January 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.
Eyes on the Ground
first day of school,
eyes on the ground,
so seemingly shy,
in reality,
scanning other students' shoes,
looking for broken shoelaces,
tied in knots,
those students might be poor like me,
the joy boundless before fifth grade year,
when an aunt gave cowboy boots,
outgrown by her own son,
no more eyes on the ground,
scanning shoelaces,
the gaze,
confident and clear,
until one day,
a classmate noticed,
the cowboy boots,
scuffed and unpolished,
his eyes on the ground.
Cozy
Bach fills the room,
on this cold winter night,
Brandenburg Concerto No. 5,
delicate and crisp,
like the icicles hanging from the eaves,
the music,
two hundred years old,
yet alive enough to warm the soul,
on a icy cold night,
a minus twenty five below.
Left Behind
glimpses and dreams,
from another time,
images awakened of her body,
taut and tight,
sweet her aura,
permission given to probe her body to the heart's delight,
until finally exploding in exultation,
claiming all the discoveries made,
for her,
and for me,
rights demanded to her,
body and soul,
she kisses me,
then shakes her head no,
images lost in the fog of time,
the lover left behind.
A Winter Fort
too cold to go out and play,
instead a fort made,
a secret hideaway,
a blanket stretched from a bookshelf,
to the back of the couch,
under which,
we were safe and secure,
out of view,
with backs to the corner,
ten years old,
eyes dancing in anticipation,
our place in the world found,
if only for an evening.
Poem 27
a favorite painting,
created within the throes of depression,
angry brush strokes battle the demons of despair,
swords crossed in an epic struggle,
colors splatted as battles won and lost,
the war continuous,
canvas after canvas,
waged day after day,
until finally too tired to fight any more,
the demons dance,
and drift away victorious.
Snow
snowflakes ride the wind,
with a hobo's love of travel,
flooding the plains as unwanted guests,
covering the land in an innocent white,
the color of purity,
and new beginnings,
a facade as deceitful,
as it is unwanted.
A Childhood Memory
breath visible above the home made quilt,
grayness retreats before the dawn,
shadows creep across the floor,
the night monsters fleeing,
with the breaking of the dawn.
©2015 Douglas Polk