Sign of the Times

Sign of the Times

I have decided for a while, instead of poetry, I will just give some background on the paintings I exhibit here.

Signs of the Times was inspired during one of Ethan's seizure, when we were in the hospital. The concept of the painting was the blips on the screen were telling our present and future to us. But there was much more to our lives than just the lines on a screen expressing brain wave activity. That is what the colors behind the lines was to represent, the color in our lives.

Mother Earth

Mother Earth

her body weak,

but her spirit strong,

she provides for us,

day after day,

sheltering us,

and feeding us,

as we argue and stray,

old now,

she does not respond like she once did,

more likely to lose her temper,

watching the destruction,

understanding eventually it must end,

until then,

though her body weak,

her spirit still strong,

as she helps meet our daily needs.

Douglas Polk

The Canal

The Canal

dug a hundred years or more ago,

a fountain of life,

straight the canal bed,

bringing water to weary and dry farms,

allowing life to grow away from the river,

in the rich sandy loam,

thanks should be prayed each day,

and every night,

to the men who dug the canal,

with the future in mind,

but now the pivots have taken its place,

an outdated relic from the past,

where young boys can play,

and catch toads and crawdads,

and dream about the days of yon.

Douglas Polk

Haunted

Haunting

ghosts haunt this painting,

that is clear,

unseen,

but now obvious to all who view the painting,

spirits unleashed,

howling in white,

as if released on the canvas,

to jar and remind,

life on this earth not eternal,

as they just bide their time,

haunting and howling at the moon.

Douglas Polk

Profiles Seen

Profiles Seen

the painting complete,

and the colors dry,

before the images seen,

profiles emerge,

of a lumberjack,

a president,

and Confucius,

with even pythons,

and asps,

as if the artist,

insane,

the profile seen.

Douglas Polk

Through My Eyes

Through My Eyes

the colors vivid,

through my eyes,

representing the world I see,

tranquil  blue,

while the other colors battle for a place on the canvas,

the image spiritual,

connecting with the inner self,

as if I am only a sketch artist,

drawing a portrait of the world,

the inner self knows,

and sees.

Douglas Polk

Crows in the Trees

Crows in the Trees

crows in the trees,

across the pond,

cackling loudly,

waiting for us to leave,

so they can feast on our crops,

and garden,

winter weather possible,

as the crows gather together,

a convention,

with squawking,

and arguments,

the crow,

a symbolic bird,

representing politicians,

good for nothing,

except taking what isn't theirs.

Douglas Polk

Tulips

Tulips

planted in the backyard,
tulips,
petals so perfect and soft,
coming back,
year after year,
faithful,
until one year,
they don't appear,
wondering if they found a new home,
or something more,
it troubles the mind,
thinking of change,
wishing things could always stay the same,
with the tulips,
planted in the backyard.

Douglas Polk

First Kiss

Kiss

a first kiss,

the emotion vivid,

feelings of love,

and longing,

strong,

the world seems new,

and different,

things unseen,

suddenly seen,

and understanding,

grows with the love.

Douglas Polk

My Universe

My Universe

my world filled with brown and red,

angry colors,

with a touch of blue,

peace and serenity,

just beyond my gasp,

if my world,

and universe could just expand,

or I could resolve the conflict,

felt in the depths of my soul,

my universe,

a restless place,

captive,

I remain.

Douglas Polk 

Church

Church

a painting shown to my son,

he asked me,

why did you paint a church?

confused,

I asked him,

why a church,

he saw God's spirit descending,

with altars and crosses,

I had  believed I had created an abstract,

inspired by a child's play room,

but my son says it is a church.

Douglas Polk

Casey Remembered

Casey Remembered

an abstract,

colors bounce through my mind,

when the painting completed,

the shock real,

my childhood horse,

seen and known instantly,

was he on my mind,

or did he enter the painting on his own,

the paintbrush scary,

if you don't feel in control.

Douglas Polk

Bluffs

Bluffs

spirits live in the canyons,

sacred the high peaks,

now home to big horn sheep,

through the eons,

the place special,

sought out by people,

home eternal,

at the center of the universe.

Douglas Polk

Blue Birds

Blue Birds

in the early afternoon,

listen to the blue birds,

singing the clouds away,

memorialized in print,

and on the big screen,

blue birds,

symbolic of a good attitude,

hope always around the corner,

a blue bird on my shoulder.

Douglas Polk

The Beast Within

The Beast Within

inside my soul,

a breast exists,

a spoiled little brat,

hating all but himself,

he haunts my days,

and rules my nights,

awaking me from sleep,

with paranoid thoughts,

and rants,

believing he is the one suffering,

existing in a soul of such a worthless being,

if roles reversed,

he assures me,

he would rule the world,

and command the page,

but I believe him to be a spoiled little brat,

for how am I,

weak and foolish me,

able to keep him captive,

and hold him back,

the beast inside of me.

