A Different Place
By John Herlihy

A few things take me to a different place;
I climb from the box into wide open space.
Writing poetry is one of those rare things;
My spirit comes alive as my red stylus sings.

The truth is we live common, humdrum lives,
Stuck inside a box where no fresh air thrives.
We earn our living from the drudgery of work;
We grow old and retire without a single perk.

We pretend that hope is just around the corner;
In my case, I lived abroad a perpetual foreigner.
Always seemingly outside in the cold looking in,
Surrounded by languages that sounded like Latin.

I grew up in the heady days of the flower children,
Smoking the grass and weed like a Tibetan pilgrim.
Suddenly, the world we live in seemed but a hoax,
As the pungent smoke turned everything into jokes.

Once the mood settled, one felt a sense of magic;
The days of our lives no longer seemed so tragic.
Everything that the senses now saw and touched
Seemed a different place with stardust brushed.

Color seemed deeply drained from heaven’s rainbow;
Layers of percussion and cords strummed life’s bow.
Lyrical melodies invaded every corner of the room,
A residue of trouble swept away by music’s broom.

May one last wish take me to that final resting place,
Welcomed with wide open arms and amazing grace.
Draw down the shades and slowly lower the lights,
When the last train departs on a way to new heights.