The Beginning

by Douglas Polk

the cosmos seen through the telescope,
history,
light seen from stars long dead,
a race backwards,
a video tape,
rewinding to the beginning,
watch as it rewinds,
sound not needed,
it only gets in the way.

A Memory

by Douglas Polk

fedoras sweaty,
black and gray,
hereford sold in the ring below,
farmer cattle,
more pet than livestock,
auctioned off,
while the wife and kids in the general store downtown,
trying on school clothes for the upcoming year

Antelope Valley

by Douglas Polk

eternal the view
sweetly serene
makes the heart ache
this place of forgotten lives
buried in a tiny cemetery
on the high plains of Nebraska
overlooking the valley
a community now
only of graves
the church in disrepair.

Fishing

by Douglas Polk

toes sink into the sandy bottom of the fishing pond,
a pedicure and massage,
wading in the warm water,
waves lap against knee and calve,
soothing both mind and soul,
birds call across the water,
keeping a neighborly eye on those of us who don't belong,
beavers or otters across the pond,
go about their daily routine,
worm mounted a the hook,
and the bobber on,
a graceful arc,
ripples spread as the bobber nestles into place,
enjoy the trees and sky,
enjoy the wait,
the strike sudden,
an electric jolt,
numbs both heart and hands,
until the bass reeled in,
a prayer said,
and with a thank you,
the fish released,
therapy of the very best kind at the fishing hole.

Guardians

by Douglas Polk

grandpa and grandma were guardians of Spring and Summer,
working hard year around to keep the spirit alive,
preserving the sun in shelves of jars,
in a cellar dark and dank,
the taste of chokecherry and strawberry,
stored to battle the gloom of winter,
canned corn and beans,
evidence of the growing power of the summer time sun,
and wine of apple and grape,
and even some dandelion,
to keep the spirit light,
and the body warm,
in dark winter nights,
all the work of grandpa and grandma,
guardians of the Summer time sun.

A Visit Home

by Douglas Polk

old men,
gray specters of the men I knew,
the one with the oxygen,
gave me my first dip of tobacco,
the old man with the cane,
scared the hell out of me,
the night I brought his daughter home with sunrise,
memories flood the brain,
the smiles and sneers all the same,
only not nearly as frightening,
when a bunch of old men,
worn and gray.

Sunday Snowfall

by Douglas Polk

evergreens tinted with white,
turtledoves descend from gray skies,
cooing in the cold,
snowflakes dance to the ground,
the music unheard,
but the rhythm seen,
as the snowflakes swirl,
the day seems a modern miracle,
the street silent,
empty,
a Sunday,
the day of rest,
a moment unexpected,
when all seems right with the world.

Surplus

by Douglas Polk

yarn on the living room floor,
among the patterns of dolls and teddy bears,
spread across the space to the kitchen door,
all stuffed with the surplus of love,
which seems to ooze from her very pores,
when out on the town,
children search her out for hugs and smiles,
wherever we go,
making me proud she is my wife,
and I fortunate enough to be her husband.

The City

by Douglas Polk

people and buildings in every direction,
cars dance to the beat of the lights,
pedestrians wrapped up in themselves,
race on the city sidewalks,
a thundering mass,
of isolated cells,
lives intersect but never connect,
the city a solar system,
with planets and stars,
orderly moving though space and time,
asteroids undisciplined,
less orderly,
sometimes collide,
the city the same as the universe,
makes me feel small,
creates doubts in my mind,
that God's Hands are on this all,
this mass of dreams and humanity,
the mind can not grasp a love this complete,
a love that strong,
unimaginable how tiring it must be,
to love a city,
full of streets.

winter walk

by Douglas Polk

shuffling through trees standing naked,
huddled against the cold,
dogs sniff the piles of fallen leaves mixed with snow,
awaiting the warm breath of the winter sun,
dreaming of the hot days of summer,
yet present in the moment,
wet and cold.

