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Copyright © 2010 by Mary Kennan Herbert and Cultural Logic, ISSN 1097-3087 

Two Poems 

Mary Kennan Herbert 

 

BEEN THERE, DONE THAT 

“We have heard with our ears, O God, our fathers have told us, what work thou didst in 
their days, in the times of old.” – Psalm 44:1 (KJV) 

 

Better to sleep, better to pull the comforter over my face. 

I’ve got a sword, but it's probably not trustworthy. Handsome, however, 

that golden gleam pretty irresistible. Any place. 

I just get tired of hearing the old stories. 

Media and talking heads surround me, with mikes and video cams 

to record what we want to say is happening, but it’s all the same, the mores. 

My father, your father, and the moms, have all said “I told you so.” 

They were prudent and heroic, saved their money and their squadron. 

They thanked the Deity, the gods (modern), and Lady Luck, didn't you know. 

We couldn’t win this election without the help of the Man Upstairs, 

the same source of beneficence and artifice as in old b/w movies, 

when FDR saved us all, in broad daylight, with or without aid from the stars. 

Yet, reminded of gaiety and guilt, I still want to trust my weapon 

if, as in Psalm 44, a dragon arrives on the scene. O Lord, if I forget you, 

you will still know what, I need my comforter, you will tuck me in. 

 

 

 



 

Copyright © 2010 by Mary Kennan Herbert and Cultural Logic, ISSN 1097-3087 2 

NOTHING TO SAY 

For a long time, an eon, I’ve stared at this screen. 

I try to think of something to say. The Muse 

left town; bored, she brushed cobwebs from her hair. 

Writer’s block has imprisoned me for months, 

I’m telling you. Believe me, there’s no there there. 

The Muse ignored me. She turned off her cell phone. 

For a long time, an eternity, I’ve stared at a sheet 

of parchment. This quill pen hid under a veil of dust. 

My ink well is crusted and dried. Supine words died. 

Writer’s block has imprisoned me for decades, 

maybe a century here by the dying candlelight. 

Idly, I practice my penmanship. Night owls hoot. 

For a long time, a millennium, I’ve stared at clay 

tablets stored just for this creative occasion. 

My stylus is at the ready, but no gods arrive. 

Writer’s block imprisons me. Floods come 

and recede. These cuneiform doodles are ample 

evidence that I have nothing today to offer you. 

For a long time I’ve waited for some sign, 

messages that the gods want me to communicate. 

But they are sleeping, snoring, dreaming, weeping.