A Maple

A Maple

the old maple,

the only evidence the old man was ever here,

in the middle of nowhere,

a place maples did not grow,

without encouragement,

his dreams are gone,

the same as his house,

and barn,

all that remains,

a maple,

old and out of place,

the same as the old man.

Douglas Polk

A Picture of a Soul

A Picture of a Soul


the soul consists of spots of white,
surrounded by blots of blood,
red and raw,
wounds inflicted,
but unnoticed,
or at least ignored,
beautiful the soul,
a place of peace and reprieve,
shared with no one,
his essence lives here,
protected by the scars inflicted upon the soul,
breathe deep,
smell the pain,
and the love,
sweet a soul still innocent,
 rare beyond belief,
belonging only to dreamers or  idiots,
a pitiful few,
still believing in purity,
for purity's sake.


Douglas Polk

River Memories

River Memories

summer river flow,
in happy sunny days,
my youth spent drinking your sweet water,
when swimming and tubing,
along your wild and exotic way,
you strengthened me for days spent in labor,
under the hot unforgiving sun,
renewal happening in your cool waters,
a first kiss,
skinny dipping with my first true love,
the memories,
a fountain of youth,
strengthening me for days spent old and bent,
and battling pain.



Douglas Polk

In the Eye of the Beholder

In the Eye of the Beholder

beauty seen,
but not understood,
or appreciated,
no less,
no more,
existing in limbo,
waiting,
and waiting,
until the decision made,
whether it is worth the viewing,
or must remain unseen,
in limbo.


Douglas Polk

The Explosion

The Explosion


cranes explode from the river Platte,
the moment,
one of movement and sound,
the river a bubbling, boiling cauldron of life,
glorious,
the Godhead seen,
for a moment,
so fleeting,
and unexpected,
understanding and existence,
far in advance of modern man,
the explosion on the Platte.

Douglas Polk

Always

Always

eyes watching,
never alone,
colors may change,
brush strokes evolve,
but eyes always watching,
yet the view,
not always the same,
events and images seen through different eyes,
meanings found,
in the depths of the mind,
life is choices,
always choices,
an effort to see through a million eyes,
not really wrong,
or ever truly right,
eyes watching,
am never alone,
life only choices . . . .
ever present,
there are always eyes,
watching . . . . .

Douglas Polk

The Fishing Hole

The Fishing Hole

memories of sun filled afternoons,
and childhood adventures,
always with a brother or friend,
the fear of snakes so very strong,
until thrown into a barn,
the door locked,
and my father chuckled,
"deal with them,
you will one day thank me,"
he was so right,
for it was soon discovered,
the joy of time spent alone,
at the fishing hole,
a treasure,
priceless beyond words .

Angel

Angel

dressed in white,

trapped within a dream,

you are my angel,

a reason to continue the struggle,

but cynic that I am,

doubts begin to bubble to the surface of my mind,

would your love be worth the cost?

can you shelter me from the storms?

purity idealized,

can it truly exist?

or is it an illusion with which to manipulate,

and control,

angel,

captured within the colors of the page,

you shall remain.

Douglas Polk

Harmon

Harmon

a city park,
paradise made,
enjoyed by citizens of the region,
wondrous the memories made in the park,
football games,
or soothing walks following the winding water,
through the rocks brought here in the dirty thirties,
when the park only a hope and a prayer,
a dream,
of a paradise to be shared by the citizens of the region.

Douglas Polk

Reality Seen

Reality Seen

thoughts emerge from the murk,

half born,

struggling this way and that,

fighting for life before being devoured by the doubts,

and indecision,

predators roaming the swampy slime,

attempting to kill any chances for change,

or growth,

stability and security prized more than freedom or imagination,

evolution a slow witted process,

success much more likely a mistake or accident,

than a measured response to the reality seen,

and experienced,

emotions,

 both friend and foe,

helping and hurting the ability to think,

and create,

in this fertile sludge,

consisting of the remnants of past thoughts,

and desires,

hope and truth,

fertilize new thoughts and beliefs,

pure intentions,

truly ironic in the swampy slime,

life and reality,

begin within,

the world seen,

only the illusion of mind and beliefs,

molded and manipulated in the murk,

where thoughts half born.

Douglas Polk

Homesick

Homesick

lonely days spent in the hills,

remembered with fondness,

focusing on priorities took less work,

feeling muscles ache,

and the mind tired at the end of the day,

from contemplating God's designs,

not questioning,

or thinking small,

akin to the way politicians,

and city folk do,

thinking only of themselves and how they are affected,

worrying about others instead of themselves,

good works done,

to avoid looking into the soul,

and to soften the morning ritual of looking in the mirror,

in the hills there are no crutches,

no other lives to perfect,

alone and in God's naked view,

the same as it shall be the day I die,

uncomfortable and liberating at the same time,

with nowhere to hide,

in the hills,

contemplating God's designs.







Douglas Polk