Solitude

Solitude

alone with my thoughts,

a scary place to be,

thoughts of salvation,

and the darker side of me,

thoughts about relevance and worth,

and what does life mean,

these questions quite difficult,

if all I think about is  . . . .me.

Douglas Polk 

Early Morn

Early Morn

fog thick upon the garden,

hiding the flowers in the mist,

soon the sun shall burn away the gray,

and the flowers will shine in brilliance,

but before then,

there are chores to do,

and cows to feed,

and rituals done in the early morn.

Douglas Polk

On Blue

On Blue

a maze of colors,

though slightly faded in the bright of day,

flowers maybe,

bringing beauty to the world,

but that is not what I see,

a slow wilting of stalk and leaf,

the flowers beauty waning,

yet somehow more lovely,

and touching,

sadness,

remembering a beauty that once was,

still more glorious,

as the end draws near,

flowers withering,

on blue.

Douglas Polk

A Farmer's Dream

A Farmer’s Dream

the old wooden fence,

standing crooked on arthritic knees,

aged and aching,

built by a grandfather,

almost a hundred years ago,

sheltering cattle from the Nebraska snow,

year after year,

the wood,

a faded gray,

petrified,

hard as stone,

standing even after the farmstead abandoned,

outlasting the grandfather,

and his dreams,

his children and grand children all moved away,

city dwellers,

dependent on others for food,

and finance,

as if his dreams in vain.

Douglas Polk

Fires in the Soul

Fires in the Soul

fires rage,

built of anger and repressed feelings,

the self inside unsure,

afraid to be engulfed by the fire,

yet trying to be true to self,

and express the rage in a civilized manner,

prayers continue endlessly,

as the fires battled,

hoping to lose no more ground.

Douglas Polk

Autumn in the Hills

Autumn in the Hills

colors in the hills,

vivid and alive,

a time of change,

and preparation,

the winter sure to be hard and long,

autumn a time to savor the sun,

soon to be distant and cold,

and listen to the insects before the first frost,

autumn in the hills,

a wonderful place to be.

Douglas Polk

Her Garden

Her Garden

everyday the next door neighbor,

an old lady would be in her garden,

a small plot,

full of flowers and blooms of numerous kinds,

a college student,

I rented an apartment next door,

she would be in her garden when I walked to class,

we began a friendship,

talking of flowers and the future,

one morning I found her in tears,

by her little garden,

beer cans and cigarette butts,

and plants stepped on and destroyed,

we didn't not talk of flowers,

and I did not want to think of a future,

filled with college students,

who would step on flowers.

Douglas Polk

Park Thoughts

Park Thoughts

pathway in the park,

sheltered by the trees growing along the concrete path,

a place the imagination soars through space and time,

a playground of primeval forest,

or a Middle Age battle field with knights and princesses,

ground safe and serene,

shared with members of the community,

proud their imaginations still can soar,

to help a little child play out their childhood dreams,

on the pathway in the park.

Douglas Polk

Trapped

Trapped

caught in a web of no one's making,

options limited,

life choices difficult,

living a good life not an easy task,

courage needed,

along with faith,

and patience,

and love,

love of others,

and love of self,

understanding the universe created out of love.

Douglas Polk

Mysteries

Mysteries

illusions seen,

confusing and complex,

what is the meaning?

where is the reason?

chaotic?

or planned with infinite care?

the answer unknown,

illusions seen,

provide some clues,

focus must be right to wager a guess,

life a contradiction,

there is no dispute,

the advice given,

first look within,

before you look out.

Douglas Polk

Heartfelt

Heartfelt

my heart sings for the lonely places,

moments savored in solitude,

able to study the beauty around me,

drink it in,

a nectar to renew the soul,

beauty seen in the outcasts,

and misfits,

with character enough to let the world see,

who they are,

and what they believe,

in the sad days,

gray with rain,

beauty seen,

when the birds sing,

and the cows bawl,

and my son giggles at a private joke,

beautiful times,

causing my heart to sing.

Douglas Polk

A Painting

A Painting

faces seen in colors vivid,

nightmares,

the soul restless in viewing faces,

seen by the very few,

true souls,

with minds free,

able to imagine,

and experience,

the faces,

and their stories,

turn away,

the stories too sad,

too scary,

it is all a painting,

there are no faces,

no stories,

only colors,

vivid and bold.

Douglas Polk

Warriors

Warriors

birds and beasts,

battle through the eons,

eyes watching constant,

spirits strong,

these creatures,

holy and sacred,

making the earth revolve,

while the universe continues to expand,

birds and beasts,

struggle with their footholds,

life not a guarantee.

Douglas Polk

Hills

Hills

hills across the river,

towering towards the midday sun,

with hidden valleys,

full of grass,

and wild cattle,

left behind last year,

hills across the river,

wild and free,

an enemy to pickup or jeep,

horse country,

horses grunting as they climb your slopes,

sacred hills,

home of my grandfathers,

a place,

I miss,

yet these hills live in my soul,

close the eyes,

and listen to the wind,

and the birds,

and the insects,

my soul towering towards the midday sun.

Douglas Polk

The Blowout

The Blowout

the scar old,

yet growing year to year,

the land will one day heal,

if left alone,

but akin to a scab,

picked again and again,

cattle walk the pasture,

looking for food,

and the rains come,

and wash the scabs away,

leaving the old scar,

growing year to year.

Douglas Polk

Apocalypse

Apocalypse

critics scream,

the atmosphere burns,

cinders fall from the sky,

as bats fly in fear,

the earth on the brink of destruction,

yet people sleep deep into the night,

understanding there is nothing to be done,

the earth will survive,

whatever happens,

it is only mankind in danger,

but life will evolve,

and renew,

according to plans laid on the dawn of the universe.

