The Fishing Hole

The Fishing Hole

memories of sun filled afternoons,
and childhood adventures,
always with a brother or friend,
the fear of snakes so very strong,
until thrown into a barn,
the door locked,
and my father chuckled,
"deal with them,
you will one day thank me,"
he was so right,
for it was soon discovered,
the joy of time spent alone,
at the fishing hole,
a treasure,
priceless beyond words .

Angel

Angel

dressed in white,

trapped within a dream,

you are my angel,

a reason to continue the struggle,

but cynic that I am,

doubts begin to bubble to the surface of my mind,

would your love be worth the cost?

can you shelter me from the storms?

purity idealized,

can it truly exist?

or is it an illusion with which to manipulate,

and control,

angel,

captured within the colors of the page,

you shall remain.

Douglas Polk

Harmon

Harmon

a city park,
paradise made,
enjoyed by citizens of the region,
wondrous the memories made in the park,
football games,
or soothing walks following the winding water,
through the rocks brought here in the dirty thirties,
when the park only a hope and a prayer,
a dream,
of a paradise to be shared by the citizens of the region.

Douglas Polk

Reality Seen

Reality Seen

thoughts emerge from the murk,

half born,

struggling this way and that,

fighting for life before being devoured by the doubts,

and indecision,

predators roaming the swampy slime,

attempting to kill any chances for change,

or growth,

stability and security prized more than freedom or imagination,

evolution a slow witted process,

success much more likely a mistake or accident,

than a measured response to the reality seen,

and experienced,

emotions,

 both friend and foe,

helping and hurting the ability to think,

and create,

in this fertile sludge,

consisting of the remnants of past thoughts,

and desires,

hope and truth,

fertilize new thoughts and beliefs,

pure intentions,

truly ironic in the swampy slime,

life and reality,

begin within,

the world seen,

only the illusion of mind and beliefs,

molded and manipulated in the murk,

where thoughts half born.

Douglas Polk

Homesick

Homesick

lonely days spent in the hills,

remembered with fondness,

focusing on priorities took less work,

feeling muscles ache,

and the mind tired at the end of the day,

from contemplating God's designs,

not questioning,

or thinking small,

akin to the way politicians,

and city folk do,

thinking only of themselves and how they are affected,

worrying about others instead of themselves,

good works done,

to avoid looking into the soul,

and to soften the morning ritual of looking in the mirror,

in the hills there are no crutches,

no other lives to perfect,

alone and in God's naked view,

the same as it shall be the day I die,

uncomfortable and liberating at the same time,

with nowhere to hide,

in the hills,

contemplating God's designs.







Douglas Polk

Ben playing with dog Barney in the snow.

Ethan getting a drink from the sprinkler

Pictures of Grandpa and Grandma Jensen as children

Pictures of Grandpa and Grandma Jensen as children

Behind the chair, Oscar (my grandfather) Jensen. In the chair Clara (Jensen) Shepherd, and Dewey Jensen.

Pearl (Zorn) Jensen, (my grandmother), and John Zorn.

A Tribute to Time and the New Year of 2017

Children from another time and another place,
with faces and smiles that I know,
seen in the day to day of this time and place,
in the sons and daughters,
and nieces and nephews,
and baby children as they grow,
Until they captured on the page,
in another time and another place,
waiting for future generations to discover.