This poem was written on 1 October and marks the milestone of 1,000 poems I have written since starting to write poetry in June of 2015.

A Thousand Poems and One
By John Herlihy

In Arabic, it was called Elf Layla wa Layla,
Ali Baba, forty thieves, Sinbad the Sailor.
In English One Thousand and One Nights,
A sheer cornucopia of Oriental delights.
Middle Eastern folk tales of many a sage,
Composed during the Islamic Golden Age.

What happened I often think to myself;
I never aspired to be a poet, more an elf.
A writer hopefully with something to say;
I daily pursued my craft, come what may.
With creative essays, I did stake my claim;
My writing fulfilled me, no need for fame.

In my youth, I was never one for poetry;
Neither was I much taken with sophistry.
With plenty of ideas, I loved to embellish,
Words, words, words that I simply relish.
I wrote and wrote until I found my voice;
I could never stop writing, I had no choice.

Until not long ago before the day was done,
On a day let us call the thousandth and one.
I wrote my first poem, uttering a sigh of relief.
Could I do it, I mused, without feeling a thief.
With trepidation, I handed it over to a friend;
Any bit of encouragement I will take on lend.

Encouragement came my way and I paid back,
My heart glowing with poems to make a stack.
I explored emotions from happiness to sorrow,
The horizon, the stars, even moonlight to borrow.
Exploring the human condition became my forte,
With no detours, I took upon myself the long way.

One thousand and one versions of our world,
One thousand and one banners of life unfurled.
One true friend is worth a thousand fake ones,
One promise kept worth a thousand tales spun.
There is no end to unveiling the human condition;
Many a simple song has many a different rendition.

Sometimes I feel beaten up the worse for wear;
Other times, I look out the window and just stare.
Sometimes I do awaken, writing verses that rhyme;
Other times, not an inspiring idea comes to mind.
Then there are the times when in my mind I do fly;
The poems assume wings and fly high into the sky.

We will be lost and found a thousand times over,
A thousand roads taken through four-leaf clover.
If I never write a poem again that could be sung;
Let this poem be last as the thousandth and one.
Even if I should die without another word to say,
I wrote a thousand poems no one can take away.