July 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.
The Game
His baseball glove collects dust,
on the shelf in the garage,
stiff with age,
he is chasing a career now,
instead of fly balls,
grown up,
his life enters the middle innings,
while I watch from the bullpen,
as stiff as his glove.
The Novel
on the interstate,
lost in chapter twenty two,
in my mind,
the plot examined,
again and again,
as traffic zooms on by,
blinker on,
a lane change made,
wondering if the lead character is possibly gay,
or asexual,
tonight to be spent reading,
until the end,
and the curiosity sated.
A Holy Place
wild horse canyon,
where buffalo killed,
and horses kept,
in the soul of a maze,
of cactus and rock,
limestone among the sand,
ancient and holy,
sacred the space,
between these canyon walls,
hidden in this fly over land.
The Dandelion
the dandelion,
akin to love at first sight,
sun filled,
and beautiful,
in the morning light,
but after a day,
or two,
a pest of the first degree.
A Drink in a Bar
with relief in her eyes,
the barmaid comments on my hat,
her tan and jeans,
highlight a body she can be proud of,
in this bar full of young men,
with libidos running wild,
an old man rises in stature,
safe,
only asking the drinks served promptly,
I smile my thanks as she takes my order,
wondering where the years went,
and when did I become a safe old man.
The Barbershop
sitting quiet,
awaiting my turn,
fishing stories told and retold,
by the ever present old, old men,
trophy fish and buffalo heads,
hanging from the wall,
the aroma of the place,
masculine,
tobacco and hair tonic,
and old man cologne,
crewcuts and flat tops ruled the day,
at the old barber shop downtown.
Summer Here
the hay meadow mowed,
cut and stacked,
a smell all its own,
announcing summer finally here,
soon there will be rodeos,
street dances,
and ice cold beer,
feeling ready to celebrate,
the hay cut and stacked.
His baseball glove collects dust,
on the shelf in the garage,
stiff with age,
he is chasing a career now,
instead of fly balls,
grown up,
his life enters the middle innings,
while I watch from the bullpen,
as stiff as his glove.
The Novel
on the interstate,
lost in chapter twenty two,
in my mind,
the plot examined,
again and again,
as traffic zooms on by,
blinker on,
a lane change made,
wondering if the lead character is possibly gay,
or asexual,
tonight to be spent reading,
until the end,
and the curiosity sated.
A Holy Place
wild horse canyon,
where buffalo killed,
and horses kept,
in the soul of a maze,
of cactus and rock,
limestone among the sand,
ancient and holy,
sacred the space,
between these canyon walls,
hidden in this fly over land.
The Dandelion
the dandelion,
akin to love at first sight,
sun filled,
and beautiful,
in the morning light,
but after a day,
or two,
a pest of the first degree.
A Drink in a Bar
with relief in her eyes,
the barmaid comments on my hat,
her tan and jeans,
highlight a body she can be proud of,
in this bar full of young men,
with libidos running wild,
an old man rises in stature,
safe,
only asking the drinks served promptly,
I smile my thanks as she takes my order,
wondering where the years went,
and when did I become a safe old man.
The Barbershop
sitting quiet,
awaiting my turn,
fishing stories told and retold,
by the ever present old, old men,
trophy fish and buffalo heads,
hanging from the wall,
the aroma of the place,
masculine,
tobacco and hair tonic,
and old man cologne,
crewcuts and flat tops ruled the day,
at the old barber shop downtown.
Summer Here
the hay meadow mowed,
cut and stacked,
a smell all its own,
announcing summer finally here,
soon there will be rodeos,
street dances,
and ice cold beer,
feeling ready to celebrate,
the hay cut and stacked.
©2015 Douglas Polk