cavern ceilings,

a mural of my personal hell.

Douglas Polk

edge of town

the edge of town,

where my dreams begin,

among the lonesome hills of sand,

where God exists,

and still runs free,

instead of kidnapped and bound,

by the concepts of men.

Douglas Polk

confession

forgiveness asked,

but never received,

forgiveness given,

but never received,

trust must exist,

if the slate made clean,

forgiveness asked,

but never received.

Douglas Polk

fluid

colors pushed upon the page,

flowing in currents,

seen in the patterns of the colors,

flowing from top to below,

gravity at work,

in the design of the page.

Douglas Polk

Corner

the corner by the gate,

where the pheasants hide,

a thicket of berries and trees,

deep in the hills of sand,

a place of sanctuary,

for deer and cattle,

loved throughout the seasons,

a place of magic,

next to the gate,

in the corner of the pasture.

Douglas Polk 

People

people seen in the bubbles of color,

a London Bobbie,

or an astronaut,

a prophet,

and pilgrim,

or a pilot of an ancient airplane,

a robber,

and a witch,

in bubbles of color.

Douglas Polk

slash and burn

colors slashed upon the page,

slits or cuts,

maybe just lines,

thick or thin,

splashed upon the page,

until the artist tired,

or his brain tells him to stop.

Douglas Polk

River in Autumn

the river flows through the autumn,

unchanged among the changing leaves,

grasses brown,

and trees become bare,

the river not noticing the changes,

flows through the autumn.

Douglas Polk

Apples

apples,

wonderful the fruit,

bring to mind,

baked pies,

and crisps and crumbles,

caramel apples for Halloween,

and in the summer,

apples picked right from the tree.

Douglas Polk

Blind

now is the time,

when the blind lead the blind,

afraid to question,

followers follow,

blind men,

their sight sacrificed,

in the pursue of wealth, 

sex,

power,

and glory,

when the blind lead the blind.

Douglas Polk

Faces

faces emerge from the paint,

taunting the viewers,

smug in the safety of the canvas,

emotions mute,

faces seen emerging from the paint.

Douglas Polk

Ice

winter winds blow,

while ice attacks the trees and power lines,

using its mass,

to snap limbs,

and pull down wires,

hot with electricity,

fiery hot,

and icy cold,

at the same time.

Douglas Polk

birds

birds of a feather,

flock together,

enjoying the sameness,

while colors dance before their eyes,

tempting them to take a chance,

and leave their brethren behind.

Douglas Polk

ice

ice formed on the page,

overnight,

in the freezing cold,

killing leaves and fruits,

left upon the vine,

unwanted and unneeded,

at the moment at hand.

Douglas Polk

pond in the park

pond in the park,

manmade,

perfect in every way,

almost too much so,

the water always crystal clear,

and blue like the sky,

instead of the green brown water,

in rivers of the plains,

pond in the park,

a place to pretend.

Douglas Polk

air currents

air currents,

hot and cold,

battle in the skies,

armies,

war plans ever changing,

battle daily,

across the wide blue skies.

Douglas Polk

River Path

path to the river,

runs through the trees,

downward from the hills of sand,

a magical trip,

from an arid wasteland,

into a valley of life,

green and alive.

Douglas Polk

on edge

infestation,

crawly things,

wall to wall,

makes the nerves edgy,

and the skin does crawl,

the same as the crawly things,

wall to wall.

Douglas Polk

reflections

reflections in the mirror,
shame and anger,
and their brother fear,
none of them on speaking terms,
instead,
fighting over their place in the mirror.

Douglas Polk

unforeseen

the colors ooze,

one upon another,

an orgy of color,

and connections,

the page filled with unforeseen consequences,

an imitation of life.

Douglas Polk

Traffic

a universe of color on the page,
orderly,
traffic flowing in the big city,
colors going this way,
and that,
mapped out by brush stroke,
and a vision,
seen in the mind's eye.

Prayers

prayers said,

into the dark night,

calming fears,

and spreading hope,

knowing one is not alone.

Douglas Polk

Wild Sky

wild sky,

clouds like comets,

race across the day,

above the pond serene,

an empty  canvas,

on which the day is painted,

as clouds race across the sky.

Douglas Polk

lighthouse

the stone steps are what I remembered as a boy,

seemingly castle steps,

I which I was allowed to play,

but the memory faded with the years,

until one day,

unexpectedly, 

while on a walk in my college town,

I spotted the steps I remembered as a boy,

my heart burst,

and childhood dreams sprang back to life.

