May 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.
Flood Waters
spring time here,
when the flood waters come,
bikes ridden to the banks of the river,
south of town,
over run,
pools of water,
on hay meadows,
trapping catfish,
and carp,
baseball bats,
and pitchforks,
the fish doomed to die,
wrapping them in gunny sacks,
soaked in water,
caked with blood,
the fish eaten,
their entrails to fertilize Grandma's garden,
year after year,
Spring time here,
when the flood waters come.
Sky
the horizon widens,
the sky above,
explodes into view,
towering to rarefied heights,
big sky country,
thunderheads ride the wind,
clashing and arguing along the way,
jet treks trail across the blue,
while the sun guides the day,
a strict task master,
open sky,
still free above the range.
Caged
the rage inside primal,
cussing and cursing under the tongue,
until unleashed,
and unmasked,
fists thrown in a blinding rage,
looking up from the floor,
seeing him hit the wall,
again and again,
until the handcuffs employed,
and the rage re-caged,
and I am allowed to stand.
Spring Fling
trees bare and gray,
yesterday,
now dappled with green,
birds flitter past,
listen to them sing,
nests revisited,
plants unearthed,
the magic shared,
as the plants grow,
rekindled by love.
Native American History
violence and destruction,
rests between the typeset lines,
passed from generation to generation,
still other stories long untold,
linger on,
the pain alive,
a people destroyed,
again and again,
by textbook lies,
re-read,
year after year.
Wind
the wind rattles leaves among the trees,
ignored,
no one listens,
souls of the past,
voicing their torment,
or maybe only air pressure,
high flowing to low,
either way,
the winds unheard,
continue to blow.
High Plains
empty spaces,
full of sky,
freedom visualized,
with space to breathe,
time to think,
unplugged,
a life here not shared,
on social sites,
or divided among the masses,
but savored for one's own delight,
on the high plains.
©2015 Douglas Polk