Those Glorious Poems
By John Herlihy

These poems,
Unlikely totems.
Where do they come from?
A mystery I cannot shun.
They arrive; they are born;
They seem from my heart torn.
That’s all I can honestly tell you;
I know of nothing else further to say.
They lie down and grow on the page;
Their pungent smell seems of sage.
They are purely home-grown;
Their worlds have a life of their own.

“Poems,” you ask?
I flush at the question;
It lurks as a suggestion.
“Ah, those glorious poems,
I just throw them down,
Like ships run aground.
I feel their sympathy grow.
Their empathy in others sow.
What do these poems know?
What do they know of sorrow?
They flow from pen and ink;
They know not of life on the brink.

Yet, the poem is there;
Blotted dry, waiting patiently to share.
Ink splashed on creamy parchment;
Much more than mere adornment.
I don’t know where they come from;
I often feel like a bird pecking crumbs.
The poems lie there now on the page;
Like the poet, they will grow old with age.
Children still, to be picked up and read,
From ink my heart poured forth, bled.
Writing the poem with feathers of a dove;
Reading the poem is like falling in love.