poetry and art by Douglas Polk. Art is politics . . .written, verbal and visual . . . .involving power, influence and conflict. Douglas Polk
this poem was inspired as I become an old man, and find all these thoughts I question whether I should express, as I age. Published Jan. 13.
The Voice
a voice heard inside the head,
an old testament type of voice,
prophet,
or crazed hermit,
maybe the audible approach,
of oncoming senility,
the prayer of the moment,
please allow the concepts to be,
reasonable,
understandable,
the voice continues inside the head,
demanding attention.
This poem was inspired by my son Ethan, and his first brain surgery, when he was nine. Probably the most terrifying experience of my life. Published by Scarlett Literary Magazine, May 2013.
Terrifying Truth
I tell him it will be alright,
Dad is here,
the doctors know their business,
no worries,
calm and lovingly,
I meet his gaze,
so trusting,
smiling,
attempting to hide,
the terror inside,
watching my son,
being wheeled away..
This poem was inspired by my childhood. Grandpa had an old tractor with iron tires, which he would stop and let me play on , when I was with him during his chores.. Published in Rope and Wire, March 2014
Tractor Stop
recruited to babysit,
my grandson accompanied me,
on the drive to check the cows,
he was quite bored until his eyes fell on the rusty old tractor,
parked in the weeds and trees.
he and grandpa had to stop,
we walked over through the weeds,
lifted him into the iron old tractor seat,
his eyes positively gleamed,
through the years that became our stop,
time worked into the schedule,
I would smoke a pipe,
and he would pretend to drive,
the old rusty tractor,
probably seems a little thing,
but few times mean more to me,
than my grandson's tractor stop.
This is a poem written in my college days, I believe is was published in 2009.
Crazy Thoughts
Crazy thoughts ramble inside my head,
thoughts I can not express, but only dread,
thoughts of reality and fantasy,
and the line between the two,
thoughts of hypocrisies committed,
and lies seen through,
thoughts of false hopes,
and endless clues,
thoughts of rebellion,
and anger hidden deep within,
thoughts of promises broken,
trust, it seems a mortal sin,
crazy thoughts rambling inside my head,
crazy unexpressed thoughts,
I can only dread.
This poem was inspired by a truth about life, which seems relevant in this age of Covid. Poem was published in 2016.
Truth
life a gift,
undeserved,
a jail sentence,
or a vacation to the tropics,
neither everlasting,
death to be faced,
sooner or later,
let's stop the pretending,
life not ours to own,
only a gift,
and death not easily controlled.
This was a poem written about the economy in 2013, but this poem could have been written at almost any time. The reality being the economy will never work completely for everyone. It almost seems, to create wealth someone has to make sacrifices . . .it works best when the sacrifices shared . . .but having the government deciding how these sacrifices will be shared invites epic and utter failure . .
The Recession
paper and promises,
used to manipulate reality,
money to be made,
while people starve,
ideology drifts,
people left behind,
waiting for times to change,
and the Sun to shine.
This poem was inspired by a house in my hometown across the street from the city auditorium. Published in 2012.
The House by the City Auditorium
stain glass windows, in the front door,
ornate and beautiful,
the scroll work on the gables,
but the floorboards of the porch,
rotten and broken,
vacant and abandoned,
the house stands alone,
the old woman finally died,
when I still a boy,
the house.
once a home,
now a place, for ghost stories,
and teenage boys,
smoking and drinking,
wonder if the old lady knows,
in her cold grave,
her heart aching
the mind weeping,
in the dark night,
outside my bedroom window.
This poem was inspired by my wife's grandmother and her belief in an old wive's tale about winter weather. Looking back, it seems she was usually right.
Eastern Winds
snow skies approach from the south,
winds roar from the east.
according to a Grandmother,
long of experience,
eastern winds foretell of blizzard drifts,
and biting cold,
a day for soup,
and baking in a kitchen,
warm and cozy,
while the menfolk,
and school boys,
ready the ranch for a white and freezing siege.
This poem was inspired by the dog barking at the front door, but never finding anything on the other side.
Ghosts
a dog on the couch,
looking out the window,
barking at ghosts,
in the rocking chair,
she sits.
defenseless.
pleading for protection,
the dog ignoring her pleas,
her ghosts real.
the dog's ghosts surly, only make-believe,
the ignorant beast,
still on the couch,
barking at ghosts.
This poem was inspired by a visit back to my hometown, after at least a decade. Time doesn't stand still anywhere, I guess . .. though sometimes it seems to . .
A Visit Home
old men,
gray specters of the men I once knew,
the one with the oxygen, gave me my first dip of chew,
the old man with the cane,
scared the hell out of me, the night I brought his daughter home,
with the sunrise,
memories flood the brain,
the smiles and sneers.
all the same,
only not nearly as frightening now, as then,
a bunch of old men,
worn and gray.
This poem was inspired, watching high school students when I would substitute teach. I am glad I did not go through my teens during times like these. When every moment was consumed worrying about social media postings, or bullying at school.
The Teenager
walking on eggs,
day after day,
unsure and unloved,
fear haunts her youthful eyes,
intent on being invisible,
she tries,
and tries.
while the older boys laugh,
and shout her name.
Time of year, reminded me of this poem. It was published in 2014.
Cranes
the crane migration,
an event to celebrate,
bird lovers, the world over,
flock to the Platte,
drawn to the spectacular,
in a land common as day,
common folks work their jobs,
and farmers work the land,
plant their crops,
while the quests marvel at the spectacle,
common as day,
in the land of the Platte.
This poem was inspired by my own boys when they were young. Oh how quickly time moved on.
Boys Playing
boys playing, an everyday occurrence,
I watch them in wonder,
my boys, created from a love,
between I and their mother,
boys playing,
moments special beyond words,
the sound of play, echo everyday,
yet seldom, the sounds truly heard,
boys playing,
time seemingly to go slow,
in reality marching its endless march as mysteriously the children grow,
boys playing,
once an everyday occurrence.
Apologize, unexpected trip to ER ended up a three day stay in the hospital. This poem from 2014 looks at faith in today's society. It was inspired by the governmental arrogance, in this period of history.
Without
without doubt,
there is no need of faith,
control breeds certainty,
allows for unbelief,
an illusion, as is much of life,
without meaning,
on a rock, revolving endlessly,
in the darkness of space.
When I was younger, I thought sundown was a magical time of day. Many of the beautiful sunsets are still burned into my brain. I was reminded of that feeling, a winter's eve a few winters ago. It was a sundown, in which it felt as if the magic had returned. Published 2014
Sundown
the day's edge between dark and light,
a moment mystical and elusive,
the eyes and mind easily deceived,
by a glimpse of the eternal,
when nothing seems real,
everything temporary and imperfect.
This poem was inspired by a memory with my son. I thought of this memory while I was battling my cancer, and the memory took on even more emotion, which I tried to capture in this poem. The poem was published in 2014.
Youth
I taste the salt on his brow as I kiss him,
he frowns and wipes his forehead,
my son,
nine years old, and too old for kisses,
and hugs,
but I can't help myself,
I rejoice in his aura,
breathe in the scent of bike rides,
and fishing trips to the river,
when life still new,
ever thankful for his presence,
reminding me what a blessing,
to remember the dreams of the young,
with winter soon closing in.
