-- The Poet’s Moods -–

John Herlihy

The poet’s moods are unlike any other moods,

His pen has dried up as he sits there and broods.

Where is his Muse, the beloved soul of his spirit,

Who whispers words that make his verses lyric?

The magic of his red stylus now appears as gray,

He sinks deep into his mind for something to say.

His thoughts often splash as paint from a palette,

The images as rich as the money bills in his wallet.

The empty gondola drifting idly in a Venetian canal

Rocking gently amid the low spirits of his morale

Today, alas, he sinks down into a deep, dark hole,

As if to search for table-scraps in his begging bowl.

Poems once in his head, filled with everything,

Now under his feet, crushed down to nothing.

And what of his soul, a desert of dry sagebrush,

Moody thoughts drift along to escape his touch.

What has taken leave but enchanting mystery,

The unnerving touch of the Divine for all to see.

Darkness has descended, his inner day to taint,

He traces sketches in his mind with little paint.

The poet’s moods are unlike any other moods,

His beloved Muse has left he finally concludes.

But dawn brings his Muse back him to awaken,

As he scribbles a verse, he is no longer forsaken.

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(c) John Herlihy 2 December 2018