The Dark Ages


icy winds blow through empty city streets,

cement canyons,

home to the cliff dwellers,

sheltering the less fortunate,

poverty rampant,

the natives hungry,

and cold,

waiting and praying,

someday they will again see the sun.





accused of being unfeeling,

silently I sit watching her,

let the match burn down to her fingertips,

manipulated into caring,

I decide I won't,


not about words,

not only of tender actions,

but sharing both pain or joy,

it need not be expressed,

to be felt,

still waters deep,

monstrously large,

and overwhelming,

the creatures felt to be swimming within,

maybe the crime,

caring too much,

blisters on her fingertips,

she lights the last match of the book,

and stares into my eyes.



River Visions


mist rises from the river,

hiding the ghosts of the past,

Indian villages,

easily imagined along the banks of the river,

homeland for hundreds and hundreds of years,

a lost paradise,

on the plains of the flat water.



Douglas Polk