A poem

If we bury the hatchet-
not in some senator’s skull-
we’re too old for that now-
will you still talk to me
about madness and peace?

About all the comet tail complications
that drift down from the sky
and land on my head,
knowing I’d comb through them
for the distraction…

A prose poem

You say she’s ill? She doesn’t look ill. Her open river stone toothed mouth still takes air and elements but the resulting dream thoughts do seem odd.

And those eyes black like the night kitchen when the light above the stove died still tell stories in silence, but they aren't…

Dan Rowell

History nerd and purveyor of words in Nowhereville, Va.

Get the Medium app

A button that says 'Download on the App Store', and if clicked it will lead you to the iOS App store
A button that says 'Get it on, Google Play', and if clicked it will lead you to the Google Play store