Solitude

Solitude

alone with my thoughts,

a scary place to be,

thoughts of salvation,

and the darker side of me,

thoughts about relevance and worth,

and what does life mean,

these questions quite difficult,

if all I think about is  . . . .me.

Douglas Polk 

Early Morn

Early Morn

fog thick upon the garden,

hiding the flowers in the mist,

soon the sun shall burn away the gray,

and the flowers will shine in brilliance,

but before then,

there are chores to do,

and cows to feed,

and rituals done in the early morn.

Douglas Polk

On Blue

On Blue

a maze of colors,

though slightly faded in the bright of day,

flowers maybe,

bringing beauty to the world,

but that is not what I see,

a slow wilting of stalk and leaf,

the flowers beauty waning,

yet somehow more lovely,

and touching,

sadness,

remembering a beauty that once was,

still more glorious,

as the end draws near,

flowers withering,

on blue.

Douglas Polk

A Farmer's Dream

A Farmer’s Dream

the old wooden fence,

standing crooked on arthritic knees,

aged and aching,

built by a grandfather,

almost a hundred years ago,

sheltering cattle from the Nebraska snow,

year after year,

the wood,

a faded gray,

petrified,

hard as stone,

standing even after the farmstead abandoned,

outlasting the grandfather,

and his dreams,

his children and grand children all moved away,

city dwellers,

dependent on others for food,

and finance,

as if his dreams in vain.

Douglas Polk

Fires in the Soul

Fires in the Soul

fires rage,

built of anger and repressed feelings,

the self inside unsure,

afraid to be engulfed by the fire,

yet trying to be true to self,

and express the rage in a civilized manner,

prayers continue endlessly,

as the fires battled,

hoping to lose no more ground.

Douglas Polk

Autumn in the Hills

Autumn in the Hills

colors in the hills,

vivid and alive,

a time of change,

and preparation,

the winter sure to be hard and long,

autumn a time to savor the sun,

soon to be distant and cold,

and listen to the insects before the first frost,

autumn in the hills,

a wonderful place to be.

Douglas Polk

Her Garden

Her Garden

everyday the next door neighbor,

an old lady would be in her garden,

a small plot,

full of flowers and blooms of numerous kinds,

a college student,

I rented an apartment next door,

she would be in her garden when I walked to class,

we began a friendship,

talking of flowers and the future,

one morning I found her in tears,

by her little garden,

beer cans and cigarette butts,

and plants stepped on and destroyed,

we didn't not talk of flowers,

and I did not want to think of a future,

filled with college students,

who would step on flowers.

Douglas Polk