The Last Time I Sang To Myself
By John Herlihy

Though not something I normally say,
I am going ahead to say it anyway.
This is a poem; I can say what I want;
There is no one around, there to taunt.
At best, others will read this in the quiet;
They can do as they want, even cause a riot.
But the idea just came to me, like a song,
Suddenly making me feel I can do no wrong.
Writing the poem feels like singing to myself,
Finding an inner vein of richness and wealth.

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 now remember the last time I sang 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.