Wednesday, August 10, 2005

A Poem by Lee Herrick


I have no idea what priests
dream of on Christmas Eve, what prayer

a crippled dog might whine before the shotgun.
I have no more sense of what is sacred

than a monk might have, sweeping the temple
floor, slow gestures of honor to the left,

the right. Maybe the leaf of grass tells us
what is worthwhile. Maybe it tells us nothing.

Perhaps a sacred moment is a photograph
you look at over and over again, the one

of you and her, hands lightly clasped like you
did before prayer became necessary, the one

with the sinking cathedral in Mexico City rising up
behind you and a limping man frozen in time

to the right of you, the moment when she touched
your bare arm for the first time, her fingers

like cool flashes of heaven.

Originally published in The Haight Ashbury Literary Journal


Michael Parker said...

Absolutely beautiful, breathtaking poem, Lee. I really love this.

Artichoke Heart said...

Such lovely cool and clean lines. Thank you for posting it. :)

Pris said...

What am I going to do with you? You break my heart with your poetry, it's so beautiful!

Lee Herrick said...

Thank you, mp, lar, and pris so much for commenting as you have. I really, really appreciate it :)

Anonymous said...


that's a very nice poem! Love it!

mor chang said...

That's a very nice poem! Love it!

Bryan Thao Worra said...

Very nice work.

Makes me want to get back to doing some more writing myself, which is what the very best writing in the world is supposed to do. Do share more in the future. :)

barbara jane said...

wow lee, this is so lovely.

Lee Herrick said...

Bryan, BJPR:

I'm glad you like the poem and I appreciate you dropping in and commenting. Barbara, I dig those photos you've been posting. The boots with the dress were sweet.