The Journey

 

This is one of the first poems I ever had published. It was made into a story to go in a Children's Story Book, by Cherubic Press in the mid-1990's. I am quite proud how the message has stood the test of time. The poem was inspired by an encounter I had with a parent and her daughter, when my son was a pre-schooler. I was taking my son, who is medically challenged, to his classroom when we met this woman and her daughter in the hallway. The little girl stared at Ethan and asked her Mother what was wrong with him. The Mom grabbed her daughter by the shoulders, turned her around and slapped her hard across the face. The woman told the daughter not to be rude, staring and asking questions. I told her, it was ok we were not offended, but the woman said she would not allow her child to be rude to the unfortunate. . .That encounter was the seed for this poem, because I thought about how I would try to handle the situation if I was in her place.Thus my poem " The Journey", though the publisher liked a longer title. . . .

( in the poem, the refrain in my poem was like the title of the story . .the journey is different, but the trip is the same  . . . .dlp)

 

Two Poems which appeared at Poppy Road Review in 2015

 

Two Poems by Douglas Polk

Morning Drizzle

a morning drizzle,

raindrops,

soft and tender,

fall to the ground,

bring to mind,

tears by a graveside,

celebrating a long gentle life,

now done,

the magic unending,

alive in the rain.

The Cottonwood

biggest tree in the county,

almost a first memory,

here when great grandfather first settled,

a lonely sentinel on the plains,

a meeting spot in the day,

picnics and church revivals,

now more a memory,

than an actual tree,

trunk rotten,

dead branches on the ground.

A Winter Painting

 dark,

the colors opaque,

no warmth,

a winter painting,

the season  of darkness,

the sun,

year after year,

hoping to sneak away,

without anyone noticing,

but we do notice,

raising our voices in complaint.

Boy in the Crowd

 

Reflection: Poem 27

 Poem 27

a favorite painting,
created within the throes of depression,
angry brush strokes battle the demons of despair,
swords crossed in an epic struggle,
colors splatted as battles won and lost,
the war continuous,
canvas after canvas,
waged day after day,
until finally too tired to fight any more,
the demons dance,
and drift away victorious.