by Douglas Polk

The State of Affairs
ignorance now,
the reality,
yet knowledge accumulated,
easily and endlessly,
on the web,
yet surprisingly,
the process of thought atrophies,
while interaction becomes more difficult,
with each passing day,
more like a herd of sheep,
or swine,
looking for cliffs,
possessed by demons,
of our own design.

Nebraska’s Hills of Sand

wind blown sand,
piled through the eons,
beachfront property,
for even the ocean has fled,
leaving hills of sand,
and desert dry,
an ocean of sand,
and grass,
wave upon wave,
yearning for the sea that once was.

Birds of Spring
cranes heard in the morning light,
a choir,
a thousand voices strong,
the essence of Spring,
celebrating the return of the sun,
flying north or south,
Spring after Spring,
Fall after Fall,
marking the seasons,
better than the calendar on the wall,
cranes heard,
a harbinger of Spring.

About the Author:

Douglas Polk is a poet living in the wilds of central Nebraska with his wife and son, two dogs and three cats. Polk has had over 1,000 poems published in  hundreds of publications.