A Part of Me
John Herlihy
When I get an idea
And sit down to write a poem,
I go to that secret place
Where writing poems takes me.
Far from the maddening crowd,
Near to the heart of things.
The door of the mind flung open,
Windows of imagination crystal clear.
Sometimes I smile,
For all the happiness the verses bring.
Sometimes I weep,
Listening to the sad adagios the verses sing.
In perfect solitude, poised to imagine,
In this one true place I call my own.
Every day brings a new journey to fathom,
But this place I call home.
The one place I find solace,
Writing poems feels like grace.
Whether ancient sage or novice,
I lift the mask revealing a true face.
When I finish writing the poem,
I get up and walk away.
Back into the world,
But not all of me.
A part of me left behind,
Between the lines of the poem.
Therein lies my true face.
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Copyright © John Herlihy
Saturday 15 March 2025
