—Poetry and Original Art by Douglas Polk, Kearney, NE
A WINTER CALLING
A Sunday ride,
once made in horse and buggy,
winter takes a break,
and holds its breath,
traveling county roads,
stopping, checking on friends,
who’s ill,
who’s gone,
Grandma collects her information,
adults chat around the fire,
while children run and play,
sleds on the hills,
everyone waiting,
for winter to once again,
come calling.
A Sunday ride,
once made in horse and buggy,
winter takes a break,
and holds its breath,
traveling county roads,
stopping, checking on friends,
who’s ill,
who’s gone,
Grandma collects her information,
adults chat around the fire,
while children run and play,
sleds on the hills,
everyone waiting,
for winter to once again,
come calling.
CHANGING SEASONS
the darkness creeps closer with each passing day,
a cat stalking unexpecting prey,
the days shortened,
akin to the light within my soul,
a candle flickering,
darkness flooding my world,
both inside and out,
I am told, it is only the changing of the seasons,
but it seems so much more,
a match lit in the wind,
a flame trying to take hold,
amidst the violence and the hate,
and the darkness,
the ever increasing darkness,
both inside and out.
the darkness creeps closer with each passing day,
a cat stalking unexpecting prey,
the days shortened,
akin to the light within my soul,
a candle flickering,
darkness flooding my world,
both inside and out,
I am told, it is only the changing of the seasons,
but it seems so much more,
a match lit in the wind,
a flame trying to take hold,
amidst the violence and the hate,
and the darkness,
the ever increasing darkness,
both inside and out.
MY SAND HILL SPACE
in this void of sky and grass,
the world less complicated,
serenity easier,
here where options understood,
one is born,
and one will die,
time, the asset to value,
relationships, the soil in which the spirit grows,
interconnected,
the same as the grass and sky.
in this void of sky and grass,
the world less complicated,
serenity easier,
here where options understood,
one is born,
and one will die,
time, the asset to value,
relationships, the soil in which the spirit grows,
interconnected,
the same as the grass and sky.
THE DISMAL RIVER
river wild,
untamed by human hands,
its course true,
and natural,
sparkling waters emerge from the ancient sands,
flowing through this desert land,
home of forgotten cultures,
and native tribes,
sacred,
same as the hills of sand,
river wild.
river wild,
untamed by human hands,
its course true,
and natural,
sparkling waters emerge from the ancient sands,
flowing through this desert land,
home of forgotten cultures,
and native tribes,
sacred,
same as the hills of sand,
river wild.
ART
the Divine felt in the words read,
and the painted skies,
brush strokes,
and pen strokes,
confident and bold,
the spirit captured,
holy,
but only in that moment,
on painted skies.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
THE FRINGE
—Douglas Polk
born to be different,
rest assured,
it is not one's choice,
always on the outside,
looking in,
always unknown,
our original sin,
or maybe,
it’s a blessing in disguise.
____________________
Welcome back to Douglas Polk, an artist-poet who drops in to the Kitchen now and then. This time, he has brought us some autumn colors in words and paint. Our thanks to you, Douglas!
•••Tonight (Thurs., 11/11), 5:30pm: Sat. Poetry Alliance presents Lisa Lewis in a Literary Lecture on “Publishing in a Literary Publication”. Zoom: us02web.zoom.us/j/81872835469/.
____________________
—Medusa, with a salute to our veterans on this Veterans’ Day, 2021!
—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.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
