Category: Poetry

4 Words In A Line

Published on by @DwPolk2 Comments

hard not to smile
when thinking that this
is one of my
favorite things in life

to put four words
on line after line
free to do this
when dishes are done

and the kids are
in bed, and no
one is speaking, not
even the incessant TV

can reach me now
for here it is
just one word, then
the next, neatly placed

like scrabble or a
crossword puzzle, or some
other kind of activity
where concentration is everything

anyway, this is mine
this little moment here
inside my brain’s imagination
where anything is possible

Lost Husband

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she wanted to dig up the body
not his body, but the wooden box
with ashes, he is too far from me
she said, need him closer, away from
rain seeping under dirt, talk never
turned to shovels, chardonnay, chardonnay
and words, words, left him in ground
but he wasn’t there either, missing
husband, reward upon return
she put up signs, but
no one ever called

At The Gym

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They look in the large mirror,
at biceps or red faces huffing,
breathing during squats or lunges,
shouldered weights pressing
gravity, reps into struggling flesh,

trick a body into staying young,
aging less, iron lifting medicine
like swallowing Omega-3 pills
to keep it all going. They worry
about who might be watching

contours, smooth, hard, flabby,
sagging skin or calves that pop.
They stay indoors listening to loud
music staring at reflections wanting
to halt time, be bigger, be stronger.

As if it were so simple, forgetting
that real strength is invisible, it dwells
immeasurable, unphotographable.
But for them it is easier to put it on
Instagram, pretend, pretend, pretend.

North Pond Hermit

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they say he broke
into dozens of homes
to steal calories, for
each winter he had

to survive Maine woods
under sleeping bag after
sleeping bag, wake himself
at 2am some freezing

nights just to move
around and live, not
die of frozen heart
stoppage of blood like

how time stood still
his twenty seven years
alone in trees listening
to the chickadees, chickadees

he listened more than
the rest of us
who were warm watching
M*A*S*H reruns, wondering when

the next war would
begin, but he never
even looked at his
own reflection, didn’t witness

the changing of human
events, his were the
seasons, and the thieving
moments late at night

so he could stay
alone forever, however long
that might be, but
one evening he was

caught and it all
ended, his silent solitude
had to speak again
sad, no longer free

Kentucky Fireflies

Published on by @DwPolk4 Comments

All is stillness in Kentucky woods
where fireflies flicker, earthen stars,
one, then another and another.
With my son, we get to sit and stare
together into glowing darkness,
watch floating journeys. He clicks our
flashlight to say hello, then asks me
to stay close before summer slumber.
Breathing softens, he falls asleep.
I lie next to him for many minutes,
let life be at ease. With dawn there
will be another day, but for now this
is all, this is everything.

Pretentious Poet with an MFA

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Oh yes, I am pretentious with my MFA and
experimental

verse.

I love to string esoteric
words together, as they anguish abstractly with
misunderstood longing mixed in moonlight.
This, this, and this, you see what I mean?
Of course you do, because you’re reading my
perfect poetry, does it not remind you of an
eigenvector, my precocious linear transformation
word that you pretend to know, but don’t,
because you are not me, you see, that is the
whole point of so much of this, divide, separate
me from you and all the rest, who shall and should
remain unpublished.

Grad School Late Night

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12am, my usual quitting time, when the
Cherry Coke has run out and I’m done
munching on plain M&M’S, and whatever
I’m writing or reading starts to repeat over
and over, telling me the night is complete.

But sometimes I have to push the clock back,
mix water in with the caffeine and sugar, stay
hydrated, which leads to bathroom, me walking
empty hallway corridors after 2am, maze of fluorescent
lit academia, everyone else sleeping, sleeping.

I turn off my ghosts are real imagination
and focus on whatever I’m thinking about,
Ambrose O’Higgins or some other obscure figure
from South America’s past, when turning the corner
on my way back to study, he screams, I scream.

A freaked out bearded janitor and me like looking into a
mirror seeing myself older with blotchy skin, but same
expression of holy mother of, until we both figure it out and
smile, laugh in fright, then wordlessly walk past each other
into the building’s vacant night.