The Age of Time
by John Herlihy
Time makes all seem young,
As if things have just begun.
Time makes everything old ,
Like the story already told.
The dawn arrives oh so young,
Of specks of light and mist spun.
Then the dawn turns also old ,
Killed off by the day gone bold.
Seconds bleed into the minute,
A single breath oh so minute.
The minute as a four-leaf clover,
But soon the minute oh so over.
The minutes bleed into the hour,
Timely moments of special power.
But soon enough the hour is gone,
Takes its leave having sung its song.
That brings us to the endless day,
Forever young, having its own way.
Until the sunset rings its silent bell,
The day is over with nothing to tell.
Days not enough until months arrive,
A month has some heft, seeming alive.
Until months swallowed by the year,
Still, time never sheds a single tear.
Years roll onward making a decade,
All bundled together, never weighed.
As the decades pass, we feel the age,
Leading us on resolutely into old age.
The century seems old but time is not,
The trees has rings and subject to rot.
An aging presence in an ageless world,
One’s flag now folded, no longer furled.
The moral: time itself has no fixed age,
Seconds do the work turning the page.
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Copyright © John Herlihy
Sitting
by John Herlihy
There's an interesting thing about sitting
Not the sitting itself, that's not interesting
But the different places where people sit
And how they feel while they are sitting
All the places where people end up sitting
Even when there were no good places to sit
Sitting alone, waiting for friends to meet
Sitting quietly, sitting on the edge of a seat
Sitting under a tree in the coolness of shade
Sitting amid buds and blooms in a quiet glade
Sitting on a cliff edge, sitting by the seashore
Sitting on the horizon and wishing for more
Sitting in contemplation, sitting in abject fear
Sitting in love with the loved one sitting near
Sitting in rapturous wonder, sitting in despair
Sitting in expectation, sitting in silent prayer
Sitting in terror, in curiosity, in wonder
Sitting in a tropical storm listening to thunder
Sitting at the end of day with a stick broom
Listening to notes on a piano sitting in a room
Sitting in a dank prison cell as a crazed fanatic
Sitting feeling all lonesome in a cottage attic
Sitting on a tree stump, sitting at a class desk
Sitting snug on a tree branch beside a bird’s nest
Sitting on the street curb, sitting in a church nave
Sitting in the shadows of a cemetery by a grave
There now, I see a seat, let me sit myself down
My weary bones need a rest, with no one around
As I quietly sit, I hear the sweet notes of a piano
Soothing notes, lilting notes, ever so pianissimo
- - - - -
Copyright © John Herlihy
Thou Hast Made Me
by John Herlihy
Thou hath made me strong and mighty,
As a mountain impervious to the wind.
That hath made me fluid and flexible,
A fountain whose virtues never pretend.
This fragile heart of mine never rests still,
Gently indeed lovingly beats by God’s will.
My voice speaks eloquently as magic flute,
Until a hush in the air, the silence absolute.
Thou hath made my mind and of my body,
As a vessel here on earth that is temporal.
Thou hath made my soul as a spirit eternal,
Guided by grace through journeys diurnal.
This frail vessel empties with exhaled breath,
Only to be filled again with inhaled breath.
I whisper entreaty as my head on pillows lie,
To remember God all my days until the day I die.
- - - -
Copyright © John Herlihy
The Identity of Me
by John Herlihy
________________________________________
What are the signposts that make up the totality of me?
What are the symbolic signs that make up the identity of me?
Imprinted on my skin, the divine birthmark of me—
signifying craftsmanship, authenticity, the humanity of me.
Imprinted within my body, the DNA profile of me—
the red hair, the freckles, the gender of me.
Imprinted on my finger lies the fingerprint of me—
the identity I go by, encapsulated in the name of me.
Imprinted on my face is the personality of me—
the furrowed brow, the smiles, the frowns of me.
Imprinted within my eye, the retinal scan of me—
the vision, perspective, the windows to the soul of me.
Imprinted within my feet, the very footprint of me—
the pathway, the journey, the tracks left behind of me.
Imprinted on my mind lies the mind-print of me—
a ladder of reason and logic to sort the puzzle of me.
Imprinted on my psyche lies the imprimatur of me—
the moral reckoning, the sanction, the very seal of me.
Imprinted within my intellect, the hot wax stamp of me—
the authority, the ownership, the legal validity of me.
Imprinted on my soul lies the soul-print of me—
a daguerreotype displaying the shadow and light of me.
Imprinted within my design, the ciphered monogram of me—
combining personal initials, essential branding, lineage of me.
Imprinted within my narrative lies the watermark of me—
in my hard‑bound volumes of books, the history, the legacy of me.
Imprinted on my voice lies the very music of me—
all the rhythms, the currents, the melodic flow tide of me.
Imprinted on all my actions lies the copyright of me—
the responsibility, the ownership, the right to be me.
Imprinted on my silhouette, the aura of me—
the energy field, the overall vibe, the living being of me.
Imprinted within my light, the shade and shadow of me—
the hidden, the darker aspects, the unseen aspects of me.
Imprinted on my consciousness, the open window of me—
the thoughts, sensations, emotions, the visible iceberg of me.
Imprinted on my unconscious, the closed door of me—
desire, memory, instincts, the invisible iceberg of me.
Imprinted on my spirit, the very breath of me—
the ebb and flow, the waxing and waning of me.
These are the signatures that make up you and me—
the thoughts, effort, identity, the very life of you and me.
—
Copyright © John Herlihy
Thank you, John for
again sharing your
Lovely and Thought-Provoking Words
Gabby
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