February 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.
Hunting Season
pheasants in the field,
cornstalks crunch under foot,
a camera,
instead of a shotgun,
in hand,
hoping to capture this intruder from a foreign land,
brought over for rich men to hunt,
now a fugitive,
homeless,
haunting these plains.
Trails
wagon ruts scar the slopes,
imprinted in the soft rock and sand,
reminders of the past,
ghosts still walk the trail,
looking for a better path,
while highways of concrete cover much of the land,
erasing the scars,
leaving only the ghosts.
The Day Wakes
the morning mist floats down the valley,
wet the dew,
on the grass of the hay meadows,
Russian olive trees dance above the fog,
deer appear and begin to graze,
the valley wakes,
turkeys heard along the river bottom,
geese seen overhead,
watching my breath fade in the cold morning air,
my senses awaken,
along with the day.
Mind Breaking
classical music,
competes with my landlord's tv,
focus on the music,
the mind to rest,
tired of an imperfect world,
with news alerts,
and soap operas,
both real and staged,
only want a few moments of bliss,
to blow the clutter away,
mathematical perfection,
the violins continue to play.
Again
this moment not unique,
history only a maze,
run again and again,
only the rats,
think it new,
too ignorant or arrogant,
to accept the truth.
Good for the Soul
in the darkness I would begin,
bless me father for I have sinned,
he would ask me how long it had been,
since my last confession,
I would lie,
another sin,
and say a date,
though in truth,
I did not know,
he would ask about my sins,
the smell of pipe tobacco strong in that small cubicle,
I would run through the list,
made up on the way to church,
how the hell could I keep track of all the times I had cursed,
or gotten mad,
and don't even start with the masturbation,
so I would lie,
and be forgiven,
even with the lying,
I was truly sorry,
and that was the most important thing,
confession,
good for the soul.
©2015 Douglas Polk