Sunday, January 18, 2015

Douglas Polk- Three Poems


a morning pipe,
the wife hates the smoke,
planes race across the sky,
seven in number,
tails of white etched for a moment,
chalk on a slate of blue,
meetings to make,
schedules to keep,
and things to do,
winging from one coast to the other,
a peasant from the past,
I smoke my morning pipe,
far below,
and wonder,
would I be willing to trade places,
racing against deadlines,
and gravity,
or rather,
smoke my morning pipe,
feet solidly on the ground.
The Search

the world in bed,
and I on the kitchen floor,
searching for my sanity,
while dogs walk over me,
whining about who knows what,
three in the morning,
the dark of night,
the silence illuminating,
the mind able to breathe,
suck in the emptiness,
and the quiet,
like a strong night wind,
to blow away the clutter,
air out the stale thoughts,
and the forgotten lines,
finally letting me search for,
whatever I will find,
looking for my sanity.
A Terrorist's Terror

the same as presidents,
and governors,
now calling the shots,
no longer,
hunted and killed,
like rabid animals,
infecting the population,
apologies made,
we are told,
understanding the key,
the truth,
terrorists only fear the terror,
of an empty void,
and the knowledge,
nothing they can or will do,
will ever truly matter,
will ever change a thing,
their lives unimportant,
and worthless,
unnoticed in the killing,
and the dying.

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