Tag Archives: Dennis Herrell

The Ring

by Dennis Herrell

She was looking at jewelry when her phone beeped.
She held the ring
and spoke quietly
about the hospice and mom.
She didn’t look at the ring or me or anything in particular
while saying that it wouldn’t be much longer
but probably not today or tonight,
that mom had said not to worry
and she loved them.

She put the ring back in the tray,
backed away from my counter, slipped out the door.
I made a wish to myself,
that a woman would come in and buy a lucky ring
and walk away happy.
I needed a happy woman with a mom
who didn’t have to be brave that day.


Sculpting Perfection

by Dennis Herrell

She is Honey
she is wife
but more essential as sculptor
of such a rough piece of work
as I the raw material.

Mean stone must be shaped
given form
given meaning
for I am without
and need constant but careful chipping
so that less is more.

I ultimately will satisfy
that knowing eye that pierces imperfection.
Oh, glory
the artist is sublime
who can work such ignoble man
into statuary of perfect discontent.


by Dennis Herrell

You were enthused
about pico de gallo
you made from scratch:

fresh tomato, cilantro,
onion, peppers
that rose up from

the tongue
to assault my nostrils
and blinking eyes,

ready for a good cry
about your recipe
for making a living.


Going To The Garden

by Dennis Herrell

I had the happening dream again
where I was standing in my garden
before a crop stunted from disorder.

I could feel my juices sour
all along my body and rise like mercury
until capped by a hard swallowed breath.
I tried to nudge the earth awake

with a slow tired foot
that seemed hesitant to find change.
I bent over looking for something green,
a crooked stick in my hand,

one step, then a prod.
How long I walked crouching
along the furrows trying to find
one shadow of my day’s growth.