-- The First and Last Poem --
by John Herlihy
Every poem as the first poem written,
Each word as newly discovered gem.
Feelings drawn from a heart smitten,
Its arrival unknown, more if than when.
Every poem as the last poem written,
Each word unveiled as a treasured gem.
Final sentiments from the muse bidden,
This last poem as a final breath to send.
Who knows mysteries of the creative act,
To silently come from the blue into thin air.
Blessing of providence as in a sacred pact,
Written humbly down on the page as prayer.
The poem dressed only in virgin simplicity,
Yet evocative of the wealth of life’s mystery.
The budding sapling as a magnificent tree,
The aging tree in blazing autumn colors be.
- - - - -
Copyright ©John Herlihy
Monday 12 August 2024
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Rebecca
We probably haven't found the first poem yet. Inscribed on some cuneiform tablet unearthed in the future when we have some way with physics unknown to find poetry as easily as we can find iron by a magnet. And gold with more sophisticated equipment.
The last poem will probably be the one written by AI when humans will no longer have a inert need for writing or reading poetry at all. No longer have that hunger in their minds wanting to learn what others have written that makes any sense in the world of danger and change.
Ron