Friday, September 06, 2019


Under the Sea
—Poems and Paintings by Douglas Polk, Kearney, Nebraska


the urge to create,
a spark within,
akin to a first breath,
a moment,
anything possible,
everything new,
so precious,
and so very rare,
extremely difficult to appreciate,
difficult to share,
the mundane,
a tidal wave,
flooding the soul,
day after day.

 Walking On Air


color on canvas,
stirs his soul,
communication attempted,
across the great divide,
in the core of his soul,
hope eternal,
on edge,
and paint brush in hand,
he holds his breath,
as the painting progresses,

hoping time after time,
one day,
when the moment’s right,
the painting complete,
and a conversation can begin.

 Grandpa's Barn


she saw flowers,
where I saw weeds,
she built bridges,
I built walls,
goodness in the fresh,
looking into her eyes was kindness defined,
love personified,
an unrepentant sinner,
I was never fully able to reach across the divide,
my punishment,
to be separated,
and yet see the sadness in her eyes.

 Reflections in the Mirror


the image seen,
but accepted as reality,
only the act of copying the reality seen,
only a copy,
by the view in the mirror.

 After the Snow


the stereo begins to play,
soothing the sound,
the soul begins to hum,
begins to sing,
the pain and hurt,
washed away,
the violins continue to play,
the soul gasping for breath,
through the tears,
and the healing.

 Ethnic Pride


a maze of canyons,
south of the River Platte,
the meeting place of igneous,
metamorphic, and sedimentary rock,

a meeting place of man,
occupied through the ages,
stone, bronze, and steel,

a shelter,
both in a spiritual and physical sense,
a place of campfires, caves
and community,
where buffalo hunted,
and trapped,
before the coming of the horse,

a place now of forgotten paths,
walked for thousands of years,
replaced by a cement sidewalk,
surrounding this ancient center of civilization,
of community.

 Perfect Day


ghosts and ghouls posted outside houses,
to confront the dead,
death acknowledged and celebrated,
in a sacred sort of way,
once a solemn somber night,
now a time for trick or treat,
and pumpkins,
sating young ones' dreams,
the nightmares and the fear,
things of the past,
death not so scary,
if buried in candy and sweets.


Today’s LittleNip:

—Douglas Polk

when pigs fly,
my Grandpa would say,
then the world’s a better place,
the illusions seen through,
a place he could dream,
and believe,
but pigs are grounded,
just like Grandpa's dreams,
in the routine,
expected and accepted,
without complaint.


—Medusa, welcoming Douglas Polk back to the Kitchen table today, and thanking him for bringing us colors, flying pigs and early ghosts and ghouls!

 Colors on Aqua
—Painting by Douglas Polk

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.