A Poet’s Poem

By John Herlihy

An idea sparks off the flint of the mind;

First it sputters then sparkles, one of a kind.

Layers lay hidden, inspiring, unique;

Meaning and significance is all I seek.

The idea still of rough cut, a ragged shape.

A mist that wishes a reality to make.

It seems but a mirage, all in a hush;

Then the flood gates open, all in a rush.

The idea grows legs as letters and words;

Soft tweets sound as dream songs of birds.

Everywhere I look lies a potential poem in wait.

The stars survey the darkness, watchmen at the gate;

The squirrel hugs the back of an eagle hitchin’ a ride.

Red balloons thrill the children as they overhead glide;

Butterflies drink drafts of flower pollen in tender sips.

On the horizon, the earth kisses the sky with soft lips.

Wolves vie with the wind in their attempts to howl;

The darkness of the night always moves on the prowl.

The day upstages night with the coming of the dawn;

In the silence of the forest flees a frightened fawn.

Every idea becomes fodder a new world to create;

Every emotion a knife edge, the idea to substantiate.

Every symbol a pictogram with universal appeal;

Every secret behind the images becomes incredibly real.

The dove peace, the wolf savagery, the seasons change;

All absorbed into the reader’s mind with incredible range.

The poem ends up writing itself, coming out in a gush;

There is power in the written word, even silence has hush.

When finished, the poet moves on, waiting and waiting;

Fresh ideas lie in the shadows, forever baiting and baiting.