March 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.
Mountains
mountains majestic,
reside above the day to day,
geological forces once reaching for the sun,
a weakness in the earth's crust discovered,
and the attempt begun,
a prison break,
frozen in time,
still captive,
imprisoned these rocks,
always to be,
a monument to the gods of geology.
Abstract
things not always as they seem,
if the earth be flat,
let it be,
a round earth,
not as easy to visualize,
not as easy to see,
abstract,
nothing black or white,
always a shade of gray,
facts,
and their meanings,
remain in dispute.
Darkest Morn
in the depths of the night,
the minutes tick on by,
eyes wide open,
thoughts refuse to die,
the early morn,
a time when reality quite shaky,
the soul uncaged,
allowed to fly,
but only for a moment,
in the depth of the night,
the minutes tick on by.
The Land
sacred the land,
in the valley of the Platte,
warriors brave,
resting here,
this valley,
life giving,
hidden between hills of sand,
buffalo once roamed,
numerous as the geese and the cranes now upon the land,
their bones nourish the valley,
and the holiness,
seen out of the corner of the eye,
dancing in the wind,
through the grasslands,
and fields of grain,
existing in the smell and feel of newly broken sod,
sacred the land,
in the valley of the Platte.
Winter
winter days,
dark and gray,
lifeless trees,
and fields of clay,
gone is the corn,
the gift of the Pawnee,
and the plains,
instead frost in the air,
and the lungs,
legs and arms stiff with cold,
and pain,
songs needed to warm the heart,
and fire the blood,
renew the hope in these winter days,
storm clouds outside,
the sky,
heavy with snow.
Rocks
rocks on the ground,
freed from mother earth,
the work of a dog,
walking the same backyard path to the river,
morning and evening,
checking his world,
looking and sniffing for the unfamiliar,
weathering away the soil,
day after day,
until the rocks finally free,
gleaming in the morning sun,
rejoicing in their freedom.
In the End
words empty,
souls bare,
mindless, endless tasks,
done without forethought,
footprints in the universe,
disappear,
as the idle gossip,
and the inane rise,
reigning over nation states,
returning to darkness.
mountains majestic,
reside above the day to day,
geological forces once reaching for the sun,
a weakness in the earth's crust discovered,
and the attempt begun,
a prison break,
frozen in time,
still captive,
imprisoned these rocks,
always to be,
a monument to the gods of geology.
Abstract
things not always as they seem,
if the earth be flat,
let it be,
a round earth,
not as easy to visualize,
not as easy to see,
abstract,
nothing black or white,
always a shade of gray,
facts,
and their meanings,
remain in dispute.
Darkest Morn
in the depths of the night,
the minutes tick on by,
eyes wide open,
thoughts refuse to die,
the early morn,
a time when reality quite shaky,
the soul uncaged,
allowed to fly,
but only for a moment,
in the depth of the night,
the minutes tick on by.
The Land
sacred the land,
in the valley of the Platte,
warriors brave,
resting here,
this valley,
life giving,
hidden between hills of sand,
buffalo once roamed,
numerous as the geese and the cranes now upon the land,
their bones nourish the valley,
and the holiness,
seen out of the corner of the eye,
dancing in the wind,
through the grasslands,
and fields of grain,
existing in the smell and feel of newly broken sod,
sacred the land,
in the valley of the Platte.
Winter
winter days,
dark and gray,
lifeless trees,
and fields of clay,
gone is the corn,
the gift of the Pawnee,
and the plains,
instead frost in the air,
and the lungs,
legs and arms stiff with cold,
and pain,
songs needed to warm the heart,
and fire the blood,
renew the hope in these winter days,
storm clouds outside,
the sky,
heavy with snow.
Rocks
rocks on the ground,
freed from mother earth,
the work of a dog,
walking the same backyard path to the river,
morning and evening,
checking his world,
looking and sniffing for the unfamiliar,
weathering away the soil,
day after day,
until the rocks finally free,
gleaming in the morning sun,
rejoicing in their freedom.
In the End
words empty,
souls bare,
mindless, endless tasks,
done without forethought,
footprints in the universe,
disappear,
as the idle gossip,
and the inane rise,
reigning over nation states,
returning to darkness.
©2015 Douglas Polk