THE Blank Page
By John Herlihy

The blank page has never scared me,
Even less so with increasing age,
Whenever I sit down at the computer,
I feel released as though from a cage.
As a writer when I see emptiness before me,
I take on the attitude of a sage.
Like swallows, numerous ideas take flight,
Deep expressions of my inner sight;
Thoughts not apparent in our daily lore,
That emerge from the depths of my inner core.

I tend to be a quiet person;
Stillness is my middle name.
If I wonder how my life could worsen,
I shy away from falling into the trap of fame.
I have never had the impulse for talking;
The virtue of silence is what I proclaim.
Don’t ask me to give a presentation,
It feels like an alien sensation.
Everyone has their own fixed preferences;
Everyone has their own set of references.

Give me a white piece of paper;
I feel a poem coming on.
An image has just come before me,
Inner voices have been turned on.
The idea begins to break into pieces,
Thoughts turn into multiple caprices.
They float through my head like hallowed spirits,
Wishing to haunt the attic of my mind.
Instead, selected words fall into the heart,
Then are written on the blank page dully signed.

It all begins with an empty piece of paper,
Shouting oaths that burn like straw.
The poet hopes to fashion a sacred wafer,
That gives rise to a feeling of gentle awe.