Douglas Polk

Pizza

a pizza painting,

full of good things,

colors and shapes,

the eyes digest piece after piece,

until too full,

and sick and tired of pizza.

Douglas Polk

River Valley

a river valley flows through the ranch of my parents,

the ranch sold,

but the river survives,

down among the trees by the river,

a village site,

of the ancient ones of long ago,

arrowheads found,

and bone and flint,

in the trees,

by the river,

that flows through my parents old ranch.

Douglas Polk

Ocean Creature

Ocean Creature

creature from the deep,

appeared on my canvas,

as if summoned from the depths,

of the ocean,

or of my mind,

I can never be sure,

but that is alright by me,

an old friend,

sea creature,

from the deep.

Douglas Polk

Hangover

Hangover

fuzzy and confused,

the painting unsure of what it wants to be,

colors soft,

as if the eyes can not stand too much color,

soothing in a sick sort of way,

akin to a hangover.

Douglas Polk

Look Closely

No poem today. This more a story. I painted this painting hoping to give it to my daughter in law, but thought the painting a failure. It was meant to be sacred, expressing the Jewish faith in a somber way. But when I was about to throw it away, I looked closely, and in the middle of the painting, the image I start to see, seems quite familiar to me. What do you think ?

Douglas Polk

Straw Bale

Straw Bale

bale in the pasture,

awaiting cattle,

and the winter snows,

precious food,

stored in open sight,

cattle dance and kick their way,

to the bales of hay,

left in the field,

on this summer day.

Douglas Polk

Veggie Omelette

Veggie Omelette

painted by my subconscious,

consists of everything I hate,

I a meat eater,

love the taste and feel of blood dripping from my lips,

a veggie omelette,

a nightmare realized.

Douglas Polk

Seventies

Seventies

a decade of disorder,

like the painting above,

faces seen in the haze,

sex, freedom,

and rock and roll,

now enslaving us in our old age,

probably better,

no to have revolted,

but what fun is that,

with no stories to tell.

Gates

Gates

(appeared in Rope and Wire Journal-May 2012)

Grandpa and I would salt and cake,

he’d drive the pickup,

I’d get the gates,

my older brothers thought I a fool,

getting gate after gate,

nine in all,

but they didn’t hear the stories Grandpa would tell,

or learn the secrets of doing good work well,

letting tools and nature,

give you a hand,

or understanding the farm,

and the lay of the land,

they only thought of the gates,

nine in all.

Douglas Polk

A Thistle

A Thistle 

a thistle found,

in these colors,

red, yellow and blue,

a weed,

hated in the prairie lands,

nowhere is it welcome,

a Cain,

an outcast,

destined to roam the earth,

looking for home.

Douglas Polk

River

in the valley of the hills,

a river flows,

surrounded by trees,

green the year around,

a place of the soul,

paradise found,

in the unlikely of places,

sand and grass all around.

Douglas Polk

Worker

Worker

days long,

hours hard,

day after day,

week after week,

year after year,

while the rich dart around the world,

overdosing,

and dying,

looking for a meaning to their lives,

they just can not seem to find,

while the worker works,

day after day,

year after year.

Douglas Polk

buffalo hunter

buffalo hunter

lost in the fog of time,

still upon your horse,

roaming the plains of this great land,

seen in the early morning fogs,

and in the last of the day's sunlight,

prayers said,

and pipes smoked for your success.

Douglas Polk

river

the river eternal,

flows through the hills of sand,

hiding from view,

hoping to remain unseen,

pure and untouched by man's dirty hands,

and chemicals,

river eternal,

the fountain of life,

hiding from view.

Douglas Polk

ghosts

autumn trees,

playing dead,

white ghosts,

not yet come to life,

but wait for Spring,

then view the autumn trees,

when the ghosts have faded away.

Douglas Polk

breath

the breath of the living,

creating life in the colors of the circle,

existence is real,

if only for a little while,

and if only for those who can see,

the breath of the living.

Douglas Polk

Jack

colors scream,
while Jack climbs his bean stalk,
evil lurks along the way,
hidden in the weeds,
and corn,
so golden yellow.

Douglas Polk

Spirit of the Buffalo

the spirit of the buffalo,

sacred,

breathes life into the painting,

ages past away,

until nothing left,

but the earth,

and the sky,

and the buffalo.

Douglas Polk