A Winter Content Remembered

by Douglas Polk

Saturday morning the adventure begins,
awake and dressed before the morning sun,
in the predawn light,
guns checked one last time,
anticipation dancing in every eye,
out to the windbreak on Grange corner,
the stalk begins,
the weeds and brush crunch and crackle underfoot,
only the wealthy can afford the dogs,
brothers and sisters too young to hunt,
sniff through the trees in place of the dogs,
while the guns walk with brothers both north and south,
alert for pheasants attempting to escape,
gun blasts fill the early morn,
the young become retrievers,
running birds down and breaking their necks,
then on to the next windbreak north of town,
happiness reigns,
we will not go hungry this winter,
the freezer at home,
stuffed with game,
enough to feed a family of twelve,
country and Catholic,
in this land of grain.

Coffee House Blues

by Douglas Polk

coughing uncontrollably,
mucus expelled in my direction,
wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve,
my hand over my cup of coffee,
hoping the drink still pure,
daydreams of smashing his forehead against the table,
and beating him bloody with my fists,
next time I will sit further away from the counter,
she is late,
as usual,
probably in the parking lot,
creating and practicing her excuse,
no respect for my intelligence,
she needs to believe her fairy tales,
too tired to really care,
what the fuck am I doing here once again,
is it love or boredom,
which I seek,
or want to run from,
she opens the door,
and sees me,
her game face on,
I silently curse myself,
wishing this a bar,
instead of a coffee house.

Lost Creek

by Douglas Polk

Lost Creek flowed on the fringe of town,
past haunted houses,
abandoned by all,
but the spirits and the farmers,
keeping cows on the rented land,
a place for lost boys to go,
the water cool and clean,
shaded by trees along the banks,
escape for an afternoon,
the troubles of home,
no worries of money or tomorrow,
able to revel in the wilderness,
an African Safari on the fringe of town,
Lost Creek,
a place lost boys go.

Once Upon a Summer

by Douglas Polk

July remembered from crew-cut days,
cuffs on my jeans,
four inches high,
clothes bought to last the next school year,
terrorists then only a minor worry,
nuclear destruction,
the nightmare imagined,
practice grabbing my knees,
under the desk,
bomb shelters,
in the neighborhoods of the rich kids,
the ones with something to lose,
fistfights over baseball cards,
or baseball stars,
when over,
we would get up and shake hands,
still hating the Yankees with all my heart,
jumping off the river bridge,
wade down past the bend,
in the shallows,
pitchforking catfish,
or the occasional frog for supper,
knowing when I could see the fireflies,
my day was at an end,
once upon a summer.

Open the Eyes

by Douglas Polk

close the eyes and listen to the silence,
sample the karma,
the aura of the life around,
soak in the goodness,
and the calm,
quiet the mind,
exhale the evil,
and open the eyes,
death not so terrifying.

Data

by Douglas Polk

data the gold of today,
mined by the governments of the world,
the importance in what we think,
what we say,
green energy,
powering the overlords,
and the drive to domination.

A Question of Policy, Verse II

by Douglas Polk

Syrians must be the scum of the earth,
sit by,
and watch them die,
year after year,
chemical weapons now engaged,
yet hard to verify,
dead men tell no lies.

The Burial

by Douglas Polk

getting out of the car she seemed worn and faded,
maybe it was the snow washing her color away,
her husband complained about the emptiness,
and driving through a blizzard on a stretch of road which reminded him of Siberia,
wondered why anyone would live here,
then caught my eye,
and apologized,
no offense taken I said,
she seemed a stranger,
until my younger brother called her old,
and made her smile,
for a moment I saw her,
the girl I had loved,
and chased away to the big city,
and this other man's arms,
she asked how the end was,
I lied,
and told her,
her mother did not suffer at all,
the guilt in her eyes,
told me she saw through my lie,
no matter,
in a few days after the funeral,
the memory will fade and evolve,
the guilt will begin to disappear,
unless improperly buried,
the guilt,
then festers and fills with promises broken,
remembered as the years fly by,
leaving scars upon the soul,
her mother said prayers for evolution,
as will I.

A Day Off

by Douglas Polk

wind and snow,
deep and cold,
no work today,
the internet down,
and electricity off,
forced to stop,
and take a minute to breathe,
unnerving,
when time enough to think of eternity.

Winter Storm

by Douglas Polk

Mother Nature enforces her will,
ice and snow,
keep the car from ascending the hill,
trapped and at her mercy,
hoping hers,
 a loving disposition.