Douglas Polk

Swamp

Swamp

watch your step,

for its a fact,

on the fringe of reality,

there exists little solid ground,

mostly swamp,

or bog,

waiting to take you down,

if thoughts not certain,

and actions pure,

the road to normalcy,

back across the bog,

where emotions stable,

and days trudged through,

without thought,

but here,

watch your step,

for there exists little solid ground.

Douglas Polk

Sun Dance

Sun Dance

holy the ground,

sacred the place,

spirits dance along with the people,

giving thanks for the beauty that is,

that was,

a shadow door,

briefly open between the two worlds,

honor and love,

shared and savored,

as the Sun travels the sky,

a witness to the beauty,

and purity,

of the spirits dance.

Douglas Polk

X Marks the Spot

X Marks the Spot

an x,

or maybe a sword handle,

paintings of the court,

royal blue,

a Jester's hat seen,

or possibly found,

marking a map,

riches and treasures,

buried beneath the x,

long ago,

in another age,

if x marks the spot.

Douglas Polk

Purple Dribbles

Purple Dribbles

lost,

the brush splashes purple upon the page,

attempting to sooth wounds deep in the psyche,

colors chosen,

hoping for salvation,

wanting to create something beautiful,

or at the very least,

kind,

the soul continues to suffer,

the brush finally silent,

its energy spent.

Douglas Polk

Dragon Lair

 The Dragon Lair

a place thoughts birthed,

fighting from their first breath of life,

hoping to survive the doubts,

and the dragons,

waiting to destroy them,

while the thoughts still weak,

isolated,

before other thoughts born,

and connected,

to create concepts,

multiplying and expanding,

in the blink of an eye,

the dragon lair,

where most thoughts die.

Douglas Polk

Imagination

Imagination

is it only lines on a page,

or is that a naked human quite enraged,

running to cover themselves,

behind the paints,

horses and branches,

or only lines upon the page,

imagination,

a wonderful thing/

Douglas Polk

Doodles

Doodles

paint slapped on the page,

doodles it seems,

nothing more,

nothing less,

maybe the artist only bored,

or maybe something more,

maybe the page cries out for the colors it wants,

asks the artist quite insistently,

no,

probably just doodles on the page.

Douglas Polk

Berries

Berries

low hanging fruit,

so inviting,

anticipation grows as it ripens,

savor the taste,

sweet or tart,

the wait almost more pleasurable than the tasting,

a analogy of life,

low hanging fruit.

Douglas Polk

The Preacher

The Preacher

he talked of love everyday,
spreading his arms and hands so wide,
love life,
engulf yourself in its glory,
life more than colors on a canvas,
or printing on a page,
walk among your neighbors,
talk and share,
moments of your time if nothing else,
for we are the ones,
who create the love that is in the air.

Douglas Polk

Flowers

Flowers

grown by hands,

old,

wrinkled,

the fingers bent,

beautiful,

much more so,

if the pain and struggles understood,

the flowers,

a symbol of a love for beauty,

she nourished in her heart through the years,

blooming anew,

each spring,

hope and love,

eternal.

Douglas Polk

The Dark of Night

The Dark of Night

my eyes awake to darkness,

fear grows in my brain,

isolated and alone,

floating in nothingness,

it does my soul good,

to believe I am not alone,

I race outside,

eyes on the country sky,

lit with stars and planets,

beyond number,

back in bed,

a tear shed,

for the millions of city dwellers,

never to have witnessed a night time country sky.

Douglas Polk

Icy Blue

Icy Blue

icy blue.

the flowers I see in my dreams,

the color of her eyes,

a memory from long long ago,

eyes that blue could not have been real,

but they were,

and so was she.

Douglas Polk

The Secret Gate

The Secret Gate

behind the secret gate,

 a trail to the river,

steep,

the path impossible by truck or car,

ancient,

winding this way and that,

always down,

closer and closer,

until you can hear the river before you see it,

a special gate to me,

unknown but to a chosen few,

who have walked the fence lines,

making repairs,

unused for years and years,

the wire rusty,

the grass growing over the faded trails,

a secret,

I have loved to keep,

a gate,

all my own.

Douglas Polk

The Decision

The Decision

life a struggle,

knocked down,

again and again,

only to pull yourself up,

time after time,

the cosmos,

only the battlefield,

or an active participant in the struggle,

tiring to say the least,

flow,

a log upon a river,

eyes closed,

feeling serene,

or open the eyes,

and have the courage to care,

life a struggle.

Douglas Polk

O.A.

O.A.

ramrod straight,

both in posture and spirit,

a man with no secrets,

but with a depth of character,

hard to phantom,

hard to explain,

his life uncomplicated,

yet complex just the same,

he rarely spoke,

and when he did,

he words simple,

but profound,

uttered only when the moment right,

instances,

when the listener could truly hear,

possessed of enlightenment,

and happy to share,

he a living breathing guardian,

now an angel,

a grandfather,

loved quite dear.

Douglas Polk