April 2015
I am a poet living in the wilds of central Nebraska with his wife and two boys, two dogs and four cats. I write poetry to calm the mind and soothe the soul. At least my mind and soul.
Hope
the hope of spring in the air,
the windchill finally above zero,
geese and cranes fill sun drenched skies,
soaring over the river valley of ice and snow,
people greet each other,
smiles visible,
instead of their breath,
winter seems in retreat,
Spring advancing,
hope is in the air.
My Hero
the dog,
tan and long,
gracefully glides over the hills of sand,
slowing only to sniff the air,
happy only when in motion,
or asleep at my feet,
puppylike,
yet protective,
slayer of snakes,
and eater of flies,
my very own guardian.
Sounds
the sound of the lark,
soothing,
sound instead of noise,
belonging to this place,
and this time,
no cars or trains,
no sirens,
no foreign noise crowding out the native sounds,
the mind allowed to rest,
to think and wonder,
the five senses,
not overwhelmed,
the sound of serenity,
or at least of belonging.
The Marine
a marine uniform,
with medals upon the chest,
seen only in photographs,
until discovered after he died,
in the cedar chest,
at the foot of their bed,
worn on his wedding day,
with white hat and gloves,
a marine,
second to none,
and father to seven.
Stalked
a free spirit,
no longer wild,
no longer free,
stalked by cellphones,
twitters and tweets,
no moment its own,
sanctuary no longer exists,
this side of insanity,
stalked twenty four hours a day,
even when unplugged,
the spirit now,
only prey.
Awake
awake in the night,
too tired to think,
a cobweb hangs from the ceiling,
dancing in the stillness,
and the moonlight,
the clock ticks the hour away,
two in the morning,
sleep closes the eyes,
while the mind ponders,
why would a cobweb dance,
in the middle of the night.
the hope of spring in the air,
the windchill finally above zero,
geese and cranes fill sun drenched skies,
soaring over the river valley of ice and snow,
people greet each other,
smiles visible,
instead of their breath,
winter seems in retreat,
Spring advancing,
hope is in the air.
My Hero
the dog,
tan and long,
gracefully glides over the hills of sand,
slowing only to sniff the air,
happy only when in motion,
or asleep at my feet,
puppylike,
yet protective,
slayer of snakes,
and eater of flies,
my very own guardian.
Sounds
the sound of the lark,
soothing,
sound instead of noise,
belonging to this place,
and this time,
no cars or trains,
no sirens,
no foreign noise crowding out the native sounds,
the mind allowed to rest,
to think and wonder,
the five senses,
not overwhelmed,
the sound of serenity,
or at least of belonging.
The Marine
a marine uniform,
with medals upon the chest,
seen only in photographs,
until discovered after he died,
in the cedar chest,
at the foot of their bed,
worn on his wedding day,
with white hat and gloves,
a marine,
second to none,
and father to seven.
Stalked
a free spirit,
no longer wild,
no longer free,
stalked by cellphones,
twitters and tweets,
no moment its own,
sanctuary no longer exists,
this side of insanity,
stalked twenty four hours a day,
even when unplugged,
the spirit now,
only prey.
Awake
awake in the night,
too tired to think,
a cobweb hangs from the ceiling,
dancing in the stillness,
and the moonlight,
the clock ticks the hour away,
two in the morning,
sleep closes the eyes,
while the mind ponders,
why would a cobweb dance,
in the middle of the night.
©2015 Douglas Polk