Contributor: D P Lambert

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Little third world girl,
The bones and skin of you,
Lie dying in the dust.

I see your eyes, wide and hollow,
On my screen.
Do you know of me?

The black flies buzz
And move about your face,
And you no longer brush them away.

For now you are waiting in the dust,
And do not feel the flies,
And do not feel the hunger . . . anymore.

You are waiting in the dust, little girl,
And you are looking at me
From the other side of the world.

If I could draw you from the tube
Into this room carpeted and clean,
Paneled and pictured,

What would you think of me?
Would you thank me?
Would you hate me?

Or, would you simply waste away.
Too lost and weak to hold my world--
My oh-so-civilized clutter.

These leather bound books
Of Shakespeare and Twain,
These disks of music and movement,

These Pollock and Picasso prints,
These calculators and cell phones,
These game cubes and computers,

This high definition, surround sound,
Color screen, wide-screen,
Flat-screen, miracle of technology--

Can it resurrect you from
The Great Darkness
That will be your dissolution?

How easily, with one God-like finger,
Can I bring this screen to darkness,
And to silence . . . as if you never were.

This could be, were it not
For my midnight dreams,
Where the shadow of you appears

To ask that unspoken question--
Whispering within me--
Whispering why

You are there and I am here--
So very far apart
Upon this great blue and ancient sphere.


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I'm a writer of short stories as well as poetry. I have a Master's degree in British Literature at Syracuse University and the University of Bridgeport. I greatly enjoy my writing process.