A Poet’s Poem
By John Herlihy

An idea sparks off the flint of the mind;
First it sputters then sparkles, one of a kind.
Layers lay hidden, inspiring, unique;
Meaning and significance is all I seek.
The idea still of rough cut, a ragged shape.
A mist that wishes a reality to make.
It seems but a mirage, all in a hush;
Then the flood gates open, all in a rush.
The idea grows legs as letters and words;
Soft tweets sound as dream songs of birds.

Everywhere I look lies a potential poem in wait.
The stars survey the darkness, watchmen at the gate;
The squirrel hugs the back of an eagle hitchin’ a ride.
Red balloons thrill the children as they overhead glide;
Butterflies drink drafts of flower pollen in tender sips.
On the horizon, the earth kisses the sky with soft lips.
Wolves vie with the wind in their attempts to howl;
The darkness of the night always moves on the prowl.
The day upstages night with the coming of the dawn;
In the silence of the forest flees a frightened fawn.

Every idea becomes fodder a new world to create;
Every emotion a knife edge, the idea to substantiate.
Every symbol a pictogram with universal appeal;
Every secret behind the images becomes incredibly real.
The dove peace, the wolf savagery, the seasons change;
All absorbed into the reader’s mind with incredible range.
The poem ends up writing itself, coming out in a gush;
There is power in the written word, even silence has hush.
When finished, the poet moves on, waiting and waiting;
Fresh ideas lie in the shadows, forever baiting and baiting.