The Last Time I Sang to Myself
by John Herlihy
I recall the last time I sang to myself
Feeling in my solitude as a furtive elf
Alone in my room my feelings did soar
Giving voice to melodies I simply adore
The last time, fine, will I ever do so again
As in days now gone by way back when
I wrote poems when I no longer could sing
Images, melodies into people's hearts to bring
People said my poems had powerful rhythms
The words shining as light through ancient prisms
A moment of truth captured within space of an hour
To echo into the future with its simple, eloquent power
I used to sing to myself quite often,
My daily moods and feelings to soften.
This a habit developed as a little child,
I burst into song whenever I felt wild.
At times, it would seem like inner dancing,
The sweet melodies cavorting, prancing.
The happiness would surge within me,
Some outlet needed to escape from me.
I almost couldn’t stand the feelings of joy,
Throaty song to fill air a reasonable ploy.
Of course, I never did this in front of others;
People would laugh, especially my brothers.
Then my joy got caught as a lump in my throat;
I would keep so silent, like a castle with a moat.
What is it about singing that fills us to the brim,
To cast away our moodiness or any sense of sin.
Every fiber in the body now focused on the voice;
Sweet melodies fill the air as we quietly rejoice.
Now moments of song much fewer, far between;
Our fading hopes are not always what they seem.
I remember the last time I sang aloud to myself,
Feeling a little lonely, as if sitting upon a shelf.
The occasion had been built up for many a week,
The horizon seemed misty, looking every bit bleak.
A soulful hymn born of some deep emotion emerged;
The notes gathered quietly until they slowly surged.
The sound, when finally released, flew free as a bird,
Sounding honest, holy even, as anything before heard.
I will always sing to myself, with never a last song,
Singing always lifts my spirit and never feels wrong.
Let those who read this poem remember and rejoice,
A poet once sang to himself when he no longer had voice.
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Copyright ©John Herlihy
Saturday 3 May 2025
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As my throat grows dry to the point of closing shut, she has me singing the old songs from my youth, many of which she remembers from her youth, too, when she sang good enough to sing in a club but her father forbid it.
Nightly, while going to bed, I sing many of the old songs with and for her and especially one that she insists upon, Camptown Races by Stephen Foster. Who would've thought…?
My voice is stronger than ever along with helping my lungs breathe deeply.
Ron
And I'll show you a poem that don't mean a thing
do wa do wa do wa do wa do wa.