Iris

Iris

an iris bloom,

insects buzz,

and wild flowers sway in the wind,

memories of Grandma,

known for her award winning iris,

a flower traveling with the pioneers of the Oregon Trail,

bringing a feeling of home and belonging,

a feeling related to when viewing this painting,

an iris  bloom.

Douglas Polk

Sacred

Sacred

once sacred these hills of trees,
the spirits acknowledged,
and appreciated,
now only land and wood,
assets to be exploited,
but these hills have memories,
honoring those gone before,
literate in the cycle of life,
knowing the trees and land,
brothers and mother,
related to the family of man.

Douglas Polk

A New Day

A New Day

dawn breaks,
upon chaos,
the new day forms,
a miracle repeated day after day,
no guarantees,
a million events must happen right,
or life will not renew,
but eventually die,
the miracle ignored,
and savored by the very few.

Douglas Polk

Steps in the Park

Steps in the Park

a stairway,

symbolic of an approach to life,

one step at a time,

the focus on the next step,

not on the end of the journey,

steps along a rocky path,

life not always a smooth ride,

or an easy climb,

important to enjoy the trip,

and savor the view,

life short,

akin to the stairway in the park.

Douglas Polk

The Race to the Top

The Race to the Top

climb fast,

and don't look down,

the grip not secure,

fingers pried from their hand holds,

by others already there,

room at the top,

scarce,

bodies fall on a daily basis,

no safety net,

the moment of truth,

quickly at hand,

fight on,

climb,

climb,

there are no other options.

Douglas Polk

Valleys of Sand

Valleys of Sand


earth and sky,
valleys leading nowhere,
a sandhills maze,
the soul full,
amidst these miles and miles of emptiness,
only earth and sky,
seemingly how God intended,
the world seems right,
while riding these hills,
time eternal,
a life,
a snap of the fingers,
needs not be crammed to overfilling,
with the baggage of the day,
unburden thy self,
and ride the empty valleys,
alive and in the moment,
a maze which will never be conquered,
but it doesn't matter,
under endless skies,
among the miles and miles of emptiness,
engorging the soul.

Pods

Pods of Our Own Making

we travel through time,
in pods and bubbles of our own making,
misshapen and scarred,
from the conflicts along the way,
yet secure and protected,
time races on,
as we exist in our own little Edens,
republican,
democrat,
catholic,
protestant,
white,
black,
like pods attaching together,
creating colonies of like beings,
beautiful,
or monstrous,
a world once free,
bounded and fenced,
boundaries delineated,
crossed and one's own peril,
the world once creative,
now a stagnant place,
devoid of new ideas,
littered with pods of misshapen shape and size,
as this earth travels through time,
united only in our future destruction.

Douglas Polk