Poetry Is But Words
By John Herlihy

We admire poems, but they are but words,
Sounds ranging from the exotic to the absurd.
The rhythms of words are want-a-be melodies,
That result in mimicking the eternal verities.

Born of the imagination; they thrive on secrecy;
What they share is tantamount to being an intimacy.
At times, they end up capturing a truth most simple,
If a poem could smile, its truth would be a dimple.

The meaning hides behind a trumped up clarity,
Whose interpretation leads to an academic disparity.
The rhythms create internal feelings of moody blues,
The rhymes sound like the click of dancing tap shoes.

Falling in and out of love is achieved in a solitary word;
Happiness and sorrow expressed thru feelings stirred.
All of nature held in the verse its beauty to contain;
The sun, moon and stars shed light on earth’s terrain.

Imagery thrown about, smooth words with fast spin,
Ideas are captured, like butterflies speared by a pin.
When poems whisper, we feel seized by the throat;
Slick phrases become castles surrounded by a moat.

Then there is the odd question of miniaturization;
Entire worlds captured within numbered pagination.
The crescent moon rising hesitantly from a dark sea;
The poetic line bringing a picture alive for all to see.

The poet can travel so far by saying so little;
The words so lasting by appearing so brittle.
The poet doesn’t fit into the mood of the crowd;
The poem heard as music, the poet’s head bowed.

Poets write poems their tender hearts to unravel;
Emily Dickenson wrote: To shut one’s eyes is travel.
The poems have their own life, they continue to live,
They haunt our imagination to the extent they give.

I recently wrote a poem about the mystery of first ages;
The primordial era resurrected within a few dismal pages.
What about that simple verse about the fugitive breeze,
That blows within the diaphanous veil with simple ease.

Poetry simply fills our hearts with their quick impressions;
Like our sins, they are remembered as minor transgressions.
They cure us of our depression because their beauty revives,
And steal us away from the monotony of our tedious lives.

As I wrote earlier, it is only poetry and poetry is but words;
Words like people have their moment, striving only to be heard.
But oh, what pure magic when they mysteriously come together,
Surging like wild horses into the heart as though freed from a tether.