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