Douglas Polk

Windmill

Windmill

a treasure in the hills of sand,
making life an option,
in this landscape of grass,
pumping cool clear water from the ancient sands,
a miracle of engineering,
opening the west to settlement,
in a land thought uninhabitable,
when blessed with wind,
the water flows and all is well,
but if the wind dies,
actions must be taken,
and cattle driven to water elsewhere,
and life no longer certain.

Numbers

Numbers

numbers are an unusual thing the mind sees,
prices,
statistics,
quotations,
and estimations,
a face seen along with with an age,
a foot comes in a size,
height and weight,
numbers,
numbers,
numbers,
the heart pleads for something more than numbers.

Douglas Polk

The Eye

The Eye

over molten lava the path does lead,
the eye watches,
the world encapsulated?
the world defined?
in its vision,
this lonely eye,
or only a voyeur,
a peeking tom,
living only through others joys and sorrows,
watching,
watching,
while the brave contemplate the molten lava,
for that is where the path does lead.

Me

Me


never whole,
or complete,
with eyes which can not see,
stumbling through the darkness,
in the brightest of lights,
I run through the days,
staining each life I meet,
never whole,
or truly complete.

Douglas Polk

Conquistador

Conquistador

setting out to conquer,

I travel within,

worlds filled with innocence,

soon put to the flame,

destroy and vanquish,

the beliefs held here,

never explored,

never discovered,

only buried in the ruins . . . . .

a map of my conquests,

tacked to my wall,

but late at night,

when the sweat begins,

and the mind reels in fear,

I wonder about the worlds lost,

my sins,

 tacked to the wall. 

Murky

Murky

ghost fish swim,

while I watch in guilt-ridden horror,

the world ending,

oceans dying,

and I am to blame,

running my air conditioning,

and driving my car,

I a sinner,

I do confess,

the world probably better when I am dead,

along with the rest of humanity,

dead,

all and everyone,

but the ghost fish.

Douglas Polk

Reflections

Reflections

the images seen,

never seem to be reality,

reflections,

only a surface image,

with nothing underneath,

to give the image character,

make the image breathe,

only an illusion,

a facade,

attempting us to believe,

only what we see,

with nothing underneath,

nothing within,

a world shallow,

filled with reflections.

Douglas Polk

Lost Creek

Lost Creek

by Douglas Polk
appeared in Camel Saloon

Lost Creek flowed on the fringe of town,
past haunted houses,
abandoned by all,
but the spirits and the farmers,
keeping cows on the rented land,
a place for lost boys to go,
the water cool and clean,
shaded by trees along the banks,
escape for an afternoon,
the troubles of home,
no worries of money or tomorrow,
able to revel in the wilderness,
an African Safari on the fringe of town,
Lost Creek,
a place lost boys go.

Iris

Iris

an iris bloom,

insects buzz,

and wild flowers sway in the wind,

memories of Grandma,

known for her award winning iris,

a flower traveling with the pioneers of the Oregon Trail,

bringing a feeling of home and belonging,

a feeling related to when viewing this painting,

an iris  bloom.

Douglas Polk

Sacred

Sacred

once sacred these hills of trees,
the spirits acknowledged,
and appreciated,
now only land and wood,
assets to be exploited,
but these hills have memories,
honoring those gone before,
literate in the cycle of life,
knowing the trees and land,
brothers and mother,
related to the family of man.

Douglas Polk

A New Day

A New Day

dawn breaks,
upon chaos,
the new day forms,
a miracle repeated day after day,
no guarantees,
a million events must happen right,
or life will not renew,
but eventually die,
the miracle ignored,
and savored by the very few.

Douglas Polk

Steps in the Park

Steps in the Park

a stairway,

symbolic of an approach to life,

one step at a time,

the focus on the next step,

not on the end of the journey,

steps along a rocky path,

life not always a smooth ride,

or an easy climb,

important to enjoy the trip,

and savor the view,

life short,

akin to the stairway in the park.

Douglas Polk

The Race to the Top

The Race to the Top

climb fast,

and don't look down,

the grip not secure,

fingers pried from their hand holds,

by others already there,

room at the top,

scarce,

bodies fall on a daily basis,

no safety net,

the moment of truth,

quickly at hand,

fight on,

climb,

climb,

there are no other options.

Douglas Polk

Valleys of Sand

Valleys of Sand


earth and sky,
valleys leading nowhere,
a sandhills maze,
the soul full,
amidst these miles and miles of emptiness,
only earth and sky,
seemingly how God intended,
the world seems right,
while riding these hills,
time eternal,
a life,
a snap of the fingers,
needs not be crammed to overfilling,
with the baggage of the day,
unburden thy self,
and ride the empty valleys,
alive and in the moment,
a maze which will never be conquered,
but it doesn't matter,
under endless skies,
among the miles and miles of emptiness,
engorging the soul.

Pods

Pods of Our Own Making

we travel through time,
in pods and bubbles of our own making,
misshapen and scarred,
from the conflicts along the way,
yet secure and protected,
time races on,
as we exist in our own little Edens,
republican,
democrat,
catholic,
protestant,
white,
black,
like pods attaching together,
creating colonies of like beings,
beautiful,
or monstrous,
a world once free,
bounded and fenced,
boundaries delineated,
crossed and one's own peril,
the world once creative,
now a stagnant place,
devoid of new ideas,
littered with pods of misshapen shape and size,
as this earth travels through time,
united only in our future destruction.

Douglas Polk