Prairie Poet | Duane Herrmann

I sing
of open spaces
vasty sky,
trees,
and the wind,
constant wind
over rolling prairie,
with creeks:
my home.


Duane L Herrmann was surprised to find himself in 1951 on a prairie farm.  Still trying to make sense of that, he’s grown fond of grass waving under wind, trees, and moonlight.  He survived a traumatic, abusive childhood embellished with dyslexia, ADHD (both unknown at the time), cyclothymia, now, PTSD.

November World | Duane Herrmann

Gray November sky,
trees are bare again
and the wind chills,
soon, I will be older.
Trees are full of birds,
going one direction:
fleeing south
ahead of cold and freezing;
long waiting is ahead.


Duane L Herrmann was surprised to find himself in 1951 on a prairie farm.  Still trying to make sense of that, he’s grown fond of grass waving under wind, trees, and moonlight.  He survived a traumatic, abusive childhood embellished with dyslexia, ADHD (both unknown at the time), cyclothymia, now, PTSD.

Birth Welcome | Duane Herrmann

Purple streaks across the sky,
oranges and reds,
set the autumn sun
over prairie grasses,
tan and yellow blowing,
waving under wind.
Any wonder why
I love this world
embracing me?


Duane L Herrmann was surprised to find himself in 1951 on a prairie farm.  Still trying to make sense of that, he’s grown fond of grass waving under wind, trees, and moonlight.  He survived a traumatic, abusive childhood embellished with dyslexia, ADHD (both unknown at the time), cyclothymia, now, PTSD.