-- Where We Stand -–

John Herlihy

We poets never really know where we stand,

The writing of every poem feels like quicksand.

With the scraping of the pen, the heart flutters,

To fly free, with the sweet chirping a bird utters.

The poem is finally set loose, there in crystal air,

Penning the words has felt much like a prayer.

Yet, lingering doubts always come forth at will.

Is the poem worthy? Does any perfume linger still?

I laid my red stylus down and at once sensed a hush,

I remember standing at a window, feeling the rush.

Is this the last poem? Will I ever write another one again?

The soul searching, the misty words, of where and when.

There, at an open window with a view, I continue to stand,

In the distance, my muse smiles and offers me her hand.

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(c) John Herlihy 18 December 2018