Dennis Herrell has been writing poetry for forty years during his adult life as teacher, outside sales person, and, lately, antique dealer. He is like every poet in the world – always in training, and painfully aware of it. Enter his world to read some poems he has had published.
Counting To One Hundred
To be fair, you must count
at an even pace, with a measured breath
of voice clear and loud enough
to reach around giant tree trunks,
over ligustrum hedges,
to the farthest place a hider could hide.
It was understood by all members
of the league of hide-and-seek
that your tongue must not slur
the numbers, or skip,
or count by tens.
Your eyes must be tightly closed
and pressed into the crook of your arm,
up against the counting tree of It.
What fast decisions a runner had to make
in that space of one to hundred,
mind calculating on the go,
run, think, and run
as the count went on,
and you grew desperate in your search
for the most perfect of all the places.
In this game of hours that went to supper,
of long fun days
and precious weeks of summer,
what was fair was fair,
and what was right was always right.
(1/18/10 – Connecticut River Rev.)